Ode To Cafe At The End Of Time

This is the first prose piece I ever wrote…

(finished, I mean).

I don’t want to go near it…it scares me…

I know what  post-partum  depression is

now;  now that that “thing” is out of my body,

out of my mind…whether  it is deformed

or beautiful it took over my life for some time.

Writing poetry is more like taking a good crap:

when it’s done,  no matter how it felt, it’s over

and you don’t have to wonder and worry about

the next day’s installment…that always  takes

care of itself.

Yes,  art is a bodily function….otherwise why do

they cover themselves in makeup,  wear costumes,

pretend to bleed and vomit?  Besides….it’s more

fun when life tries to dance.

But writing is as far as art gets from life, and prose

is much further from life that poetry,  because poetry

uses words to show pictures,  while prose is more

like someone telling you about their children while

you both almost pass out from boredom.

So, this sounds like prose about the prose I just

finished…..strange that….can I finish with a poem?

Yes, we describe the world in prose…

but the world is really a poem,

seldom uttered …and  only when

the words weigh like diamonds.