A Prose Poem
I stood up and said “Hey, I think you talk too much.”
It was then I knew he’d lost control
as he took his bottle of brandy
and poured it on my burning house.
I should have expected all of this to happen.
I knew it eventually would have been
when I proposed to her,
and he shot at me with a gun.
It was a little fable,
meeting her was gold,
but the brother,
he was a jealous
one with a temper.
At the wedding he was cross-faded and coked,
when the priest told me to kiss…
In my past life I was shot through the brain with a golden arrow, and when I was born into this life it was still there. The doctors were never sure how such a thing could have somehow been put inside a woman and they did various tests, taking place for a number of years, to determine some sort of origin and they were always left with their minds scratching their asses.
In my early twenties I saw some sort of shaman who hypnotized me under a bamboo umbrella and blew smoke of some kind into my face and told…
It’s 2038, and I’m sitting on the windowsill,
watching the rain, I’m in deep thought, only wanting quiet,
only wanting the sound of my breath and the rain.
“Good evening, Jesse. The time is 10:22 on March 8, 2038; the temperature is 102 degrees Fahrenheit; Air Quality Index is level red with a value of 194 — which may continue to rise for the remainder of the week. How are you feeling?”
— over it. I don’t even respond to it anymore, but I can’t get rid of it. The monitors are implanted into nearly every household. …
If I could allow myself to think about the time I spent in a haunted lodge in the middle of nowhere I could maybe come to terms with the fact that I am sometimes far too removed from the ‘groundedness’ of the natural world and how often I dwell in motion about the intricacies of the world next to ours — perhaps I was born a little parallel from where most of us are — perhaps I’m a little sensitive to the unthinkable or unperceivable — perhaps I have to finally acknowledge that something touched me in untouchable ways.
Everyone feels a broken dream in the land of dystopia,
all art goes to die breathing the air of dystopia
Ol’ Walter was a guitarist who could play unlike any other and he lived on the streets,
but he never sold his soul instead he withered away in the lower levels of dystopia.
Quiet Melinda was a broke poet who gave it her all then she went hungry in her studio,
she was found dead with her last hand-written poem crumbled in her mouth cursing dystopia.
Father George never believed in God but he painted murals of her coming down…
From the outside,
it looked like just an ordinary house in a downtown suburb,
then at night,
in the basement,
with the lights dim,
fucking chaos erupts.
They called it Casa de Chaos.
I went a few times,
in my teens, in my troubled youth,
to see bands no one ever heard of,
to see fights, bottles thrown, boots thrashing, elbows cracking skulls.
Once I got knocked out there, fell right to the floor,
boot mark on my forehead,
and the show raged on,
naked bandmates doing the pogo,
moshing punks venting,
and I was venting too. …
Sometimes these buildings talk a lot of shit, and sometimes they say nothing at all…nothing in between, nothing, nothing at all. Just shit, just like the alleyways in between, scattering shit to the main road and beyond.
Sometimes these mountains are just too pretentious, too high, too mighty, too immense to consider me, under their knees, with a pen and paper, attempting to think like them.
Sometimes these cars are just too fucking annoying, speeding outside past my window, where I like to write, where I like to drive through the pathways through my mind, not paved, not owned by…
It’s a morning like any other morning,
but this one is a bit different,
nuanced and fabricated with a slight aim
a different kind of air, more modest
yet pretentious, incongruent
with my thoughts of yesterday,
with my spilled beans of creativity
permeating through the wooden floor,
my groundwork of everything
I lay down.
It’s a morning like any other morning,
but there are different birds
outside of my window, with different tunes,
shaped to look like artful pieces of sound,
and I’m hearing nothing but the clock
and the time is different compared
to what it was this time yesterday,
and I can’t…