the funny thing is

that in an hour

this moment will be long

forgotten

but i will remember

every inhale

every heartbeat's stutter

in full technicolor

it will flash before my eyes

as i hit the surface of

the ocean

but i will not die

by drowning

i will die

by fire

and you will feel it like the heat

on your dashboard

like walking barefoot on

the rooftop

of my apartment building

and it will be blistered across

the soles of your feet,

the sun whispering

urging that

you should have kissed her

more, you should have paid

more attention.

Night time. Hotel, small mountain town.

thinking about Whiskey Row

coffee

how in the day

you break a sweat

and in the night

you see your breath under

a clear, white moon.

This morning, walking the

town square around the row, the courthouse

my dog tracking something

under a spine shaped

cloud offsetting an otherwise perfect sky.

cobalt.

The classically trained paragraphs cross over

sloppy riffs of hope in my head

while I walk the boy around the corners

around the cafes

around the homeless couples

and the shag-haired artists with

tattoos on their fingers.

All of it spills over into the nights

here, when you think you should be back out there

and you will

but not while the

heater hums and warms the

room

and not while the

nights ahead of this one

wait with such

ease

and

allure.

Author note:

When Prose. presented the opportunity for me and my dog to go on tour for winter, to find writers and readers with a grassroots, gasoline-fueled literary mission, two words ran across my mind in scrolling neon red letters against a blackboard of subtle space junk: Hell, yes.

To ride along, follow the tour's hashtag above.

__________________________

Do you write or read?

I might be drunk, I might only appear to be drunk. I might approach you uncomfortably to ask you a question I already know the answer to, to get your eyes on Prose. I might give you a pocket journal and pen. If we get this far you will download Prose. And we get this far, every face, every time. Another addict, another writer for me to read. I've never seen something this explosive. We always knew you were out there. And now we're here connected. The honor is both of ours. I write this Prose. in the desert, 2.5 hours north of the room where I wrote my first poem decades ago, and here this stands now: 2014. November. On the road for Prose., bending sunlight, breaking the odds. The Arizona sun shines high and perfect while the tentacles of Prose. feel around the country for kin, for the doors in the dark, to show them home never died, it only paused.

Dearest writers and readers,

We meet again! Let us begin with a few elemental developments designed to rock the proverbial house...

(Have you downloaded the latest version from the App Store?)

We're working our synapses off to ensure that each update improves your overall experience on Prose. This is your home. That means cleaning up, creating ambience, and cultivating sanctuary.

Here's what's new on the mobile app:

- Aesthetic improvements

- Profile bios: You can now add and edit additional information on your user page!

- Tag fellow users in comments and challenges.

- Various "bug" fixes

ANNOUNCEMENTS.

The web app writing feature is fully functional. Visit www.theprose.com to compose and publish Prose. from your PC, then read and edit it on your mobile device!

Soon you'll have access to the full array of features on your desktop including challenges, optimized searches, sharing tools and more.

FROM OUR USERS.

Many of you have contacted us with excellent suggestions and ideas for future updates. For that we are grateful! We will continue to take your feedback into consideration as our intention is to ensure that this literary community is meeting your needs as a writer and reader. Send us a direct message in the app or email info@theprose.com anytime with your thoughts!

YOUR WORDS ARE PURE GOLD.

If you want to increase exposure to your wonderful work and help spread the word about Prose., please take a few moments to write and submit an honest review on the iTunes App Store.

Murderer eyes, sharpened teeth, arms bigger than legs, leather-looking hands gripping your arms and breaking them easily. Dying old, young, alone, or slowly in pain are nothing compared to being ripped apart by a gorilla. The key word here is horrific. While the other demises are sad and even horrifyingly sad, nothing is more horrific than the approach, foreign feel, lift, eye contact and first pulse of pain that overrides the fear of death by gorilla. You can't outrun him, you can't out-think him in close proximity. Being dropped down or somehow face to face with a pissed off gorilla, even in the same room or ground, the fear of that alone, then the pain of being pulled apart like you were made of nothing. The hard reality of his strength ending yours. Hearing your tissues and cartilage ripped, your bones snapped, limbs torn away but near you, while your head is twisted off and your brain is still functioning, while you look down at his face: he's holding your head up over his and screaming in anger still, not even close to satisfied, and the last thought before you go is him squeezing your head to a bloody pop and then ripping apart what's left of you.

November first. The rain washes in. The feeling washes in.

Heart full of heaviness

the liquid weight of regret

thinking about the

tables of the past

hands in yours

eyes on yours

the blood in the air

aimed on you

life spread out across the

tabletop, the sidewalk, into the city

while you knew you were going to

be something

before the years beat you down

before success came too late

and merely put a stop

to suicide

a phone call from the past

an old song from the radio

of your decade

playing across your heart

in hopeless recapture

of things you can’t do without

outside the rain beats down

upon the driveway, the car, the

garage holding all the things

that were once almost mysterious to you.

Back in here listening to the rain upon the roof of my study

missing the little things

that made me feel

at one with the blood

in the air

the love

the hands

and eyes

and hair

across the table

the beauty within

those things

that kept

flesh young

kept the blood

moving toward

something

better

than

good.

We were late driving his car back. I figured he'd walked home since he lived so close. The door was open. He walked out of his room like a badass. He gave us this grin. I looked at him.

“You didn’t.”

“Oh, yeah.”

I looked around the place.

“Who?”

“Shannon from customer service.”

“That new girl you’ve been talking about.”

“Yep.”

I shook his hand.

“Goddamn, man. Congratulations. Finally.”

Helena shook his hand.

“Good job, Sean. How was it?”

“Oh, fuck. It was like—”

His girl appeared standing outside of his door wrapped in a sheet. Her hair was everywhere. She looked like a bitch. She was rough with him.

“Excuse me, Sean. Are you having fun telling everyone about our sex life?”

He was stuck out there. He was about to find out what sex really meant. She lowered her forehead and beamed at him. I pinched his ass. Helena broke out laughing. Shannon stepped back in, slammed the door, and locked it. It was a psychopath’s move. He ran to the door and started pleading with her. We walked toward the front door. I called to him.

“Later, Sean!”

We walked up the sidewalk. I took Helena’s hand as we passed his window. We could hear her yelling. I looked out to the street.

“And that’s that.”

Helena squeezed my arm and we walked back across the highway where I called a taxi.