Stories tagged prose-poem

tweaker

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my molars are dancing, tekka-tekking to the strung-out paint can groove of my heart.

The Creative Use of Meal Time

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We’re more into the punishment that works its way in through the skin and coats the heart anonymously.

i can't have

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Hey there little hippie girl, smilin’ to the ears and dripping with scarves, I cherish our friendship. However, every time you take off your shoes to dance at a rock show, hair swingin’ like silk vines in the paradise that is your shaking ass...

White Noise

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I don't like listening to the radio anymore. Nothing is clearer than a live voice with something to say. Give me a big field with no one around but the birds and I will send the bees away from me. I will deny all bugs to buzz.

Pink Garden

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I carry my green heart to where you lie sweetly sleeping in our pink garden of love. Pink petals glowing in darkness like roses on fire...

Gitana dreams and a love story ...

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She wore my shirt and loosely draped ...

O Come All Ye Faithful

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Give peace to your neighbors, commanded the priest, so I dodged down under the pew.

Having Sex with the Dog in the Room

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If you can get past the distraction of the panting,

Tattooed Thumb

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A tattoo of a river steamboat, one you dreamed up in your sleep and drew yourself is anchored around your nail bed on your thumb. I paint my nails with regatta sails. The toxic fumes sting my nose. You say you're bored and take out a needle filling it with ink. I watch as…

Man Resting On Tires, NYC

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A man asleep on a stack of tires in front of a tire shop on 10th Aveune, NYC. A store that’s “open 25 hrs,” where apparently time is being manufactured. The unknown new element, the 25th hour, even though the other 24 may have been shortened som

Third Draft, Suicide Note, Found in a Book

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a terrible shadow of words in the knot of sword vs. pen

He the Moon ( a becketticule)

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Let us say this is something he cannot put into his story, something he does not know how to express, let us say it makes him pause, fills him with a sense of wonder. That the moon now is not the moon of before.

To A Husband, Once Removed

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Here, the Congregation of Jesus Our Star-crossed Savior is wired for sound. The cupola beams Revelation to sinners and saints from its peak forty feet above the ground and sometimes even drowns out the jukebox in the Yellow Rose

to you, three

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the things falling from the sky were too large for the word things, but i don't know what they were. no one knew what they were.

Oh, Hell

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Bob Marley stands too close to you, a red-eared slider perches like a yarmulke on his head. He speaks through lips dangling a massive spliff, “Do not lose your head, mon, you are not really here.”