#prose-poem

[jenni-said-that]

Trump is a Terrible Gardener

"Trump is a Terrible Gardener" The children gather round the gardener as she rests between her garden beds. She takes a deep breath, eases herself to the ground between them, and begins: Stay with me for a moment, says the storyteller...

Trump is a terrible gardener. (I’m not sure whether this is a poem or a microfiction or an essay or a rant, but here you go: I am also working up a mini video of this, voiced and captioned with background music) “Trump is a Terrible Gardener“ The children gather round the gardener as she rests between her garden beds. She takes a deep breath, eases herself to the ground between them, and…

Trump is a Terrible Gardener

[rjdent]

Skins

by R J Dent

Written on 1st December, 2020

[silver-fire-red-stars]

The closure comes and goes

and no one spoke of Michelangelo,

preferring to set a waypoint

between their feels and their Fitbit,

wondering when the world

became so meh —

(maybe it’s me)

wondering when the world

became so me,

so complete in its acceptance,

that every speech is a deflection

and every car is an excuse

to hit up the convenient store,

and why not?

if not convenience, then what?

Dank memes and trolls trolling trolls?

I see it this way, whatever makes

you whole won’t make the moon

any less cratered, and if the party

is catered they better have grapes

and wedges of cheese

to reinforce our needed acceptance.

But not everyone can eat at my table

(Can’t sit here) because I’d rather

troll the fuck out of you than unzip

my zipper. Be tee dubs, the absence

of love is a thick middle finger,

and I don’t have the literal time

to amuse another sweetheart,

all I have

is little old me,

a good cut of steak,

and piles of petals to avoid.

-Ryan Wilbur

[evanouisse]

On a rock placed on a partially inflated plastic bag

On a rock placed on a partially inflated plastic bag

A rock is holding its breath. One look and you understand how the distance between orange and blue is a question of weight. The textures of a stone have mastered its craft –turning solidity into a ripple of water, that which floats upon a child’s sleeping cheek. If you listen to the rustle it makes, you know how nothing can remain sharp enough to puncture. Is the rock or the water heavier? What…

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[evanouisse]

The next poem I write

The next poem I write

The next poem I write shall be in prose. Shall sound like my father’s words in my mother’s voice. Shall carry that stunt, shall carry that slur, shall carry nothing, perhaps. The next poem I write in prose shall be a vessel, shall go knock knock who’s there ——. Shall sound like 75% am, pm, shall sound like hanger against ironing board, shall sound like everything, perhaps. The next poem I write…

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[lethatechnique]

New analogies with the 1990s in neon and concrete, flannel and hair flips, castles in the sky. Music to miss the last train to and the internal exile’s navigation towards the Omega Point (you…

[haverthorn]

[she: wild raspberries...]

Sophie Essex

she: wild raspberries in a blue movie / that lilac harvest in the early hours of a sunday mid-month / provocation and all its entitled intensity / de lempicka soft / accidental and four-limbed / when I ask / when I insist / docile when / the slender threads of sex cling delicately / each pine needle loose-leaf / caught / summer rain holding out for the mountain of us / the thrill of the chase / water for drowning / trouble

from HVTN Vol 2, Issue 1.