prose

In the darkness with no ember, cold coals bear no flaming tinder. All the shadows, man resemble. In the darkness, wise men tremble. Prodigious foes made thee for pointless sake of prosaic power. Visited upon thyself no vestige of vision by late nights hour. In the stillness of normal eve, in longing for the night's reprieve. In air and earth arise a faint and subtle shift, tis follies gift. With tremulous breath, whisper faintly from thy spirits tower. 'Woe to me!', thy soul says. Cometh nigh, The Rez.

the hope is smallbut it is everything.

you giver of light.you lover of love.you beautifulbeautifulhuman being you.

the opening,the breaking,the falling apartis always so quick.the hurting,the healing,the putting back togetheris always too long.

we get brave.we move.we believe.we keep going.

everything i know about loveis that it hurtsand is almost always never returnedthe way you want it to.but i have hopebecause i do not know everything.

i can't hold onto love.i'm not gentle enough.i always end upcrushing the thingin between my fingertips.

we talk of plans that are going to happen.we talk of the future, as if we know we will last.there is a sort of comfort in that.

Time in the most powerful thing.Not money, not power, not hope.A person can have everything theydesire but without time they are,all useless.

He said that he felt that there was a book hidden between us. Some small thing lodged between a rib or a summer. and He wanted to find it.

She told me there was a place on my face she wanted to inhale.

He left the next morning, searching for a city with light that reminded him of me. He would mail me empty envelopes and boxes, I would take them into my closet, shut the door, and quickly open them. A flash of foreign light would fill the room, but only for a moment. I would whisper __his is what we__e like, this is what we__e like.__

There__ a reason humans peg-out around eighty: prose fatigue. It looks like organ failure or cancer or stroke but it__ really just the inability to carry on clambering through the assault course of mundane cause and effect. If we ask Sheila then we can__ ask Ron. If I have the kippers now then it__ quiche for tea. Four score years is about all the ifs and thens you can take. Dementia__ the sane realisation you just can__ be doing with all that anymore.

Later, you told me what your mother had said. How your father, the farmer, rose up slowly. You told me how your mother wailed on the other end of the phone, grieving her loss and complaining about the basketball of a goitre perched on her shoulder. She told you, your father walked onto the veranda and saw a chook floating ten feet above the ground. The chook didn__ flap a feather and just sat there brooding, swaying in the breeze.

I want to burn with excitement or anger and bleed, bleed out my words. I want to get all fucked up and write raw and ugly about all these things I see and am and could be.

What is this thing? trading passions for a tiny bit of acceptance.

I don__ need anyone else to distract me from myself anymore, like I always thought I would.

I like pros, especially when it comes to tennis and rent boys_ _ and here I__ really wondering if the pun on prose consolidates Bruce__ feeling toward it versus poetry under the sign of sex, which Bruce sometimes pays for, in order to direct us toward the pleasure of its use-function when monetised, a pleasure seldom associated with poetry, and one that might lead to the company of more pros. He continues: __f I can get a twofer, and the trick looks like Rafael Nadal, I__ in heaven.