PROSE POEM


I have always felt a deep disregard for the so called ancient civilization we tread our naked
plaster parasite. My god is a feather in water. It is elemental to be protruding in such a way
as to unbalance sexuality from the poor to the rich, like west to east St Louis as if my heart
would burst with pride. I would like to walk to you for a while because as a destination
there are many mornings of songs flying over the airports of foreign countries we take for
what we’re worth. I touch parts of me I can’t really touch. There is this morning that is
holding onto us with some static. Do we really deserve such a favored manifstation of the
gentile bivouac? We have become that are meddling with things held by a complicated
honesty and paranoia. No, not me, but someone I admire breaks out in no purpose. Would
you be my cemetery and hold these centuries old rock hands?