Sinnerman, a mind horse, a sky in haiku, anxiety, stigma, and luckier than most.
The satin chalk tone of Nina Simone formed today's intro, and was followed by five pieces authored with the feel only our writers deliver, every line, every time. Led by a new kid on the block, three more add to the lift, with a close by our man of the SoCal streets, to make episode 36 one mean mofo of a show, yo... Yeah, tons of coffee...
Anyway, here's to the week ahead. Summer is officially usurping the west, and the road east is looking really good.
Here's the link to Prose. Radio.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ljZo8mlUCMg
And here are the pieces featured.
https://www.theprose.com/post/815461/mind-horse https://www.theprose.com/post/815448/a-vibrant-blue-sky https://www.theprose.com/post/815436/the-red-man
https://www.theprose.com/post/815376/stigma https://www.theprose.com/post/815402/ayahuasca-death-trip
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
Turbo Lover, fast and loose, noble sufferings, substance, and light from stars.
Judas Priest inspired today's show, or rather informed the mood of the morning and coffee while a handful of writers waited to be read and heard, by you. One hell of a show today. Sit your asses down, grab a tall, cool beverage of choice, and go into this world of words by these stone statues of stanza and ink.
Here's a link to the show.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=soR_UH--EbY
And here are the featured pieces.
https://www.theprose.com/post/815271/fast-and-loose https://www.theprose.com/post/815219/substance https://www.theprose.com/post/791497/lamentations-anew-a-poem-by-tf-burke
https://www.theprose.com/post/815261/remember-that-time-i-thought-i-was-dying https://www.theprose.com/post/815249/i-am-insatiable https://www.theprose.com/post/815229/starlight
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
Tarantino’s, “They,” write like you’re dead, new blood, life, warmth, and seamless beauty.
Quentin Taranatino's good sense inspired today's intro for number 34, and it leads us through a landscape of words and instinct and a whole lot of lovin' goin' on, baby. Some new blood opens the words, and it goes from there, into the places only the writers on this site can create.
Here's the link to the show.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gRD-Y7R4X5E
And here are the featured pieces.
https://www.theprose.com/post/815107/take-off https://www.theprose.com/post/815199/life https://www.theprose.com/post/815120/colonoscopyas-where-you-cope
https://www.theprose.com/post/812774/of-warmth https://www.theprose.com/post/815122/driving-home https://www.theprose.com/post/815121/gone-fishing
And.
As always...
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team.
Never Going To Be Enough For You
I have been working my ass off,
this entire time
always trying to do my best
to do right by you all of the time.
But the world does not revolve around you,
it just can't.
And I don't know how to get you to understand
that I can't be everything for you
and that I'm going to fuck it up.
I hate that you made me feel small
for caring about someone other than you
and that you made me feel awful
for not being able to give you my undivided attention.
The perfect mate
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Mountains, crooked arms of the moon, send rain, and where you cope.
'Mountains' by Prince started the morning off right, winding around a few stones of Prose., one legendary, preceded by two new bloods whose words cut through like butter beneath blade. Beautiful words from these measured and magnificent artists. Kick back, but also let it all fall off the sides and get into the words of these writers. Smooth and rich, like coffee, like all things that last.
Here's the link to episode 32 on Prose. Radio.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YTiBo32fmDs
And here are the featured pieces.
https://www.theprose.com/post/814678/10-minute-walk https://www.theprose.com/post/814650 https://www.theprose.com/post/814328/news-flash-it-appears-that-its-not-so-much-how-you-cope-as-where-you-cope
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
Hot Chocolate, pork and beans and prose, four ladies, spit upon a page, and lemonade air.
A Challenge created by putski brings home the first glance on today's feature on Prose. Radio, where Hot Chocolate bass-lines the morning into the world created by four talents and their heavy lifting of our minds into - then onto, a plateau of a dimension defined by coping, four seasons in heavenly bodies warming by the fire, a madman's babbling, and into the lemonaide air with a flash.
Here's a link to the show.
https://youtu.be/W0u4DfJbSx8
And here are the pieces featured.
https://www.theprose.com/post/814391/the-cheshire-cat-with-a-side-of-pork-and-beans https://www.theprose.com/post/814503/togetherness-for-the-whole https://www.theprose.com/post/814610/i-found-these-things https://www.theprose.com/post/814243
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose team.
Cities in Dust, Burning Lead, Appalachian Flowers, Passover dinner, Sick Boy, and A call from home.
Putski wraps the show today with a beautiful poem led by three other brightly burning fires from the halls of Prose. Saturday meant good music, coffee, and these poems from these giants. Thank you, each of you.
Here's the link to number 27 on Prose. Radio.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rOsrxkA7xlg
Here are the pieces featured.
https://www.theprose.com/post/813609/hot-lead https://www.theprose.com/post/813548/appalachian-flowers https://www.theprose.com/post/813611/passover-dinner
https://www.theprose.com/post/813531/sick-boy https://www.theprose.com/post/813252/a-call-from-home
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
In My Mind
All I do is write, while I croon to myself softly. My pages a sheet in a bed made of thickets and stone.
How does one become successful? Relatable storytelling? Putting a spinny hat on my pen cap?
I do not like what is acceptable. I do not write romance for cookie cutter families. I can write scripts with the best of them, given the chance: I could write anything.
Give me two words— I swear it, I could make any idea come to life."I'll do it for free!" I shout at every publishing house like my mouth is a turret upon piles of scrapped cover letters and half-hearted portfolios.
I see those without much to tell besides about anatomy of two bodies slapping together in a garbled up piece of fiction id write at twelve with a book deal or two. I see those with millions made passively as they craft artwork in their multimillion dollar homes because they were born to the right people with the right agency.
But alone? I am the daughter of an immigrant. My words lift the women that love women and that is not enough. I give my fingertips to the cages of those starved and bereaved and still, it is not enough. It is appreciated, but it is not gold worthy.
It does not received awards. It does not receive the love the work I could force through a clenched jaw and gritted teeth could. How do I become a writer, when I write what is not in high demand and which won't be seen? Where does one send their writing, where it will have a punctured throat enough to breathe?
Am I to exist in my mind forever?