Prose

Stumbling
Looking at how many days it’s been Since I was last here I’ve lost pace again But it’s for a better reason this time than last year
By Atomic Historian2 years ago in Poets
to rest
between cranial vaults, a significant difference in thickness is not marked. female, 20, male, 48, no matter, measurements according to this pseudoscience are relatively the same. the diploë varies, but it will not protect. the skull responds to five hundred pounds of metal, plastic, and rubber traveling. brain density, matter, knowledge, memories, content! content! content! are not mass enough for a perfectly inelastic collision. the moerae measure their threads at the corner of fleet and exeter, and atropos gets busy. one-hundred-seventy-five pounds of body and eleven pounds of head (skull, eyes, teeth, brain, facial muscles, and skin, all holding weight outside of extension) comes to rest as lullaby by w. h. auden is read.
By kp2 years ago in Poets
crafted with pride
i eat a mango at work in the middle of a snowstorm. i don't garden. i shop at kroger. i say no every time my mother asks me to sing. i forget birthdays. i point my finger, spin around, and always face a mirror. i make fists. i barter each day. i have seven names but didn’t choose one. i identify as none. i’m fragile and my porcelain cracks. i throw myself against walls. i(‘m a) contradict(ion). too proud, too sure, too right, too complicit. my refusal is loud and physical, and i still don’t believe it myself. i hide in the cars of high-speed trains and get by but never get off. i learn how things are, how things have been, and play in the rain. i take off my socks and shoes and stick my face in a puddle. i keep it there. i used to laugh at so many things. i say i won’t kill you, i won’t kill me. friend, i won’t kill you, so go to sleep. i buy a new bed. i doesn’t make sense. i snoop through your room and find that double-sided dong. “is it under this rock?” “nope, but better luck.”
By kp2 years ago in Poets
B.O.O.K.
The doors to knowledge are never shut; it is patiently waiting to be greeted. Majority of the doors never open, because many refuse to read it.
By K. Wisendanger 2 years ago in Poets
The Lair of the Wyrm
Imagine having power to wrest change in this great field generator… this consensus reality… …and then deciding that rather than work for the Good such a creature would waste that power on endless attempts to prevent others from being true.
By C. Rommial Butler2 years ago in Poets
Trapped
I suppose The real monster Inside us all Is the one that we trap The snide remark we don’t say The cutting look All hidden
By Siobhan McSweeney2 years ago in Poets
"FATHER TIME, MOTHER EARTH"
Listen to the song as you read the prose. Feel the words and visualization of time and our human lives as walk along our pathways of life of Father Time and Mother Earth.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 2 years ago in Poets
Godly Games
Every so often, more than enough, Come the Godly Games. Late evenings skies arrive In early cloudless mornings, they -
By Rosie J. Sargent2 years ago in Poets
Unbreakable
You thought your model was unbreakable But little did you know How much one person can endure in one year Once in a lifetime events
By Atomic Historian2 years ago in Poets
i think i l*** you
i think i l*** you god i hate it because i’ll say i don’t miss you but i wish i could have your hand to hold when the world is cold and
By Huan Huan 2 years ago in Poets
A Baptism
3/3/24 12:47pm Reflections of childhood combust in the sink as I graze the grass of those I’ve lost / Preserved are the memories within skins of grapes / make this water into wine / or put yourself at risk in the process of human touch /
By Olivia Dodge2 years ago in Poets
The No Idea Garden of Remembrance
The most popular steamboat spot for writers now is the No Idea Garden of Remembrance. It's an oversized lot. Every writer thinks it is his or hers exclusively, and none of their guests have known it before. The host forgets how they came to know about the garden in the first place, or that among the invited are other writers too.
By Huwaida Ishaaq2 years ago in Poets