The only part of your mother that you own,

that your cheeks can still root for when hungry

for her flesh, that reminds you of those pureed

peas, those nostrils caked in cocaine, those

boning knives, your mother. Your mother, a boning knife,

cutting myofilaments, your empty plasma,

you leech, you blood-sucker. You can almost

feel your umbilical cord tether. She can’t see

your face, can’t understand your babble. Oh,

Anna O., is this how you speak to your mother,

spitting alien syllables even you can’t say twice?

Chimney sweeping ashes off your eyelids,

really seeing. Is this how you die?

Look, brain: see what stories we can twist

without anyone else’s tongue? How powerful

we are on our own. Isn’t it funny how

we can build gods and demons in one body

and kiss both of their foreheads goodnight?

my poetry

is heartless, chews

like gravel on your teeth,

tastes like your mother,

the cornmeal on her hands

when she tied you up 

in a burlap sack and tried

to drown you in the creek.

i know you want to.

ask, what's it like

to lay down and die?

how many spiders do you swallow

in your sleep? how many

have you strung out, washed

and ironed to fit your piece? 

do girls like you still feel,

can i pinch your skin

until it bleeds, pretend your body

is for tourists and it's a ghost town

once i leave?

you will not take credit 

for the nothing that i am now,

even though we both know

i make a killing off of the pain.

you break us, i build colossus,

then redact your name.

The blessed inherit the earth,

bleached. Eden smokes. Her birds

ossify as they perch on the final

olive branch and search for dry land.

There is no firmament here.

Oceans touch petroleum

sky, carry cigarette butts

as burnt stars. Ultraviolet

children beg between last breaths,

give us something pure,

but their prayers sink

in the smog. They stick

their tongues out and catch

sulfur, sip lead, hook

dead fish in chemical rivers.

God empties his quarries

of miracles and watches as man

walks on water. With eyes the color of coal,

he sees his reflection in an oil slick

and recycles his plastic bags

for a noose.

         The day is hot and sunny. A light breeze blows into the town square. President James M. Byers stands on a podium in front of a large crowd. In the background is the Emperor’s Palace. Weeks earlier, it had been the home of the Emperor, the most powerful man in the country. That was before the war ended thus ending Emperor Jim Lamb's rule.

“Today society changes”, said newly elected President Byers. The crowd starts to cheer and applause the president. When the crowd calms down President Byers continues to speak. “We the people of Twain shall form a government that follows the will of the proletarian masses and not the will of the bourgeoisie. We form a government that shall take the power that belonged to the aristocrats and the oligarchs so that it gives it to the people. Corporatism has destroyed the middle class. It has made the rich richer and the poor poorer. It shall no longer!!!” The crowd erupts into applause and cheers.

         The video stops and the lights come back on. The history teacher stands in front of the high school class. “I’m sorry class, but we will have to continue the documentary on Monday. It is time to pack your things and go to your next class. Remember we will have a test over the Twain Revolutionary War, which happened 500 years ago. We will discuss the first Secretary of State Phynne Belle, the First Secretary of War General Paul D. Chambers, First Lady Winterreign, and the First Secretary of the Treasury Esther Flowers.”, said Mrs. Fidaus. A sense of gratitude is felt throughout the room. The class was glad class is over and begins to leave.

         I, of course, am one of the last to leave the classroom. I run down the long student packed hallway in fear that I will be late for Ms. Bunny’s class. Ms. Bunny is the school’s music teacher. She teaches students how to play a different number of instruments. However, she doesn’t like people being late for class. “Slow down and stop running in the hallway”, a medium pitched voice cried out. I turn around and find that the voice belongs to Principal Ruby Pond, who was standing next to Vice Principal Soul Hearts and Superintendent Samantha Fowler. “Yes, ma’am.”, I reply continuing on my way to class and walking quickly to my seat.

         After Ms. Bunny’s class, I head off to Mr. Syne’s class. He is my Algebra 1 teacher. On my way, I run into Dusty Grein, one of the school’s English 4 teachers. Supposedly, he teaches an english class in a laid back way, but grades very strict. It makes him one of the toughest English teachers at the school. I also run into Mrs. Alice Anne, who teaches philosophy. Her favorite philosopher is a guy who’s nickname is Creative Chaos and lived 200 years ago. Why they called him Creative Chaos, I will never know. 

I am writing again after a break of about 20 years.  My writing has become better than what it was.  I'm not saying I'm a good writer, but the experiences that I have had, and the age I am now, allow me to apply the proper perspective to evaluate and adjust the way I think about my feelings.  

That's an oxymoron, I bet!  But I truly believe it has.  And with the help of the very gifted writers on here, I think I have found a way to study the writing and different ways I can improve.  So my age has allowed me to be more open to feedback about my writing.  I don't look at criticism as a bad thing.  I look at it more like, "How can I be better..."

So yeah, the thing I like about my age - 48, going on 49 at the end of the month, has allowed me to gain the proper perspective to not only my writing but myself.

I love my age, and I love life...I love spreading or trying to spread peace and love in it daily.

As Saint John Lennon said, "Love is all you need"

This middle eastern guy I know

with gorgeous cinnamon eyes

that I just can't say no to

offers me, last minute, in

AP Psych

"Take my rorschach test," he says

and I do because I can't resist

that hopeful smile on his face that arrives

way before I accept his offer

The thing is about us, we

see differently, him and I,

I could swear I spot

a bat in that picture, those ink blots

scattered about, symmetrically

and he asks me to point out

"Tell me where you see the wings."

"Show me where you can find the eyes."

Redundantly petty, I know,

and we both admit that we hate the rorschach

but I'm right, about that bat

when he sees a monster

smiling up at him

as I did earlier

Our sideways glances

communicate in ways unseen

when I let his fingertips ghost over the lace of my blouse,

an unorganized set of kisses to my

lips, cheek, and neck,

pulling that fickle thing up over my head

and he stops, he stares,

"You're gorgeous," says Irresistible Eyes,

and coy-timid me, with a

hint of a smile and a wink,

"Show me where you see beauty."

©SelfTitled, 2017

We all hold our beliefs deep within

Our minds and lodged in our hearts.

What I find evil, maybe considered

A norm in your life and vice versa.

We were all raised differently with various

Backgrounds and tongues.

Some of us were raised with violence as a

Norm and have grown desensitized to hate.

Some of us were raised by praying on

Our knees, so we take each verse of the Bible

To heart and may even try to force our

Religious views on others without meaning

To cause harm.

Some of us were born in poverty,

Falling asleep with growling stomachs,

Dry throats, and shivering bodies.

Some of us were born in luxury,

Falling asleep on satin sheets,

Fur duvets, and hand-clapping lights.

We were all born to love and hate

Each other without reason.

We were all born to assume we are right,

Enough to force our beliefs on others,

But whatever you are and what you

Believe in, know we will all die with

Red blood.

Never force your beliefs on others

Or assume you know what's best for them.

Not to post back-to-back about it, but this is an exception:

We joined forces with Seattle Refined to commemorate & celebrate the life and lyrics of Soundgarden legend Chris Cornell with a new writing challenge. 

If Chris Cornell touched you, write about it. Share your story, poem, tribute, anything about him. We will be putting together a book for the Cornell family, of the posts entered. All proceeds from additional copies purchased will be donated to suicide prevention. The most shared post will be read on air and posted on seattlerefined.com

Go to Seattle Refined in Portals to enter and read. 

Thanks for stopping to read this. Go write.

-Prose.

My words churn and twist

     insanity and pandemonium

     visions of surreal ideas

     orgasms of spouted thoughts

     siphoned brain waves

My words bleed along edges

     masked metaphors

     chanting syllables

     random and scattered

     dancing, dangling nuances

Words encrypted to decipher or not

     sublime flawed connections

     sexy syllables of passion

     stray words across canvas

     reaching for lemon drop moon

Innovative, ground breaking concepts

     spawning and creeping into light

     opening up repressed vibes

     scratching open barrier walls

     pain sketched on stiff spines

Refusal to cross ‘t’s’ and dot ‘i’s’

     provocative pregnant pauses

     hoodwinking and finesse

     floating Bohemian thoughts

     begging for insight

     inside writer’s free mind.

the flowers made of dust to color

and fragrance spread of his breath

down upon the earth

rise to meet the highest peaks

of rock of the iron

to which they and we are bound

made of our own flesh

we reach for the sky of blue

and black of cold of space

far higher than the highest level

beyond our reach

not content to stay below

our spirits cry

some for freedom's burst beyond to the peace

we know exists, but out our reach

somehow we know

it's in our past, vague like a memory of a long gone dream

some for the pillage and the plunder to get it while it can be got

to reach for those stars and conquer

make themselves a throne of man

the flowers with their quiet speech will gasp a solemn breath

they'll laugh and say,

that it is only for their doom

nature shows the splendor and the truth

glory cannot be gotten by these means

all will turn to rust

who by means of self and greed

and denial of what is plainly shown by nature's own display

will torpid turn to ruin

as by example see the volcano roar

in its skirts destruction by fiery red and molten melt

what is left in that wake is cold, solidified blackened mineral

'til centuries pass

the machine of wind and weather by the passing of the time

crevices fill with the seeds of life and plants begin to grow

the sun shines upon that bleak freeze of lava rock

to yield its fruit

the fruit is mild, it does not resist

it simply, lovely is just like,

made and bred to be like him,

the flowers made of dust to color

and fragrance spread of his breath

down upon the earth

rise to meet the highest peaks

rise above the rock and iron

now partake, though only in part,

looking up to those peaks and fiery sun

do not resist,

yielding up to see his face

to be like him who made them thus

like the glory of the flowers and the majesty of the peaks

see them sprinkled by sparks of white above

in the midnight blue

those shining stars,

portals of the heaven's star-gates we pass into-

befriend,

like the flowers and the lowly weeds that bloom