When I saw the moon, I thought of you.

A compliment, to be sure, because this was no ordinary moon.

This was echoes of sunrise all bottled up in the darkness of night.

A moon so bright, it cast shadows of midday on the forest floor and sprinkled the perfume of romance across a late summer night.

I thought of you because the moon was like you: brighter than the stars, but only brave enough to shine every now and again, more beautiful than the sun because I could behold with my eyes all the splendor of its light. One cannot look upon the sun, but the moon? In its ever-changing cycle of wonderment? One could look at the moon for all eternity and never grow tired of seeing the marvelous little ways it had changed.

And when the moon hides?

That reminded me of you, too.

For when you are gone it is the blackest of nights and the echoes of starlight no longer reflect in the shadows, so I hide in my pillow until darkness passes and the morning light shines through my curtains. A comforting light is the sun, but none so precious as the moonlight. None so precious as you, ever-changing, ever the same– a tide in the marrow of my soul pulling me forever into your gentle gravity.

Yes, when I saw the moon, I thought of you.

the grey duplo cat behind the couch

i would have been about two at the time

one of those memories that sticks around

for no apparent reason to a grown mind

but something important to a small girl

it must have been the last summer

that my family still functioned as such

i was experiencing blisters for the first time

my heels had been rubbing the backs

of my red shoes and making small wounds

mum told me to stop picking them

i don't know where dad was

i travelled through the lounge room

across the whole world as far as i was concerned

to see my favourite toy on the ground

my little grey cat lying under the grey couch

she had dark stripes on her back

and big paws stuck together by plastic

no one else remembers her

i don't know if i told anyone where she was

that was the last time i saw her

it will always be the last time i saw her

Cisgender: denoting or relating to a person whose gender identity corresponds with the sex registered for them at birth; not transgender.

Philosophy: the study of the fundamental nature of knowledge, reality, and existence, especially when considered as an academic discipline.

If, as a species, we ever come to the point where the phenomena of men identifying as men and women identifying as women becomes a philosophical study, as if reality were something subjective, we will have achieved a level of hubris beyond even biblical proportion.

We might just as well spend our time asking why an acute triangle identifies as an acute triangle and not an obtuse triangle. After all, it's just a label. The conversation would be a waste of every single moment spent. Change the acute label all you want, it will not change the fact that none of the angles are equal to, or more than, ninety degrees. Nothing would change the facts.

If, however, we were to discuss, academically, the phenomenon of non-cisgender, philosophically or psychologically, we might actually come away with some new areas of thought. Likewise, we could discuss the psychological integrity of a person who genuinely believes that an acute triangle can become obtuse simply by demanding that other people refer to the acute triangle as obtuse, but regardless of the academic conclusion, the conclusion will never be anything other than academic.

Put a stone in my shoe,

walk a mile or two

and let the cold air brace me,

take me far from nothing

to something else entirely.

And the sun shines in uncovered eyes

my breath takes on it's own life

burning muscles tear against the ground

somehow I'm running and chasing the clouds.

Wind up bleeding, breathing hard

and the feet are in pain, there's a dagger in my heart

and somehow I'm suffering all over again

found through the pain, and grounded again.

Clinging on to life, precious blood and movement

even in routine there can be sanctification

somehow all roads lead to home

and the fire in the sky guides my walk by night

as I hold on to that which rends me and

lends me a perspective that I hope to understand.

When you're living still there is no loss that can take you

until the time comes to go over that final hill

and be acquainted with the maker.

Oh, the faith it takes to live that way,

and the trust that comes with answers

undeniable guideposts and bring purpose to pain

so we only suffer shortly.

We will only suffer shortly.

i thought i saw

in the window

my lost love.

my doctor told me

it was grief.

i thought i saw

in the window

my old enemy.

my doctor told me

it was bitterness.

i thought i saw

in the window

a glimpse of the Grim.

my doctor told me

it was fear.

yet the last thing i saw

was the worst thing of all:

i thought i saw

in the window

myself.

my love, gone.

my enemy, gone.

even death,

the uncomfortable comfort,

gone.

i was alone.

and as i watched myself i saw

my skin begin to ripple,

my eyes began to bulge

my hair began to fall.

i was aging before my eyes

each second a decade of time.

with the last of my strength

i clawed for the door

took the bus into town

and knocked on death's door.

and my doctor told me

with a youthful smile,

that he appreciated

my donation.

my words are a CABLE,

tying together PARAGRAPHS

regardless of the DISTANCE.

each letter is an EQUATION

built up of imaginary numbers.

my words are my

vulnerability,

opening up the beating heart

and hoping that no one

will BAN my existence,

or enact my PROSECUTION.

my words are

rolling hills

for children to TUMBLE down

and scrape their knees

on PATTED-down dirt.

PRACTICE for the DESPAIR

of the modern world.

my words are

far from DEMOCRATIC.

they are the kingdom ruled by me,

their monarch.

they rise up in honor of me,

and fall in honor of me,

each day a new form of SACRIFICE.

my words are here to PROVOKE,

to PREDICT a world beyond our own,

like an impending asteroid,

threatening to obliterate us

while we wallow in CONSTRAINT.

my words do not QUALIFY

on their own.

they must be SQUASHED

together with ideas to be

brought to life.

without it, they are INCAPABLE

of growth.

my words are my GENES,

stories of families and worlds,

experiences woven into fantasy,

each world a new ASSOCIATION

between me and my dreams.

my words are my own.

cradled in my hands,

i cultivate them to perfection:

not perfect, but instead

strengthened by

their flaws.

Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.

Getting situated here at the SW HQ, but we wanted to throw down a video featuring one of the talents on this beautiful ocean of words. Author is tagged in the comments below. Here's the link.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rJfxRU7hqvc

And, as always.......

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

Staring at an empty pitcher when you're a thirsty crow

Or expecting harvest when there are no seeds to sow

Imagining, eating a freshly baked loaf of bread

While not having money to even buy a piece of thread

Expecting an 'A' when you skipped the exam

Or expecting an investment return from a scam

Praying that money falls into your pouch

While you haven't even left the couch

Being a hero on screen or as they say, in reel life

But not having done any charity in real life

Do you see where I'm reaching for?

Vicarious life is not worth fighting for!

From out of the sheets of rain emerges

A new found frame of mind...

Where once a burgeoning hate had slipped

Beneath the loose folds of flesh behind the neck...

Now all the barnacles have been scrapped from the Bilge, and the

Sun can shine down

Through the windowpanes, and every reflective

Surface that hastens to be found is afforded this light...

Ah, is not this frame of mind so precious?...

It glitters like the diamond in the rough...

The blindness turns into a myriad of flashes,

And then the images come swimming in in droves...

Because awareness has now risen

Like the phlegm from buried depths

That is launched out of the lungs, and clears

A pathway for what's next...

The man in the raincoat and fedora is unbuttoning his coat, and

Glancing round...

He sees a way out in the clearing,

And he is thinking more profoundly...

From out of the sheets of rain emerges

A new found frame of mind...

3/22/23

Bunny Villaire

Edit#3

Gentrification...

It's a sick, sad situation...

Playing the game of real estate,

And cutting out the human aspect

With a scythe...

It's the reason I left Grand Rapids...

I needed a new lease on life,

And I was tired of witnessing

All of the authentic local businesses,

And real people get cut down

For an exchange in capital...

It's not practical...

Gentrification...

It's killed the artist life in so many configurations...

It's not regulated, because it's not considered a thing,

And it's hard to see with all of life's distractions...

But it's there...waiting to strike...

Like a saw scaled viper in the night!...

I saw it happening on Wealthy Street...

The resident African American and Mexican, white poor artists all

Were cleaved

For a new upper class aesthetic

That the real estate agents were going for...

What a fucking bore it all is when

Money is the deciding factor over life...

Gentrification...

It's a sick, sad situation...

Playing the game of real estate,

And cutting out the human aspect

With a scythe...

I saw it happen on Division street

Where the upscale pseudo New York lofts

Moved in that only the rich college kids

Could afford...

But they had a sliding fee scale!...

Let's give the motherfuckers an applause!

They favored the trickle down theory economics

And the human side was forever lost...

That shit could only be understood by the

Highly privileged and the conspirator from the inside

Who choose the right proportion of ethnicity

From a racially biased list...

The lifeblood and the grit was squeezed and many

Neighbors were given the heave ho!...

Not a pleasant way to manage life...

A Falsetto of a human gesture

Disguised as progress and renewal...

And slipped up the patients' arm

Like an I.V. for a dying breed

That will soon be sent to pasture...

The new blossoming artist is introduced

To life through this imploding factor...

It is disgusting, and I pray that something changes...

Where the arts are once again championed,

And we're all not stuck living in our nostalgic cushions...

While the real estate men take a gluttonous bite

Out of the world and won't look back...

I see New York's Big Apple in the trash...

The remaining real human beings will be toppled...

As the rampant Privateers ride on!...

3/22/23

Bunny Villaire

Edit#5