burden launching 010724
paste! lurking in a jet engine, small wide-eyed chanters eat the abdomen disguised as granulated lima bean. 010724
pete i remember when we studied the book of job people attacked my interpretations because i put too much emphasis on the prose parts of the book, they said that the prose means less because it is prose...

but being a poet prose means more, because it is harder to write, because it is more honest, because it is auspicious to a level that poetry can never be...
(_) "prose poems," he said of
my pitiful little words
arranged in barely-coherent sentences.
strange. why does it have
to be linked
to poetry? they are completely
seperate after all, not
that either is particularly
good wonderful earth-shattering
in the end. or
is poetry just everything
beautifully expressed? a laugh, the tears
weathering my cheeks, ways
i hurt you from inside
my little bubble world that is
broken and has light seeping in. if
only all i had to was write this! these
down, that would be
so easy.
but that can't be the end. not
if there are characters and thought
that are to swirl around each other like
shy beautiful dancers. paragraphs to craft like long, tangled strands of knitting by one so clumsy as me and soon i run out of thread or thoughst and have nothing to say, because somehow
words are better put in fewer quantities
with calculated pauses,
stanza breaks.
and that loses sight of the prosaic,
mundane and lovely things.
so why do i sit here
making my handprint on the keyboard
instead of leaving it
untouched and maybe pristine
in someone's mind? . . . we
shall see, if i do indeed
have a story after all.
what's it to you?
who go