I, Alive (Prose Poetry)

Hey all. This is a strange one I found in my archives. You’ve been warned!


I alive

I am the enternal

I bring the aeth

For they are truth

And what better method of



Share the station it

On  ly  ge  ts

Bus-ier after 4:06


God I could tell you so many wistful stories about when the 406 left that stop. There were people with french fries for fingers and less salt in their blood than a dedicated countetician could tax.

I could tell you about how the president’s daughter went all the way to Norway and back on that bus.


I could explain–in GREAT detail–just how blue the butterflies collide.


I could, and yet I could.

There is much blue in you child


No one with the other seven could see quite as well as we


Naught but the elixir of dreamlight could save you now





It comes to mind now. Take the 406, boy, after the noon bell swaths itself in musty autumn dress.

Take it past Norway. Take it to the very depths of your birth. Take it to the 7th constellation from the left of the big black sun no one cares to mention.

Gather the dust into your arms like it were the breathing infant you would one day inhabit


Gather the dust


Roll it all into a pillow


With the dance you learned


From the dead of winter.


Bring to life

Your sleeping world.


Bring it to surface


Bring, Bring!


Can’t you yet sing??


Stare doubtfully at yourself

And whisper the darkest truth you can find.


There it will be seen




















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