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Prevost Mar 22
The dirt turned to memories
Stories that pulled the decades from the hills
And laid them out in the prayers and busted knuckles
Weathered hands turn to volumes
The hottest sweats of summer
The coldest winds of winter
Were rituals endured
What whittles away life
Sometimes need be loved



The land had taken him in
And together they had farmed
The solitude kept the humans untouchable
The hills became his lovers
Years turned over into decades
He did not know they were the last seeds
But the world had become a madness
It had exhausted his will
So he left it….to be his last harvest
Prevost Sep 2024
As I waddle through the heat
I wish for knees from which to pray
The sun, the progenitor of this fruition
Golden we harvest

The hills whisper an ancient call
I grasp the earth between my fingers
Here the dirt and I are one
I cannot let go of her

The sheaves surrender to the sickle
The soul is sown
The soul is harvested
Ancient mouths rejoice
Prevost Aug 2024
Harbors

blast furnace wind rolling off the prairie
the kind of wind that makes you realize
we were all born alone
I hugged the river hoping to find
some untouched ****** breath of cool
but ****** the **** for indifference he is
offered nothing
I headed up Hawthorne
wading through the souls
of the beautiful desperate
and the wicked surfeit

looking up I caught her eyes
hanging out her window
stretched out between
where love lives
and love dies
she looked down
peeling away the layers of her soul
offering a shade
that harbors the most twisted and distorted
remnants of love

later
on the outskirts
we watched Orion’s futility
our hearts gasped
as we touched
which was the hunter
and which was the prey
trembling
we fell into love
as the wind softened to a cool breeze
  Mar 2023 Prevost
Carlo C Gomez
~
alone and an imposter,
deep in syndrome.

she absorbs the frost of seasonal ghosts
and hopeless feelings
of death and darkness.

she only shows one side of her every time.
she calls a random number
from a bar in the middle of the night,
seeking to confess
or find solace in the voice of a stranger.

but any stranger might just happen to be
a lie detector.

still she lays bare all the duplicity
and fragmentation of self:

prescription bottles with two different names,
elaborate façades in Los Angeles
and in New York,
so complicated she creates
something she calls the lie box.

inside her purse there's a collection
of file cards. "I tell so many lies," she says.
"I have to write them down and keep them
in a box so I can keep them straight."

alone she waits for either
sweet apricity or identikit:
each a memento of her faces.

~
  Mar 2023 Prevost
Caroline Shank
The mystery is not so much the
deed Tom but why.  

Of course the karma of
my acquaintance celebrated the
dedication with which I floored
the pedal over the years.

No I didn't leave an opportunity
unvisited, a door unopened, a cup of coffee undrunk,
or a walk down the evening hours
to the music of possibilities
unsung.  I learned to rub the
consequences into my benefit
and gave my response to the

night air.

I lie prone now reading on the
living room couch and ponder
the times.  An unseen vessel
pilots me from behind.  Hope is
when I sail her into the

long sought after meridian,

when the time
for poetry is over
and in the
afternoon I find your

conversation

waiting


Caroline Shank
3.1.2023
Prevost Mar 2023
I tug at the edges of my reality
Just to make sure I am alive
Braking apart all the constituent elements
Of what it is to be human
That core mix
Of passion and reason
That yields and taxes
That starves and surfeits
What is more the soul
Than the flesh

Blackened skies yield truths
The way the winds drive your heart
In every direction
A poets vein hungers
For the needle of perception
That paints the picture
That may someday cure
The poet from being the poet

I’d spread myself across your canvas
If there was a certain amount
Of indifference agreed upon
At the outset
To start from zero
Releases us from the assuagement of resolve
Does anything need be more than zero

And I would open up all of I
If it were not for
That it has gotten old
And knowledge knows no religion
And I have no god
So the colors would run
The canvas more used than used
It would become faded and forgotten
Hung in repose
In the halls of a gallery that only admits
The sightless

But I would fall from grace here
Espousing such false and grandiose reflections
Silence begets silence
Words beget that…. resolve
For
It is the poets job is to kick indifference in the head
Until it bleeds some semblance of compassion

And so
As to not to end up praying to some small statue of myself
I will drip what I am across your canvas
Letting the colors bleed into the fabric of what we are
And if hung in repose
Then hung in that fragment of time
Where the poet grabs at some infinitesimal aspect of life
And breathes something
And breathes something
Into this…..
Prevost Mar 2023
Us
I had been tearing off little pieces of  my heart
And leaving them on the ground
Like a breadcrumb trail
That I hoped she would find someday

I had been whispering out into the space left between us
Simple words that rose from the void
Left by my leaving her
Hoping that a lite cool breeze
Would carry them to her

I had lain awake at night yearning for your her presence
Wrapping the imaginary her in my arms
And breathing our memories into the night
Hoping somehow, in her night
There was still some part of me there

There are some words that splash up against your heart
They gather up all the threads and fibers of the universe
They weave love back into the shapes that
Are once again recognizable

Sitting on the bed, her legs tucked up to her chin
Looking down through her heart
She said, “can we talk”
I said, “yes, what about”
And with all the gravity and weight of
Every word spoken anywhere, ever
She said “Us”
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