the snakes slate in color in and out of my eye sockets i call on to the night she is quiet and upset i have made her head of clouds white with the thunder in my brain thoughts ooze morbid dry like broken coyote bones in the dessert lay waste unlike romantic dreams of peyote glam summoned by spirit animals tis best to let me float or bleach under that hot hot sun stone apart from the many other coyote fallen
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words less spoken 
Wow. You did it again. I’m gonna do a small rant on you site, I guess the heat is getting to me. I just got through reading several different prose “poems” by various people online. Time and again I see the poetry left out of prose poems. I am no arbiter and my own poems are meager, but I kind of get defensive for the poor lil prose poem. Too often I see bland prose, reading like an average email, stepping up and claiming “poem.” Art is in the eyes of the beholder, and I’m grumpy, and I’m not out to stifle anyone (and cannot anyways), but prose poetry uses all of the poetry things, and because it lacks the lines it forces the reader to participate even more. I think of all of the forms, prose is the hardest poetry to write, let alone write well. And time after time, you write beautiful examples. Thank you.
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thank you so much friend. I am humbled by your praise. yesterday was an extra rough day at work and this piece was therapeutic exhaust.thank you again xo
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