Category: prose

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prose snippets writing

Lunch and Peter Lorre

JS Bach piano sonatas, where the dance across the keys is a carefree & confident one; where notes are like bubbles in champagne during gala conversation. I am happiest with Bach, where nothing could go wrong, tho I do fancy being happily drunk on mimosas to Chopin’s piano impromptu No. 1 in A-flat major, Op. 29.

***

Speaking of which, today’s theme has been oranges, or in general, citrus. I spotted images of oranges all day, and then there was talk of rainfall and orange groves with a friend over a lunch of Thai food, after which orange wedges were served as dessert.

The restaurant host (I assume this was his role) was a very formal man and was well-dressed (in all black) but had the pallid air of a mortician. I was reminded of Peter Lorre, where no matter how amiable he behaved, he still came off as if he were plotting gruesome murder. The waitresses, meanwhile, wore cheerful maroon jumpsuits with golden-yellow flourishes and spoke to each other in their native language.

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prose snippets writing

Bathgate Ave in the Bronx

A waffle would be nice a waffle w/ hot melting butter & maple syrup is good in winter log cabin/greatgrandma’s house soft rug cold cat nose reruns of daytime soaps auntie L watching intently on the sofa Debussy grilledcheese/coffee&cake /reassurance a lift home laughter/gamesofcardsforpennies homemadestruffoli/&/tenderpanettone easy chair&ottomen greatgrandma/mom&dadhappy/me/sister/brother/cousins sandwiches after dinner cordials+cookies long/Sundays & then three flights of stairs down in noisy musty hallway w/ eternal aroma of boiled broccoli and potatoes then home.

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books poetry prose reading snippets writing

Black coffee and saucer

Black coffee in espresso cup resting on saucer atop secondhand book purchased for 25¢. In bed I continue reading Allen Ginsberg’s Planet News. Morning outside: the sun struggles against the clouds. Reminded of Whitman while reading. Reminded of proclamations, with Ginsberg’s text stretching from end to end on page after page. Reminded of Ferlinghetti, with text drizzling downward in thin stacks.

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poetry prose snippets writing

A ringing phone

I hear a phone that is not answered. I listen for some time. The ringtone trails off and seems to leave an echo in my brain.

Where is the owner of the phone. Is he/she still alive. Has something gone wrong or are they merely indisposed.

This might be an important call…

  • it’s your boss
  • it’s your angry spouse
  • it’s your worried mother
  • it’s debt collections
  • it’s your broke friend

Who calls rather than texts anyhow.

I linger for some time to see how it plays out. Like looking at an empty, banged-up vehicle. Resting by a lamppost after a crash.

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observations prose snippets writing

Ailments can add appeal

Almost anyone with hiccups will sound cute. Just like almost anyone with a cold — when they speak, that is.

I like the way people’s voices sound when they just wake up. Sort of scratchy yet soothing.

Maybe people sound better or come across as more winsome when their defenses are down.

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birds nature nonfiction prose writing

The goings on at the ponds

Photo by Cassandra Keenan

The great egrets shunned the other waterfowl.

The egrets were staying in Vegas as part of their winter migrational route. Like an ivy league clique, they stuck up their bills while congregating in a lush, green riparian grove, which made their white plumage all the more stunning — like fresh-fallen snow.

And they knew it.

Meanwhile, the gambel’s quail were skittish, despite being on their year-round turf. They ran from the paparazzi as per usual, head plumes bobbing as they made for the clearings, taking cover in the bramble.

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prose snippets writing

Ever-rest

Holding my breath until the weekend. Some weeks feel like ascending Everest—with its peak being my two days off, of course.

Everest even contains the word “rest,” as well as “ever,” which to me means perpetual leisure and not death. Imagine having leisure forever.

This would not be like something enjoyed by a vampire, for even they have to work after sundown, seeking victim after victim to feed upon. Though Lugosi made it look effortless and then just crawled into his coffin while others in his part of the world were just waking up.

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poetry prose writing

Shell

Once I found a seashell that I still have to this day. It was carried ashore by the belligerent tide at Jones Beach State Park in New York when I was a child. And now, as I feel tossed by my turbulent thoughts and frozen by frightening uncertainties, I hold onto it for solace — my seaside talisman

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lists poetry prose snippets writing

On personal solubility

I’ve pinned a button onto my jacket that denotes me as soluble. Pure and simple. It’s a blue button with white text.

  • I’ve a high potential for condensation. I feel I could dissolve like salt in warm water.
  • In an argument, I can disintegrate into clumps like acrylic in an acetone bath.
  • Don’t ever wet me or expose me to sudden cold. I need to acclimate to avoid eventual evaporation.
  • When I think of soluble, I recall the Wicked Witch of the West withering. I think of candle wax burning.
  • If I had it my way, I would rather not leave this Earth in water form. I would prefer to splatter into fiery sparks.
  • Or else become a genie fog that curls into a porcelain lamp like a plume of vape smoke traveling back inside your mouth.
  • Or drift past the Milky Way into the starry spray of the multiverse.