March, 2008



– brianprince

perry’s pizza.
newport beach pier

hopscotching the
squares in the

dodging the cracks
skipping hand-

along side shaking
the landscape
2 die.

God rolled snake-eyes.
sing songs. advance
two spaces

forward. hopping and
dodging the cracks
some more.

together. make way
for the pier.

from plank to plank
at the piers end.

sushi’s reward for
passing go.

sitting on the edge
feet dangling.

the fishing line that
13-year old asian
boy cast

to bring home dinner
for his family.

jump down. double fours.
tumble together. move
eight spaces.

to lay in the sand.
sinking toes. holding

i don’t want either
of us to win.

i never want
this game
to end.


– brianprince

here’s some awe.

my boys
are full of
awe and
then some.

my youngest son
runs and jumps
from the
top bunk.

head hooded with
towel and
oven mitt-
covered hands.

some sort of
glorious, warrior,
lionheart, brave
cave man.

he explains
how pens are like

the other, my
oldest questioning
dictionary defintions
with his imagination.

and ordering tasks
on a calendar. more
organized than pops
who holds multiple jobs.

he goes on
about how he wants
to build a robot.
if he can’t have a dog.

an apartment. our dwelling.
but we’re still awesome.
we do things a 9-5
dad can’t phathom.

we have the biggest backyard.
the park.
and a four-story house. when
you count the attic and
top bunk.

singing out. estatic. farting noises.
treehouse. movies. and skateboards.
paper airplanes. dancing. lemonade stands.
every single mundane daily action.

we’ve got some awfully great
imaginations. we’re simply
the princeboys. always
cheering awesommme.

next in line

– brianprince

the deeply rooted
tree is not swayed
by the wind.

the deeply sprung
well is not dried
by drought.

—walk the line.
—in the line of fire.
—wait in line.
—fishing line.
—doing lines.
—railway line.
—inline skates.
—finish line.
—line up.
—along the line.

the masses inspire
the elites to



– brianprince

i usually instill rhymes
in my kids’ heads. brainwash
them with life lessons. hidden
in my stories before bed.

they know all my iniquitys. just
not that they’re about me. all my sin.
all my adventuresome. all my dreams.
just not that it’s their daddy.

it’s imagination. and often i
wonder if half of my dad’s stories
were true. i see him telling my kids.
the stories i gazed to with red

and white stripe spinning eyes.
they must be. because if not he
would have forgotten. like a layer of
snakes skin. old. lost. and left behind.

when my youngest was three, i made up this rap for the potty:

pull up your chonies.
pull up your pants.
flush that toilet.
and wash your hands.

now that he’s four. he memorized it. but he gets mixed up a bit:

pull up your pants.
do a little dance.
wash that toilet.
and flush your hands.

i actually think it’s better.
and he’ll remember it forever.
when he grows up. he’ll be
just like his