Epic Mimicry and Studied Elegance
Too late to write. Too early to sleep. Too tired to talk. Too wired to stop. My night drifts into your day. Guitar too heavy to lift. Songs too hard to hear. The bed beckons, one side bursting from the wealth of books, the other empty, expecting my acceptance, my shallow shuddering breathing. And all we know is what we learned, and what we learned is all we know. We know it all except the secrets of our hearts. We live and pose, facsimile, until the feeling starts. One hears words, another a song. Both a dirge and somehow wrong. And the moon looks on at the fools, its laughter ripples the heavens, waves of undulating mirth that never reach the earth.
Showing posts with label prose poem. Show all posts
Showing posts with label prose poem. Show all posts
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Prose Poem: Elissa Gordon
Potentiometer
Last week a $500 auto repair, a throttle body sensor, a skip, a jump in the signal, after nine years, the press of a pedal no longer tells the whole story of how much fuel is being sent. Get out the gauge. My mechanic kneels down to diagram the problem for me, just as he had in his office. In my muddled dreams the instrument slipped in his hand and pointed directly at me. The needle quivered, hovered just above zero, barely registering, like that time at the DMV, back when they still used Polaroids, and they had to take my photo three times amid the laughter and vampire jokes.
Last week a $500 auto repair, a throttle body sensor, a skip, a jump in the signal, after nine years, the press of a pedal no longer tells the whole story of how much fuel is being sent. Get out the gauge. My mechanic kneels down to diagram the problem for me, just as he had in his office. In my muddled dreams the instrument slipped in his hand and pointed directly at me. The needle quivered, hovered just above zero, barely registering, like that time at the DMV, back when they still used Polaroids, and they had to take my photo three times amid the laughter and vampire jokes.
Prose Poem: Robert Scotellaro
Black
(originally published in Clockwise Cat)
The day they stole my father - the sky would have been black and low enough to bruise a man's shoulders. He must have been weak from the flu, a buckle beating, or a bad back - too weary to resist.
The car, I imagined: black, or a hunter's green Caddy with a shark's-teeth grill. The blacktop, a chain pulling it/him along south—blacking out from the heat. His captors in the back, on either side, smoking cigarettes and laughing. Forcing him, later, to remarry - the gun metal singeing his shiny black hair.
All those miles piled up behind him - one screeching crash after another. The black heart, my mother said, he took with him - far and safe enough away - it couldn't hear a thing.
#
A Pretty Rain
(originally published in Willows Wept Review)
One day it rains a pretty rain, and everyone it touches knows beauty. Cars and houses quickly empty. Already attractive people stand in it, naked, against that one gray hair or bit of flab. Plain Janes splash in its puddles with a warrior's cry; erasing the sadness from their cheeks.
But the next day an ugly rain falls, with disquieting effects. Umbrellas blossom much too late. Forecasters are stumped. People wait indoors with wart-tipped noses against the glass. Which will it be?
It's cold as the fat clouds darken. A wise snow comes, weighing on the eaves. Filling the hollows of hats, and slipping into the darkness of high boots; tracked and crunched. A deep snow. A quiet snow, gathering - nearly luminous. Whispering down and landing on wide-eyed faces. And all will have to rethink everything.
(originally published in Clockwise Cat)
The day they stole my father - the sky would have been black and low enough to bruise a man's shoulders. He must have been weak from the flu, a buckle beating, or a bad back - too weary to resist.
The car, I imagined: black, or a hunter's green Caddy with a shark's-teeth grill. The blacktop, a chain pulling it/him along south—blacking out from the heat. His captors in the back, on either side, smoking cigarettes and laughing. Forcing him, later, to remarry - the gun metal singeing his shiny black hair.
All those miles piled up behind him - one screeching crash after another. The black heart, my mother said, he took with him - far and safe enough away - it couldn't hear a thing.
#
A Pretty Rain
(originally published in Willows Wept Review)
One day it rains a pretty rain, and everyone it touches knows beauty. Cars and houses quickly empty. Already attractive people stand in it, naked, against that one gray hair or bit of flab. Plain Janes splash in its puddles with a warrior's cry; erasing the sadness from their cheeks.
But the next day an ugly rain falls, with disquieting effects. Umbrellas blossom much too late. Forecasters are stumped. People wait indoors with wart-tipped noses against the glass. Which will it be?
It's cold as the fat clouds darken. A wise snow comes, weighing on the eaves. Filling the hollows of hats, and slipping into the darkness of high boots; tracked and crunched. A deep snow. A quiet snow, gathering - nearly luminous. Whispering down and landing on wide-eyed faces. And all will have to rethink everything.
Prose Poem: Carol L. Berg
Cousins Island
The parking lot a crescent moon. Dirt road with craters big as your Volkswagen Beetle you've parked out on the jut facing the bridge where bare chested boys plunge into the green ocean's mouth. The Grateful Dead sing Sugar Magnolia from speakers. We grip Michelob beer bottles. Some of us are dancing. Some of us are dancing the lust dance. The grin and flirt. The two-step closer to that brown eyed boy whose freckles glow like orange headlights in the October sky. I'll swing my bare leg over your motorcycle seat, zoom off without a helmet, and burn my thigh on the hot carburetor. Later you and I sit in another car, smoking a joint through a rubber mask to get a bigger hit. I'll pretend to pass out. Or maybe I do pass out. And then you turn toward me. And then all the lights crash out.
The parking lot a crescent moon. Dirt road with craters big as your Volkswagen Beetle you've parked out on the jut facing the bridge where bare chested boys plunge into the green ocean's mouth. The Grateful Dead sing Sugar Magnolia from speakers. We grip Michelob beer bottles. Some of us are dancing. Some of us are dancing the lust dance. The grin and flirt. The two-step closer to that brown eyed boy whose freckles glow like orange headlights in the October sky. I'll swing my bare leg over your motorcycle seat, zoom off without a helmet, and burn my thigh on the hot carburetor. Later you and I sit in another car, smoking a joint through a rubber mask to get a bigger hit. I'll pretend to pass out. Or maybe I do pass out. And then you turn toward me. And then all the lights crash out.
Prose Poem: Puma Perl
Miss DiFalco
Miss DiFalco
(not yet thirty,
but spinsterish)
taught English to
seventh graders-
girls in black eye make-up
boys who wrote "fuck"
in their books…
Miss DiFalco,
principal’s daughter
a bear-like man
who scared everyone,
even the boys
drawing cocks
in library books,
even the girls
in ripped
black stockings...
Miss DiFalco,
perfume
light and flowery,
lavender, gardenia,
the girls smelled
of cigarettes,
tasted musky,
the boys greased
their hair
Miss DiFalco,
in her skirts too long,
her sensible shoes,
her crying eyes,
spoke clearly,
softly, in a refined
Brooklyn accent-
the students liked her
despite themselves.
they seemed to feel
the passionate woman
hiding behind her eyes.
on parent-teacher day,
six mothers wore pant suits,
three fathers squeezed
their bellies behind
student desk
the kids played
with their erasers,
tapped their feet-
everyone pretended
interest in verbs,
nouns, sentences.
after the lesson
Miss DiFalco
read a poem,
The Highwayman,
by Alfred Noyes
she had memorized it
"I'll come to thee by moonlight"
she recited, eyes burning
"look for me by moonlight"
she whispered, cheeks red
"Tlot-tlot in the frosty silence!
Tlot-tlot in the echoing night!"
she cried out!
the fathers leaned forward,
forgetting the desks
cutting into their guts,
the mothers narrowed their eyes,
the boys stared at her breasts,
the girls fixed their stockings-
finally, the highwayman
rode up to the old inn door;
whip in hand, he reached
for Bess, the landlord's daughter
the one with the long black hair-
Miss DiFalco
hissed those last lines,
closed her eyes,
clasped her hands,
willed her shaking body
to sit quietly again.
the class stood up
and applauded.
it was her finest moment.
#
A Ninth Grade Story
Monday morning:
Joey Carlucci turned Mr. Gatto's VW bug upside down.
His friend Butchie threw Mrs. Kimmelman’s desk out the window.
It landed on Mr. Camiel's 1962 two tone 4 door Dodge.
The cops found 82 unpaid parking tickets and red lace underwear under the seat.
Josephine Caruso passed a note to Richard Dorso.
It read in part, I love You. you can put it in Me today.
She signed my name with a lot of hearts and a postscript,
suggesting that he call me Huckleberry Pie.
Richard Dorso’s girlfriend Angela Palumbo came to my Spanish class.
Said she'd wait for me after school.
I told Joey Carlucci who liked me so he slapped her.
During lunch, he had a fight with Richard Dorso.
Angela and I smoked cigarettes and glared at each other,
twins in ripped black stockings and sneakers
She was 13, a year older than me cause I skipped 8th grade,
The cops arrived (again) before you could tell who won,
though Joey Carlucci was starting to look a little soft
around the eyes, like he was afraid of getting hurt.
Everyone who didn't run got JD cards and notes
asking their mothers to come up to school.
I rode the bus home alone except for Butchie,
who kept whispering "Huckleberry Pie" at me.
I knew I had to fight Josephine Caruso,
but all I wanted to do was to go home
Eat milk and cookies; the milk had turned sour
so I drank a cup of coffee and went back out,
looking for Josephine Caruso.
#
Naming the Wild Flowers
(original published in Journal of Heroin Love Songs, 6/08)
Ruth was long and blonde
She lived in the yellow house
up the road
She drove a pick-up
Painted houses, taught school
Baked pumpernickel
with secret ingredients
like mashed potatoes
She left the yellow house
to live with Allen on Bald Hill
His face was hidden
behind a bushy beard
Glasses and a hat
His head was usually down
He picked it up for Ruth
Turned out to be quite handsome
Wild flowers grew by the door
Ruth recited their names slowly,
like a child learning the alphabet
Fireweed Goldenrod
Spring Beauty
Starflower
Jack in the Pulpit
In a little girl's voice
She called out each name
Years later they came downtown
It was winter, she wore a pair of pants
around her neck, she had no scarf
After an hour, it was Allen's turn
She buried her face
in a stained cabled sweater
Her skin was as yellow as
the house up the road,
She spoke in a rasp, broken
teeth, cracked eyes
Burnt matches fell
from her pockets
They left hand in hand
Nicotine fingers entwined
She looked back at me once
The wind whipped her hair
Into her eyes, covered her face
She used to smell like lemons
I remembered her
Sitting on a country step
Could still hear her
In a child's voice
Naming the wild flowers
Miss DiFalco
(not yet thirty,
but spinsterish)
taught English to
seventh graders-
girls in black eye make-up
boys who wrote "fuck"
in their books…
Miss DiFalco,
principal’s daughter
a bear-like man
who scared everyone,
even the boys
drawing cocks
in library books,
even the girls
in ripped
black stockings...
Miss DiFalco,
perfume
light and flowery,
lavender, gardenia,
the girls smelled
of cigarettes,
tasted musky,
the boys greased
their hair
Miss DiFalco,
in her skirts too long,
her sensible shoes,
her crying eyes,
spoke clearly,
softly, in a refined
Brooklyn accent-
the students liked her
despite themselves.
they seemed to feel
the passionate woman
hiding behind her eyes.
on parent-teacher day,
six mothers wore pant suits,
three fathers squeezed
their bellies behind
student desk
the kids played
with their erasers,
tapped their feet-
everyone pretended
interest in verbs,
nouns, sentences.
after the lesson
Miss DiFalco
read a poem,
The Highwayman,
by Alfred Noyes
she had memorized it
"I'll come to thee by moonlight"
she recited, eyes burning
"look for me by moonlight"
she whispered, cheeks red
"Tlot-tlot in the frosty silence!
Tlot-tlot in the echoing night!"
she cried out!
the fathers leaned forward,
forgetting the desks
cutting into their guts,
the mothers narrowed their eyes,
the boys stared at her breasts,
the girls fixed their stockings-
finally, the highwayman
rode up to the old inn door;
whip in hand, he reached
for Bess, the landlord's daughter
the one with the long black hair-
Miss DiFalco
hissed those last lines,
closed her eyes,
clasped her hands,
willed her shaking body
to sit quietly again.
the class stood up
and applauded.
it was her finest moment.
#
A Ninth Grade Story
Monday morning:
Joey Carlucci turned Mr. Gatto's VW bug upside down.
His friend Butchie threw Mrs. Kimmelman’s desk out the window.
It landed on Mr. Camiel's 1962 two tone 4 door Dodge.
The cops found 82 unpaid parking tickets and red lace underwear under the seat.
Josephine Caruso passed a note to Richard Dorso.
It read in part, I love You. you can put it in Me today.
She signed my name with a lot of hearts and a postscript,
suggesting that he call me Huckleberry Pie.
Richard Dorso’s girlfriend Angela Palumbo came to my Spanish class.
Said she'd wait for me after school.
I told Joey Carlucci who liked me so he slapped her.
During lunch, he had a fight with Richard Dorso.
Angela and I smoked cigarettes and glared at each other,
twins in ripped black stockings and sneakers
She was 13, a year older than me cause I skipped 8th grade,
The cops arrived (again) before you could tell who won,
though Joey Carlucci was starting to look a little soft
around the eyes, like he was afraid of getting hurt.
Everyone who didn't run got JD cards and notes
asking their mothers to come up to school.
I rode the bus home alone except for Butchie,
who kept whispering "Huckleberry Pie" at me.
I knew I had to fight Josephine Caruso,
but all I wanted to do was to go home
Eat milk and cookies; the milk had turned sour
so I drank a cup of coffee and went back out,
looking for Josephine Caruso.
#
Naming the Wild Flowers
(original published in Journal of Heroin Love Songs, 6/08)
Ruth was long and blonde
She lived in the yellow house
up the road
She drove a pick-up
Painted houses, taught school
Baked pumpernickel
with secret ingredients
like mashed potatoes
She left the yellow house
to live with Allen on Bald Hill
His face was hidden
behind a bushy beard
Glasses and a hat
His head was usually down
He picked it up for Ruth
Turned out to be quite handsome
Wild flowers grew by the door
Ruth recited their names slowly,
like a child learning the alphabet
Fireweed Goldenrod
Spring Beauty
Starflower
Jack in the Pulpit
In a little girl's voice
She called out each name
Years later they came downtown
It was winter, she wore a pair of pants
around her neck, she had no scarf
After an hour, it was Allen's turn
She buried her face
in a stained cabled sweater
Her skin was as yellow as
the house up the road,
She spoke in a rasp, broken
teeth, cracked eyes
Burnt matches fell
from her pockets
They left hand in hand
Nicotine fingers entwined
She looked back at me once
The wind whipped her hair
Into her eyes, covered her face
She used to smell like lemons
I remembered her
Sitting on a country step
Could still hear her
In a child's voice
Naming the wild flowers
Prose Poem: William Doreski
My Former Muse
Last night the weedy red hair of my former muse descended to veil from me the decent rooms, the decent wife, the decent town, and numb me into visions or versions of what might have been. Lying in a pasture in Vermont while the October wind opened our pores and looked in, we stroked each other raw. Perfect weather for the disaffected, the Taconics on their toes, every wrinkle brazen, every tree brisk and complex. She asked me to stay and find some menial job as bartender, perhaps, or bus boy in the restaurant where she waitressed, her hair knotted, her uniform too short to cover her sunburned thighs. I couldn't solve our lives so quickly. The soughing of the Battenkill below us sparked a language more inspired than mine. Trout leapt freely at the close of their long heartless season. Last night she returned to make up, but the silence has deepened and her red hair's going gray. Her children must be grown. Perhaps she married someone braver than me, perhaps she lives alone in that serene lack of motion that reminded me of sunning reptiles, her awkward features relaxed, her meatless scarred legs folded under her, every detail fixed in repose as she waits for me to abandon my worn old ego and with free will enter her own.
Last night the weedy red hair of my former muse descended to veil from me the decent rooms, the decent wife, the decent town, and numb me into visions or versions of what might have been. Lying in a pasture in Vermont while the October wind opened our pores and looked in, we stroked each other raw. Perfect weather for the disaffected, the Taconics on their toes, every wrinkle brazen, every tree brisk and complex. She asked me to stay and find some menial job as bartender, perhaps, or bus boy in the restaurant where she waitressed, her hair knotted, her uniform too short to cover her sunburned thighs. I couldn't solve our lives so quickly. The soughing of the Battenkill below us sparked a language more inspired than mine. Trout leapt freely at the close of their long heartless season. Last night she returned to make up, but the silence has deepened and her red hair's going gray. Her children must be grown. Perhaps she married someone braver than me, perhaps she lives alone in that serene lack of motion that reminded me of sunning reptiles, her awkward features relaxed, her meatless scarred legs folded under her, every detail fixed in repose as she waits for me to abandon my worn old ego and with free will enter her own.
Prose Poem: Muriel Karr
Consider This a Fairy Tale
Once upon a time there was a woman who had a problem. Her mother had died some years before, but she had been unable to bury her mother's body anywhere. Now she was determined to find a way to bury her mother.
As a result, she had a struggle. The sheriff said no, you cannot bury her in your yard. The cemetery said no, you are too late, it's against the rules. She couldn't find a mausoleum or a crypt. Even ashes wouldn't do.
So in the end, she ate her mother's body as the food she needed in order to continue - slim as a reed waving in the sweet summer wind on solstice eve.
Once upon a time there was a woman who had a problem. Her mother had died some years before, but she had been unable to bury her mother's body anywhere. Now she was determined to find a way to bury her mother.
As a result, she had a struggle. The sheriff said no, you cannot bury her in your yard. The cemetery said no, you are too late, it's against the rules. She couldn't find a mausoleum or a crypt. Even ashes wouldn't do.
So in the end, she ate her mother's body as the food she needed in order to continue - slim as a reed waving in the sweet summer wind on solstice eve.
Prose Poem: Todd Moore
switchman
walking down the railroad tracks with a baseball bat and had a hunting knife stuck in his belt every once in awhile he'd stop at a freight car switched off on a side track and bang on the door with the ball bat when he saw me watching he said have you seen kansas city bob wears a stocking cap and has only one good eye the switchman said haven't seen him i replied i got his glass eye he said i wanna give it back then the switchman held out his hand he was holding a real eye and it was swimming in blood
walking down the railroad tracks with a baseball bat and had a hunting knife stuck in his belt every once in awhile he'd stop at a freight car switched off on a side track and bang on the door with the ball bat when he saw me watching he said have you seen kansas city bob wears a stocking cap and has only one good eye the switchman said haven't seen him i replied i got his glass eye he said i wanna give it back then the switchman held out his hand he was holding a real eye and it was swimming in blood
Prose Poem: Catfish McDaris
Ballad of Pete Best or the Short Life of Van Gogh's Ear
That night we were cooking
on stage, sizzling cool
The audience leaning forward
catching every nuance & syllable
I nodded for you to
do your prearranged
Zeppelin Hendrix style
fretless bass solo
You ignored our plan,
I looked up & a punk
had your guitar
You were standing in
the back of the room
grinning with your squeeze
Folks were getting crazy
when this dude got funky
I knew then, it was time
to hire Ringo.
#
Letter Bomb From a Pacifist Poet After Frijoles
If I could seal
a fart
in this envelope
It would be my
reply to your
form rejection slip
Unfortunately the
volume of rejects
I receive
Prevents a personal
reply to each &
every one I get.
That night we were cooking
on stage, sizzling cool
The audience leaning forward
catching every nuance & syllable
I nodded for you to
do your prearranged
Zeppelin Hendrix style
fretless bass solo
You ignored our plan,
I looked up & a punk
had your guitar
You were standing in
the back of the room
grinning with your squeeze
Folks were getting crazy
when this dude got funky
I knew then, it was time
to hire Ringo.
#
Letter Bomb From a Pacifist Poet After Frijoles
If I could seal
a fart
in this envelope
It would be my
reply to your
form rejection slip
Unfortunately the
volume of rejects
I receive
Prevents a personal
reply to each &
every one I get.
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