Pusherman, taps on the steering wheel, mountain justice, and a primitive gnaw.
In case anyone has a case of the Mondays, on the show today, in number 26, Curtis Mayfield sings us into three reads by three vastly different talents with one vast thing in common: Each one is their own creator with a style like no others. Top off your coffee, and sail away with us.
Here's the link.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mMz90tLIE5s
And here are the pieces featured within.
https://www.theprose.com/post/812076/memories https://www.theprose.com/post/811802/the-women-in-the-trees https://www.theprose.com/post/812519/the-line
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
I’m fine
trauma is trapped inside emotion
that sits in the cage of my chest
poison ivy pain wraps around bars
that rattles in the storm
behind the sternum-ed wall
screams that haven’t escaped the prison
lay in iron beds hardened with frost
stopping the seep from chest to tongue
from tongue to lip, lip to air
air to echo to ears that hear
that judge, that shame, that watch
down the diaphragmatic depths
desolation punches the dam
stress coils and entwines with anxiety
its shrieks of mimicry – whispers of lies
the “I’m okay’s” the “I’m fine”
the need to turn yourself inside out
to release and shed the shame
the pain, the blame, the ache of emotional agony
the rage, the guilt, the fullness of everything
of emotion, of memory,
of moments you can feel but can’t quite remember
the trap you can’t free yourself from
being inside your body but feeling outside
being an observer, a nothing
outside, you’d never know
outside, you’d think nothing is wrong with me
inside I feel so full
inside I feel so empty
Pablo Neruda’s heart, god of Rusty James, history soup, Bob Ross paints, spins, and a fireside story.
In number 23, on Prose. Radio, Pablo Neruda sets the tone, and a wave of talent numbering 8 takes the wheel and drives us through some dark alleys, and some sun beaming through the window. RustyJames blends into the six to appear, each shining down in their own untouchable light, with Huckleberry_Hoo taking us into the firescape with something beautiful.
Here's the link to the show.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_LxQOO-4ROs
And here are the featured pieces.
https://www.theprose.com/post/811409/i-am-alone-there-is-no-god-where-i-am https://www.theprose.com/post/811326/simone
https://www.theprose.com/post/811410/sharing-history-soup-with-a-friend https://www.theprose.com/post/810851/bob-ross-paints-his-eden
https://www.theprose.com/post/811211 https://www.theprose.com/post/811248/on-the-road-by-myself
https://www.theprose.com/post/811317/the-24-spinz https://www.theprose.com/post/811208/two-stiffs-and-a-weirdo
https://www.theprose.com/post/811397/the-pooh-tutorials
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
The Cure, alchemy, pages, lead paint, and where death lives.
Straight from the pure, uncut supply in the dope locker of Prose., in lucky number 21, The Cure's Robert Smith ignites some fascination, and strings it out until it becomes a list of powerhouses from the site, each one with their own style, each one strong of eye and brilliant of mind. From MeeJong and Mariah, to three or so new bloods, and one long story of ghosts in war, wrapped with dreams of old.
Here's the link to the good stuff...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EnZrkptK60A
And here are the featured pieces...
https://www.theprose.com/post/810753/when https://www.theprose.com/post/810730
https://www.theprose.com/post/810553/alchemy https://www.theprose.com/post/810376/this-night
https://www.theprose.com/post/809804/springtime-in-southern-appalachia https://www.theprose.com/post/809194/viridi-oculi
https://www.theprose.com/post/810542/chamber https://www.theprose.com/post/810543/pages
https://www.theprose.com/post/810551/lead-paint https://www.theprose.com/post/810354/poems-never-happened
https://www.theprose.com/post/809641/scopaesthesia https://www.theprose.com/post/31657/where-death-lives
https://www.theprose.com/post/40967/old-dreams
And, as always...
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
Debbie Harry’s Heart of Glass, a memory, End Times, murky stars, and back alley dictation.
On Prose. Radio's numero 20, the glue of Blondie opens the show, taking us into the minds of four ridiculously talented writers from the site, from brand new, to still new, and each one with astonishing grace.
Here's the link.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6WnuLuDAnm0
And here are the pieces featured.
https://www.theprose.com/post/810544/the-memory https://www.theprose.com/post/809902/thats-great-it-starts-with-an-earthquake
https://www.theprose.com/post/810700/murky-star https://www.theprose.com/post/810722/lackawanna
https://www.theprose.com/post/810160/im-not-dinner
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
Tom Waits, tweaker larvae, chaos in heart, stepping into manholes, and not enough skull. Also, new Challenges for April in all Portals!
In episode 19 of Prose. Radio, Tom Waits sings in the rain, while one tweaker larvae negotiates the harsh landscape of a small California town, into the words of a not so anonymous alcoholic, then a tiptoe into a manhole, and onto atoms and other atoms.
And in Portals news, all of April's Monthly Challenges are posted and waiting for you to throw down and get that crisp ten-spot. Hell, two cups of coffee if you're with someone you like.
Here's the link to today's video. You do not want to miss these writers.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PMoTlqXtTJM
And here are the featured pieces:
https://www.theprose.com/post/809685/...
https://www.theprose.com/post/809767/...
https://www.theprose.com/post/809985/...
https://www.theprose.com/post/809337/...
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
Giddy With Time
A gentle buzzing and then the ringing begins, however, it's stopped almost simultaneously. At this point I can turn my alarm off I my sleep - my fingers don't fumble - they slip up to the ledge, swiftly tugging the chord and muting the alarm for another five minutes. I repeat this seven times, sometimes more. I force my eyes open, luring myself out of the quilt; leaving only with the promise of coffee. I lope heavily, dragging my limbs to the kitchen. I fill the kettle, flick it to boil and stand, impatiently waiting. Some would use this time to urinate, or shower-or-something. I don't. I cannot function until my cup is brimmed with milky-brown liquid. I slowly ready myself, alarms periodicaly chiming to let me know how fast I need to move. I slip out, cigarette bent between two fingers, lit before the door has even closed behind me. Gingerly pacing, I chug along to the train station, where I stand in line, in my place; the same place; and I continue chugging, until I reach the glassy, revolving doors. I'll take a deep breath, like I'm preparing to dive deep - and I guess I am, because I'll stay here for 9 hours of my day. Squashed behind three screens, knees bent akwardly, squirming in my seat. At five-fifty-nine, I type goodbye and eagerly wait to hit enter, smashing my laptop closed. In one swift motion, my arms are draped through my coat sleeves and my bag has mounted my back - and I'm gone. No looking back, the glass doors are already revolving behind me. I'm practically running, giddy with time, over-flowing with the countless prospects of how to use my diminishing minutes. I clamber up six flights of stairs, too impatient to wait for the elevator to touch down. I colapse for an hour or so. Drained, the day running through my brain. I wash clothes. I clean tupperware. I cook food. I eat. I shower. I cry. I laugh. I cry again. I crawl into bed, and somehow, I repeat. There's some small variations but more or less I do this day-in-day-out. Over and over and over, again and again and again. A gentle buzzing and then the ringing begins, however, it's stopped almost simultaneously. At this point I can turn my alarm off I my sleep - I swing my legs out of bed, and plant both feet on the ground. I feel purpose. I feel good. I skip coffee. I urinate. I shower-or-something. I slip out. My skin is tingling. I'm giddy with time. I'm actually running. Heels padding to the ground, rhythmically gaining speed. I can see the the sun peaking over the horizon. It's getting closer, warm rays spilling into the sky. I'm crying, still running. I see the waters edge. I'm crying, still running. Treading water until I'm forced to bow down. I swim. I'm angry. I swim. I can't. I swim. I've had enough. I swim. I cry. I swim. I scream. I swim... I swim, until I can't feel anymore. I feel so much nothing, that suddenly, I feel everything. The whole world comes pouring in. I can feel it all, every single drop of liquid sunshine in my veins. Every morsel consumed and released back into open air, drifting -
And then, there's nothing. Not even me.
In the Moment
when we come back
into focus
and it's a number
of years in
doing time
like it's a red light
and we've got
a long way forward
and behind
on our mind
like a bubble
the wind
is swiftly
blowing
caught in the hand
and we're looking in
all the colors swirling
blending us, in
to the moment
03/27/2024
Nonfiction challenge @Prose
Watering the Concrete
Gazing down at my feet
As they drag me
On my way...
The feeling has
Long since relinquished
And I wonder as I stray
Far off from the center,
Or is it nearer
To the middle?...
I've been walking
On these piles of clay
Since I was very little...
Malm, that is the sacred
Chalk material
The lowly brick
That makes
Myself a house
Fast, bound
From the wind
Of wolves...
Their breath upon my livelihood
That rises through
The cracks and chimney stacks
Aloft as every earthly thought
Crumbles and falls
At these relic
Foot prints
That I've pissed off
Pounding at the plates
And streaks
Of the lines
That branch out
Every which
Until they chip away
At my small reserve of
Steel intent
Until my tennis shoes
Lift off
And leave this gravel bed
Behind
And I suffer no more
Hard edged thoughts...
Only discord with the night...
Floating like a Chinese lantern...
Losing time
Like a car
Leaves a hitchhiker
Frozen in the rearview,
Disappearing til she's only
A cold dot upon the horizon...
Mavia &
Bunny Villaire
3/27/24
The Thirst Unquenched
The cuff
of the shirt sleeve
crusted beyond dignity
and the gods left
another link
for me
a break, in desert heat
metal on metal
There upon the old geolwe
That water pressure keeper
for EMT capped
the Sun, yellowed
and now faded
into dark,
a step away
from Emergency
Slow, that broken-thought
was the message
stumbled on,
not for naught...
'Open' with an arrow
turning in,
That was the Word...
permanently Embossed
2024 MAR 27