It is this roving eye

that's scripting all the time

In speaking with you now

there's a future you I'm 

talking to while sharing...

momentary pleasure

of thinking together

It's a remembered me

that you will see as I

retrace our history

to bring us exactly

to this very point of

mental understanding...

a mark in my mind's eye

We are so specific!

pointed yet nondescript

that words cannot capture

how inconsiderate!

we've always me somewhere

and irrefutably... 

you leaning over there

With this strange abstraction

in its attraction to

my mind's eye that must see

a paired dichotomy

two paths, forward and back

entirely suffice...

to mirror issues twice

I grow used to the space

that dual reflections bring

to the glass eye membrane

on which the mind maps 

to the edge of the frame

it spirals like a shell...

a circular stairwell

Up or down is where my

inexplicable eye,

this constantly shifting 

you, and this roving I

need to land and focus...

my mind's eye sees best when

it looks outside itself.

#MindsEye #Challenge

What theProse.com means to me is difficult to put into words... It's a feeling. Something beyond taste or touch. Of course, I see and even hear the writes, but admittedly, am made aware of the limitations of these as such. No, it's a totally different sensation that I experience at Prose. It's a sense of Being... like in tune, in sight... yes, in mind.

I don't perceive the Prose as a site at all really. True, it has its corporate address in Washington State. It has its online url, and I do, of course, have my own modest pages located here among thousands of others. Nevertheless I think of Prose as more of a... Guild. It's its own little society that does not preclude any other virtual presence. Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Snapchat, and various writer's sites that can be found by running a google search, have their extension here. Though for me, all of these others somehow miss the Goldilock's factor. They're too big, too small... just not right. There may be a flood of feeds (by necessity dismissed) or a sorry separation with everyone as if closed off in virtual cubicles, isolated not because there is no potential for feedback, but because the participatory effort is not consistently there. In short, they don't sustain my interest.

That is why by contrast, I see the Prose as a community, rather than a website. Sure there is a similar postal exchange (things are uploaded, revised, etc.). But these are the mechanics of any communication... what the Prose has is a friendly collegial family atmosphere. Exchanges, challenges, supportive commentaries, substantive arguments evolve on a daily basis with participants of assorted backgrounds. There is a constant curiosity. And all are welcome to join in the conversation at any moment.

I do have Twitter and Facebook and LinkedIn... but it's Prose that I turn to daily. It has me laughing when I awake in the morning and thinking dynamically throughout the day and sharing without unnecessary hesitations— when the concrete circle around me is busy with prosaic affairs, I have this precious oasis in which to wonder at what creativity other's are engaged in; to contemplate, read, comment, debate on a wide array of ideas that somehow, regrettably, have little interest/ value in a world that is woefully predominantly preoccupied with a daily squeeze of "earning a living," and just "getting by." 

In this gathering, I have been wonderfully blessed to have made connections with other writers — not virtual— but actual, by text posts, audio links, video casts, and even face to face. It's the people, first and foremost that define an enterprise. The people at Prose are committed to fully taking part in the magic of writing in all its various forms and purposes of dialogue: from contemplating the seemingly mundane, to informing, to dream weaving....

That is what makes the collective at Prose such a very special place in my heart and mind.

#WhatThisSiteMeansToYou #Challenge

What

do it do

or don't it do

dis connection dat

we've been destined to?

no limited not to a site...

(Be sure in which I do delight!)

but de shared plight

like dis cool mental

dot. dot. dot.

dat old mutual

"Lot"

of never

looking back

down dat what's

done or undone

to now unblock 'n

do what's next to do

dat's where, dang!

such foresight

do help make do

what's right in d's

looking forward to's

night after night

dat do carry us thru

all da words dat

do connect

doe's dots from

write to write

in dis very

distinctive

dot com

site dat

do drive

one mad

in dat very

insightful

way dat

it do to

me 'n

you

#WhatThisSiteDoToYou

Listen to your song in stillness,

own the sound that beats inside,

kick off the dust of yesterday,

wing like an eagle to tomorrow.

Ladle out love in big scoops,

accept the winds of change

and ride them into the horizon.

Eavesdrop on heartfelt songs

of innocence reverberating,

uplift your questioning eyes

and seek your own advice

because others have not trod

your path scattered with

withered flowers and scars

of darkened corridors.

Stir laughter into your tears,

flow forth in lively colors,

speak your truths loudly.

Play with fire and flesh,

develop strength of spirit,

run swiftly into the future.

Remember who you were,

recognize who you are

and discover who you will be –

but above all, be yourself,

comfortable in your own skin.

I have a place to make my words public.

You have a place to read my words, if you wish.

You have a place to ignore what I have to say, if you wish.

You can disagree with any or everything I have written.

I can disagree with any or everything you have written.

All without force. All by choice.

Keep Prose forever the way it is right now.

Hands full of maggots

Scooped from a corpse

Mouthful of nutrition

Survival-holocaust

Stomach of conscience

No longer rejects

What ancestry once

Found grotesque

Chemical sun melting over

Ash-gray wasteland lost

Dancing horizon

Fluid shimmering-

Fine line of gloss

Wire interwoven out & in

Across a forehead

Of greased-blistered skin

War Criers summon

War Boys get in!

Buried in sand

Cities of man

Scavengers astute

Remains left to loot

Droplets of blood

Rapidly coagulate

Suck on mud

Lest one dehydrate

Chemical sun melting over

Ash-gray wasteland lost

No rest for the wicked

Nor this famished

Driving force

Frozen lunar light

Cascading in the night

Whistling dunes

Whispering stories

Dusty devils

Increasing fury

Beneath a stone

Sheltered scattered bones

A few souls in a hole

Shared hopeless home

Worming in the womb

Another coming soon

But loves just a word

Describing a meal

Homicidal primary state

For those left to feel

Rusted reality

Twisted deadly steel

Tomorrow's a word

Today won't reveal

Open wounds

Infectious flies

Increasing pain

Ignoring cries

Red eyes squinting

Another sunrise

Illuminating poles

Of combatant skulls

Held in prize

Chemical sun melting over

Ash-gray wasteland lost

Spinning dry

Dying planet

Evolution gone off course

A plume of smoke

Contrail of dust

A rider approaches

Mechanical weapon of trust

Screaming combustion

Rips thru the frozen

Arid desert

Manifesting the chosen

Die hard-defy odds

Godless in spite

Counter roughshod

Muster faith

For a fight

Chemical sun melting over

Ash-gray wasteland lost

Tomorrow's a day

To be seized again

By force

Ahoy! Deploy!

War Party on patrol

Destroy! Destroy!

Their chromed-out

God-damned souls...

In a second of a blink

before your curling wink

I walk the upward stairs

when I should be goin’ down

I feel the cracking floors

of your encroaching steps

but you’ve got it all wrong

I have to say so long

I hope that I am strong

enough to say

get out of my bed

because I am here too

and you no longer belong

I’m screaming this is wrong

the space between us

hopelessly shattered and torn

feelin’ forlorn as I mourn

this is so wrong

get out of my bed!

Stressed.

Piles and piles of assignments.

Endless amounts of papers, tests, projects.

Paper mountains have formed on my desk,

and I'm searching for the strength to climb them.

Stressed.

A sprained ankle.

I limp to class.

An injury which came out of no where,

but has given me a foot the size of Alaska.

Stressed.

Deadlines, expectations, and standards.

Messes, cleanups, and spills.

Hopes, dreams, and fears.

How does one get through this obstacle we call life?

My answer is simple.

Sit back and breathe.

Exhale the doubt,

and inhale the clarity.

All will be okay.

The paper mountains will be climbed,

and the swelling will subside.

Meditate and find the peace.

Blessed.

Shed your snakeskin,

no softness inside -

a puffed up hornet

of inflated air.

Fluffy, puffy face

darkened with scowls,

mouthing cotton tips

of anger, no pride.

Squishy, doughy

marshmellow memories

never say please.

Inflated lungs gasping

ripping stuffing

out of my pillows.

Rabbits with soiled fur

and encrypted messages.

Pot boils over -

bubbles of rage.

Wet heat

brands my chest,

unkind erratic dirt

spewing roughly -

a geyser in air,

I run for cover

and hide in the dark

fleeing swollen corpse,

bloating and rotting

like a fluffy bug

squashed under my feet.

Swirling through

indoors of my mind,

my eyes throw open

their exposed door,

paddle in lucidity

of the sea,

soar above cushion

of cottoned sky.

Walk inside my skull,

vulnerability exposed

for all to see

echoed mirror

of their existence.

Time stands still

for all eternity,

soul windows

float around my head,

gaze reducing me

to waning embers,

burning in need

for a glance at starlight.

I beg of you

please rest a while

in my minds eye

so I can tuck

you under

downy eyelashes.