If you peel back his skin, you will see that his veins are threadbare and fraying. Worn has become worn out, and used is overused and used up. He has no more originality in him. The grey trousers and beige shirts have taken that from him. Bled it from him.

One sweet girl, wearing a floral reef braided into her hair, tried to offer her light, to reignite what was once his soul. She saw love in his eyes, oblivious to the fact that he merely mirrored her own. He burned through her; consuming her light until she reached up with blackened fingers and flinched as her flowers withered away. She tore them from her crown, finally seeing the grotesque mimicry of her reflection in his empty void.

When she leaves, the demons and dark things move in, as if pulled into a vacuum. The little pink pills don’t save him, nor do the thick white ones or white/blue capsules. Time fails to heal his wounds, and his veins continue to fray. He becomes nothing, except a shambling man, trying to hold himself together by a thread.

A song blasting from an early '80s gem of a ride kicked loose the intro for ep 41, where four pieces from three writers bring the feel home, in the midst of exhaust and burning rubber, and more than likely a tall, cool can half gone and hidden from the man while the light has been yellow for too long to run it, but you're cranking Blue Oyster Cult and all bets are off.

Here's the link to the show.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l6FkO2XGaas

And here are the featured pieces.

https://www.theprose.com/post/816821/one-minds-garbage https://www.theprose.com/post/817010/hearts-and-bones https://www.theprose.com/post/816870/fear-and-fury https://www.theprose.com/post/816463/in-so-many-ways

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

there is nothi(l)ng there is nothing there is nothing the(o)re is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there (o)is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is (o)nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothin(b)g there is(e) nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is no(h)thing there is(i) nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is(n) nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing th(d)ere is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing there is nothing why fucking bother why fucking botherwhy fucking botherwhy fucking botherwhy fucking botherwhy fucking botherwhy fucking botherwhy fucking botherwhy fucking botherwhy fucking botherwhy fucking both(y)erwhy fucking botherwhy fucking botherwhy fucking botherwhy fucking botherwhy fucking botherwhy fucking bot(o)herwhy fucking botherwhy fucking botherwhy fucking bother it is pointless it is pointlessit is pointlessit is pointlessit is pointlessit is pointless it is pointlessit is pointlessit is point(u)lessit is pointless

Fertilization, in vitro

Was our last chance

To reproduce sans libido

Or passion, or romance

Technology overshot

When we sono-confirmed

Five heartbeats, five argonauts

On their voyage to term

T'was ordered an injunction

Via abortive injections

For selective reduction

And elective selections

Three were obliging enough

To give access to their worlds

And terminate in a puff

Leaving two, now free to unfurl

"Why are we twins here;

Why were we the two who were born?

Why did we not disappear:

Because ours were the hardest to perform?"

"We are here, are we not?

Because we weren't easy to discard

But we no longer hear

The pulse of triplets onboard."

How do parents explain

Children who were put,

Then sent away again

And didn't make the cut?

____________

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Whether one is pro-life or pro-choice, the whole concept of "selective reduction" of a multiple-gestation is a philosophical mindbender.

The "Octomom" pretty much ended the practice of inserting many embryos to increase the odds of some surviving; especially since IVF technology had improved with better odds of all surviving.

Thus, allowing more than one or two embryos of a multiple gestation to proceed, after an overachievement in assisted reproduction (i.e., in vitro fertilization), was fraught with too many "taking"--and then surviving--until preterm labor or complications tragically doomed them all.

Yet, pro-choice mothers, with selective reduction, abort babies that they wanted at the outset. And pro-life mothers have to choose to renounce their philosophy (or religion!) in order to save the babies who would remain after the selective reduction.

Imagine the dilemma for all who think too hard on this issue: a couple with infertility, desperate to have a baby--to have a family--only to have to "deal" with babies they wanted.

Confused? Understandable.

But the thing that may be the most disturbing is that the choice of which babies to "reduce" (ironic semantics: how do you "reduce" a baby?) is made on which amniotic sac is the most accessible. That is, the most convenient fetal sac to get into with an injection of an abortive. The others, the hardest to get to, thus become the lucky ones. And terms like collateral damage come to mind.

I tried my best not to make this poem sound tongue-in-cheek, which rhyme (which I can't resist) often risks. But I did want some angst to fall out of it, especially when you have to explain to a child that they were just as likely to have been the unlucky ones as their theoretical brothers/sisters turned out to be. They will realize that it was just how they implanted in their mother's uterus--that made so crucial an existential call. And a capricious one, at that.

I've tried to reconcile the thinking on this, but I've come to the conclusion that it can't be done.

Because it's a paradox.

Jarring. Jagged. Destabilizing; as my janky world view stumbles through the temporal space. Chunks fly off and half-baked ideas hastily bolted on. A spaceship on fire and resurrecting in unison as it moves through an infinite void. That's how I felt as I make my way through a former coworker's Christmas party. I learned that Tai, another former colleague, finally found their one and had gotten married and bought a house in Surrey; whereas my relationships have been a trail of shambles. Tom has been smashing down shots after shots the whole night, walking into glass staircases as he reels over his 12 years of marriage coming to an end. I had vagabonded from one social event to another, in search of a friend or a patch of camaraderie. Year's end, year's beginning - a random stake in the Gregorian calendar year - a striking symbolic blow to our Now.

I hear the dust devils echoing tonight. The moons, Deimos and Phobos, hide the stars that sent me here to desolation. Mars is nothing where even a hundred men would ever go. There are no rains down in the plains of the Shield. Some wild xenobeasts cry out in the night as they grow cold, longing for sunrise. And hopefully, not for me.

I know that I must do what's right, as sure as Kilimanjaro on Earth rises like Olympus above the Tharsis Shield. I seek to cure the fright that's deep inside, the fright of what I am, that took me away from you — something a thousand men would never do.

I curse the arid ironscape, the new, improved WD-41. I miss the rains that never come. Olympus Mons calls to me, so I'm gonna take some time to do a thing I've never done. Something a million men would never do.

Mars taunts me: Hurry boy, Olympus is waiting there for you.

My scars have started aching. Dull sensations that ripple up my body; they prickle when touched, reel when my clothes drag against them, itch when I focus on the feeling for too long.

This hasn’t happened before and I don’t know what to think. I thought my wounds had healed, that I could forget about them and even contented myself to spending life changing in the dark and turning away from the sickening gaze of the mirror. Anthing to avoid glimpsing a look at the discoloured skin that patches across my body. I thought I had already dealt with the worst of it; the blood crusting to an itching scab that took an age to finally fall. Not that the itch fell with them - that took much longer to subside.

But maybe it’s the changing seasons. The relief of autumn turning to the welcome dread of winter and dragging the past along with it.

I think that’s it. It’s the past I’ve been feeling. The way it weighs on my shoulders, around my eyes and in my mind as I try to sleep. It calls to me from the scars on my body, opening old wounds and letting the blood fuel whatever twisted entertainment it desires.

My scars are a reminder of the past I’ve tried so hard to forget. If not for them I could almost believe all that happened was just a bad dream. How I wish it was all a bad dream.

But the ache of old scars reminds me it was not. I wonder how I will fare this winter without the bliss of ignorance. The ignorance felt better, and I can’t help wishing my scars would quiet down, leave me be to my forgetting. They don’t want me to forget - but I want to live the easier life, so I will try my hardest to.

Since pledging my troth

to the missus July 25th, 1996

after the comma error

punctuated mein kampf with disequilibrium.

Ever since the notions

of life, liberty and pursuit of happiness

coalesced within the mindscape

attributed to one

or more anonymous forebears

way before the advent of civilization

when written language preserved

(homo sapiens communicated

virtual primal groans and grunts),

nevertheless witnessing inchoate awakening

visa vis dawning enlightenment

bajillions of years after

earth, wind and fire

affected ideal environment

for Beatle browed foo fighters

Nirvana oriented proto humans

among rival capital one group

of beastie boys versus another.

Each subsequent generation embodied

propensity to acquire heavenly delight

characterized courtesy

storied primeval human associations

to wrestle with promotion

of mental, physical and spiritual autonomy.

Once self-determination awoke

animal hides did cloak

daggers if antagonism occurred

especially as high society

coaxed fibers inviting village people

to invent legislation to evoke

amity particularly once firearms

witnessed proliferation of gunsmoke

(and the Western genre as film noir)

after shoot-'em-ups erupted,

when scapegoat mustered courage

(after chomping powder milk biscuits)

bad to the bone bully underestimated chutzpah

courtesy said shy person,

yours truly did invoke

adulation and garnered

within figurative keystroke

generated winning vote

cast strictly by menfolk

if I vouchsafed would

NOT be pig in a poke

as happened countless millenniums later,

when forty fifth president

of lands slated to become

United States of America

would try to revoke

his successor mudslinging him,

(the latter, a common joe biden time),

a veritable teetotaler,

who swore, he rarely took a toke.

Blame aforementioned

blue collar Scranton boy yup

blimey bloke woke up

after leaving Oval Office

early one Autumn morning

bright eyed and bushy tailed

after an eight year stint,

whereby the electorate majority

approved former occupant

of “Executive Mansion”

(circa 2020 - 2028)

admitting admirable administration

donned hat of clown

earning a living wage

and taking page from playbook of bozo,

who brought good humor and laughter,

where tragedy wrought woe

visited webbed wired wide world

(once trod upon by the noble savage

as described by Jean-Jacques Rousseau)

whipping out trademark Dobro,

(a contraction of "Dopyera brothers"

and a word meaning "goodness"

in their native Slovak,

who introduced said instrument in 1928)

kickass nimble octogenarian

(accompanied by the band

Tripping Up Stairs)

performed outstanding show

capering, dancing, gliding,

high jumping, et cetera across the stage

hither and yon, to and fro

contagiously gifting, letting riotous hoopla

ring out across Land of Lake Wobegon

spontaneously kickstarting

audience of senior citizens

(including yours truly)

to shuck off mantle of senescence

(and clothes in the same process

after gaining courage

to join Barenaked Ladies)

hooting and trumpeting nouveau

playfulness summoning

rebirth of childlike spirit.

How carefree and ideal to identify

with mindset of Alfred E Neuman

Mad Magazine what me worry

unfortunately as a little boy

yours truly beset with mental health issues

Anorexia Nervosa the most serious

potential to develop healthily

self starvation eradicated

courtesy the expertise of psychiatrist

Ted Goldberg my parents did employ

subsequently eating disorder

manifested as hair obsession

with a vengeance,

when maybe some dozen years later

while completing a co-op

linkedin to enrollment at Antioch College

at facility I chose called

Chicago Ecology Resource Center in Illinois,

and who should make

a small teleporting cameo appearance,

but none other than Leonard Nimoy,

albeit his likeness manufactured as plastic

popular gewgaw enterprising toy.

Courtesy the most flimsy tenuous

designs linkedin to above lines

availed and linkedin thru

Unitarian Church affiliation while a youth,

(now negligible participant,

who would never join any group

that would accept me as a member)

an important connection throve with 1996

Norristown Area High School alum

Frankie Augustine Junior a brain,

plus admirable ruler

of tribbles and klingons to boot.

As an otherworldly webbed wordsmith,

I befriended said lad,

who became best earthling chum,

whose birthday (January eleventh

nineteen fifty nine) two days before mine,

our camaraderie did rattle and hum

until he attended Rensselaer

Polytechnic Institute (majoring

in nuclear engineering)

landing himself a plum job.

Our friendship since foundered

unlike the enterprising television show,

which captured the imaginations

of countless young and older people alike.

By 1986, 17 years after entering syndication,

Star Trek considered

the most popular syndicated series;

by 1987, Paramount made $1 million

from each episode;

and by 1994, the reruns

still aired in 94% of the United States.

The pill bottle was in the console of my car in the driveway, and I was walking outside to get it. I was so weak and so tired and so very thin. I only made it as far as where the sidewalk meets the porch when my cat ran up, made a small sound, and rubbed his cheeks against my legs furiously. His fur was warm and the sun was low in the sky when I sat down and scratched behind his small ears and then hot tears came falling. I was the kind of sad that doesn’t make tears, and I was ready for it to end. Then the affection of a gray cat broke me. That’s how I knew I was going to be okay. That’s when I knew God wanted me.