November, 2008


approval #122312

– brianprince

it’s all fiction my friend (wife).
written with imagination (right
brain). escape from daily (life).
writing these worries away.

there’s a cleansing in it. like
saying ‘i miss you’ tears begin
to drip. false (hope, no) sin.
all seven yellow journals

with endless writings of mine
are now burnt. the smoke forced
a smile on my face out there
in the chapped, cracked land.

one exit south of Zzyzx Road
(I-15) there sits the ashes of
the ceremony. in the vast…
a match to the interior

pages stacked like a teepee.
the wind picked up. so a good
piss was necessary down by
the sewer drain. witnessed

by truckers. the green book
too. so beautiful. the deepest
darkest secrets that cannot be
replaced. didn’t get burned

because the wind was too
strong. so i threw it in the desert
dried tree (bush) dangling
like a leaf.

just as cleansing as writing.
was leaving. driving
off into freedom.
i know you don’t approve.

that’s why you don’t know
what i’m proving.
vulnerability. rests on the
cusp of my rainforest/

personality. i’ll be fine
because four is always
the equation for hope.

no, no. switch. quick.
fast like the hand
catching the falling
contact lens.

testing. understanding.
satisfaction like the glass
of milk from the freezer
after your last bight

of buttered starch. i got
some things i wanna
tell you. let’s start
where we left off.

come on. we only have
four years left. till my death.
when we separate late
in two-thousand twelve (12-23).

that i’ve always
been here (unfailing)
in reality.


– brianprince

he called her.

it was one of those
no-chance gambles.
as he phoned with
the expectation of
still masterbating,

call in sick, he
stated — guaranteeing
to be at her place before
all her workers could
trace her crawl
down the backstairs.
he’s ready to get
pissed. and fade
into the night…”

then wake up mid
morning to get
hammered some
more. pour. rush.
chills. door shuts.

just felt like it
was one of those
days. older women
all understood his

they sang. drank the
juices in. he wrote
music notes floating
deep inside her
vibrating hormones,

as far north as the
oviduct gathered
ducts structured
by frail weakened
whimpering moans.

– – – – –

“he sung inside me
as my body numbed
and my inner thighs
became the delta
of the Nile river,

most saturated ever.
every note in tune
an integument of
friction limiting me
to a whisper,

i beat you to it
screwdriver martini
army green olive.
pink mediterranean
seed. sing to me.
raise the climate
in this apartment to
a blazing orchestra.

swim in the puddles
i leave below your
waist.” creating a
hammered reaction
where he exploded.

this young buck
hit all the buttons
right on the first
time from the moment
they toasted their wine.

and she sped home
having no room to
freshen up. up. up.
the adrenaline.
as she mentioned,
“i can’t be believe

he called me.”