Response & Bio

Question ?. Prose poem as in gardening gaps (Rosemarie Waldrop).

Prose poems for the eleventh hour. If there were time to breathe it would breathe, to break a line into flinders of white and start again. Speech rivering skinlike around disaster, political if it has three or more buttons. Lone brain gallops the perimeter of its own half-cloaked cause and effect. It cannot stop talking. Or the chunk of prose is not speech but the constant block of desire behind the velocity and halt. Behind the fidget and look down, Beckett's Texts for Nothing. A gap blanketing itself in marks, the marks become the gap, egg in a cup. The poem furrows a way out of the white by running over it, white still white underneath ink. Speakers who do not know if they are entering or exiting paralysis. There is a small price at the door, whether it opens in or out.



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