Smooth Operator, a jealous heart, a neurotic, reclamation, and let it bleed.
When sentiment is left to chance, thoughts of Sade opens episode 29 on the show, into a perfect hand of five pieces from five writers on the site, up to ride on the airwaves from here, their words into you.
Here's the link to Prose. Radio:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nZP9zXwUkek
And here are the pieces featured:
https://www.theprose.com/post/538382/fall-ritual https://www.theprose.com/post/814220/for-clarencet https://www.theprose.com/post/813959/errant-thoughts
https://www.theprose.com/post/814081/reclaiming-me https://www.theprose.com/post/814211/3-kinds-of-followers
And, as always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
Hot tramp, polite Canadians, indigestion of a comet, and beating the Devil.
Sucked up into his mind, episode 28 rolls in with a quote by David Bowie, and then into a trio of talent not to be missed. LARGE leads the show, into the area of a man, and a deal in Vegas with the fellow below wraps the day. Grab your coffee, and stay a few.
Here's the link to Prose. Radio:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aV62yeSdsLg
And here are the pieces featured.
https://www.theprose.com/post/813671/beyond-remembering
https://www.theprose.com/post/813712/when-is-the-art
https://www.theprose.com/post/813613/the-deal
And.
As always...
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
Drag Rope
I drink to forget,
or to die in peace,
or drift as far as the spirits will drag me.
I ride in a bar stool basket,
filling hot air into a glass balloon,
and there’s enough fuel to wander the planet, twice.
So, I do.
Ascension is emery on skin.
The clouds are not as soft as everyone thinks,
but they’re quiet.
I sleep to forget
or to die in peace
or until one day I wake up somewhere else.
or someone else.
©2024 Chris Sadhill
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
A Philosophical Sentence
I was a mere undergrad when I entered the philosophy department library, deep in thought, certain of my existence, interrupting the philosophy professors' meeting, not having been aware of the philosophy department meeting sign outside the door because it was pushed aside, finding myself well inside, intent on returning René Descartes's Meditations On First Philosophy to its perfect slot, when I looked up, horrified, but I didn't show it, not even when the department head, who was speaking, stopped, and with the other philosophy professors, some standing, some sitting, watched my slow motion show, without words for the first time in his most distinguished career, until rebuking me with a distinct
AH-AHEM!
as I, having replaced the Meditations, now more certain of my existence than even René, retraced my steps and exited the library,
AH-AHEM!
exploding in my skull, mortified as though I'd broken in on an orgy of geniuses, but, still, I did not show it, I did not, for I was a student of philosophy, and equanimity was my ideal, and all these years later, I know that I failed this test, because, though I did not show it, I was filled with anguish, and I chastised myself for my behavior for a long, long time afterward, and I know now that I should have shown it, perhaps with a quick smile, apology, and exit, as soon as I realized the context, but I also wonder why the orgy leader, in all his wisdom and grandeur, didn't just say to me,
Laddie, unless you want to drop your pants and bend over, I suggest you drop that little book in the box outside, and have a good rest of your day.
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
Butthole Surfers, raditude, new sprouts, German flavors, and ghost of word.
From the work here on the site, thrown over to Prose. Radio's episode 25 on YouTube, Butthole Surfers lead us into a piece with sass, followed by sprouting words of grace, into one -then two- bits of German taste on the tongue, and wrapped by a grip of a ghost with grit.
Here's the link to the show.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZVZw1ZbauGQ
And here are the pieces featured.
https://www.theprose.com/post/811875/tonight-i-could-writeoh-dammit https://www.theprose.com/post/807048/glowing-and-growing-new-sprouts-at-night
https://www.theprose.com/post/812246/german-potato-salad https://www.theprose.com/post/812228/if-you-ate-a-proper-german-crumb-cake
https://www.theprose.com/post/811880/ghosts-of-word
And, as always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
My Sincerest Apologies
I recently noticed that I have submitted over 100 posts here on The Prose. Frankly, I'm ashamed of myself because no one knows better than I that my written thoughts are about as palatable as broken glass smothered in the contents of a chili cookoff port-a-potty. So, to anyone who has read anything I have written I owe you an apology for any chafing, strange reoccuring rashes, or loss of IQ points resulting from unknowingly reading anything I have ever written. Now, please note that I don't go fishing for compliments because for one, I can't afford a fishing license, and two, as my wife will tell you, I lack a rod of sufficient length and girth to land even an anorexic sardine.
Why do I write? To be honest, I think my writing is a compulsion similar to that experienced by a nymphomanic. I guess you could call me manically, prosaically promiscuos. I can't help myself from recklessly thrusting a metaphor into whatever wet literary space is willing to have me. Of course, this unhinged writing will probably end with me catching a bad case of antibiotic-resistent drippy dictionary or best case scenario, end up being rubbed raw in poetic places by fiction friction. I admire my fellow Prosians who can commit to writing chapters and even entire novels. Me? I can't commit. The most anyone will get from me is a couple thousand words before I'm off trying to spread my sticky, most likely diseased similes to other topics.
Realizing that I have posted more than a 100 times on the Prose, I decided to audit some of my submissions in the name of quality control. Frankly, what I found is disappointing. I seem to only be able to write on a few very limited topics, most of which are probably only appealing to a dirty minded 12 year old or to those who have the sense of humor of a 12 dirty minded 12 year old. Some topics regularly touched on by Shallowgenepool include:
Sex I can't help it. I can't help but find everything about sex HILARIOUS!. Why you ask? Humans are the most sophisticated, intelligent, and capable creatures on the planet. We're supposedly the pinnacle of evolution on this blue ball of a planet (he he he blue ball). However, when given the chance to have our joy buzzers pressed we become drooling fucking idiots. Don't believe me? Then why do so many terms related to sex have a negative connotation and suggest poor dicision making. For example, "Walk of shame," "Mini van," "Holidays at the In-Laws," "Unexplained burning sensation," and my personal favorite, "I hope no one I know sees me buying a home pregnancy test at the Dollar Store." If we humans were smarter we wouldn't let the chance to bury the baloney to overwhelm our common sense. Nope. Instead, the best we horny, hairless apes can manage is to use our cummon sense which usually leads us to say things like, "Geez, I hope they're too hung over to remember my name and where I live" or "I think the built-in vacuum in the Chrysler Pacifica is a real game changer." In summation, giving in to one's grunting, squirting, I wonder if it'll fit in there, howl at the moon lust can lead to complications such as the need to obtain restraining orders against that one night stand (whatever his/her name was) or dreading being forced to take that weird kid that smells like cabbage to school when it's your turn to drive carpool for the neighborhood cum fruit.
Politics I blame this one on being a social worker. Which way do I lean politically? Neither because politicians don't let you lean, you're forced to bend over and take it. Be the shaft red or be the shaft blue, it's still a shaft and no one voted in the mandatory distribution of lube for the election year, so we all take it dry. Personally, I think the republic has failed. I think I have a better idea. Who represents the greater good at all times? Who embodies the best parts of humanity? Who can protect you from your parent's wrath by threatening to tell you about the time grandpa caught your mom/dad fucking their highschool sweetheart in the backseat of the family Volvo causing an embarrassing stain in the seat that wouldn't come (he he cum) out? Who has the wisdom to understand the rules of that most confusing of all card games, bridge and can also bake a mean fucking cherry pie? Grandmas of course. My idea is simple. Using the national census, five grandma's are chosen through a random drawing. These grandmas then are given the decision making power of all three branches of government. New grandmas are chosen every 6 months providing the sitting grandmas time to catch up on spoiling their grandkids The way I see it, childhood hunger would be solved in minutes because a hungry child to a grandma goes against the order of the universe, is nothing less than an abomination of Biblical proportions, and isn't to be tolerated. Crime? I don't know about anyone else, but when we did something wrong as kids my sweet grandma became a blue haired Bruce Lee, support hose wearing, agent of justice with her broom and we'd be pummeled into behaving. I don't care how hardened, mean, and murderous a criminal may be, no one wants to fuck with a pissed off nana. Criminals would be begging for the chair instead of the Rubber Maid broom ass whipping the grandmas in charge would give. My guess would be that with a moo-moo clad, geriatric judiciary in charge the crime rate would drop exponentially. World peace would be achieved in days because I don't know about anyone else, but I think grandma's have secret powers, and I don't think anyone wants to fuck around and experience grandma's wrath. The economy? Coupons FOR EVERYTHING, and bake sales to create the first ever zero balance for the national debt and a completely balanced budget with a surplus. I call my new form of government, Grandmacracy.
My Childhood I write about my childhood for selfish reasons. You see, there's never any padded cells with a view of the Sierra Nevada mountains open at the county safety center where I live, so I have no other choice but to process the fuckery of my childhood by writing. I haven't given up on some, "Me, Me, Me, Me, and Me" time yet in a padded cell and straight jacket because I put a request in the sheriff department's suggestion box asking that they set a limited number of padded cells with a view and sufficient medication aside for them to take reservations. I also suggested that they get some house arrest ankle bracelets in different colors. Black is fine, but some of my family members want a splash of color in their outfit for when they go to their job interview with Walmart.
Religion Nothing proves the falibility of humanity like its continued insistance on having religion around to fuck things up. Here's my issues with religion in a nutshell:
Everyone is convinced that their god(s) are the one true god(s) and their assumptions about what their god(s) want is the way things should be. Fine. I'll play along, but I want to hear it from the god(s) and not through their prophets, literature, or the God's image showing up in a potato chip. Supposedly, back in the day God would show up and talk to people. What the fuck happened? Well, schedule a press conference and clear everything up! You don't even need to burn a bush, we've got the internet now which is both more efficient than the burniing bush method and less likely to be mistaken for an acid trip at a Pink Floyd concert.
Assorted Stupidity Um, I call myself Shallowgenepool, I figured that assorted stupidity is to be expected. It's kinda like assuming that the average dick length and girth of a NRA convention attendee is going to be somewhere in the low 2's. Inches? They wish! I'm thinking millimeters.
There you have it, the subject matter in my writing is both of poor quality and limited in scope. So because of my obvious limitations, I offer a sincere apology to my fellow Prosians. Oh, I don't plan on changing, I don't think I have the cognitive ability to change (I'm Shallowgenepool remember and sadly the moniker is based in truth), but I'm still sorry.
German Potato Salad
The grandfather on my mother’s side was a cheapskate.
A real cheapskate.
One Christmas he gave me a used paperback book.
Something like “Jimmy Plays Baseball.”
It was written for a 7 year old child, and I was considerably older than that.
Still had “5 cents” written in pencil on the first page.
No shit.
Asked he, “You ever read that one?”
Replied I, “No granddad. Can’t say I have. Thank you.”
“Merry Christmas.”
I hated going to visit them.
In the row house in Baltimore city, where my mother grew up.
(‘Balmer.’ ‘Balmer, Merilan.’ “How you doin’ hon?”)
Me and my sister sitting on the wood floor in the living room.
Positioned dead eyed to the manger on the mantle.
Given board games to occupy our time.
My father loved talking to him, Leo, Leo Groeninger.
Because he was brilliant.
And he knew everything about everything.
A sedentary encyclopedia on the spectrum.
His second wife sitting dutifully next to him on the couch.
My mother sitting in a chair, the only one left in the living room.
“Maybe you kids would like to play checkers, or Parcheesi.”
(“Maybe you’d like to go fuck yourself.”)
But he had one saving grace:
His German potato salad.
The real thing.
Made with ham fat.
Five pounds of ham fat.
Or bacon, if you didn't have any ham fat.
Goddamn that shit was good!
Inspired by "If You Ate a Proper German Crumb Cake"
by @Glenn_Withawhy TheProse.com