So last night I discover
that if I turn on two lamps, the space heater, and my computer, I overload the circuit and blow the power for the whole apartment. Extra fun: finding a flashlight in the dark! Super extra fun: discovering that the flashlight’s batteries are dead! Macro fun at its most ultimate: finding a candle and something to light it with. I stumble into the coffee table and grab the lemon aromatherapy candle I swiped from work last summer, then I dig blindly in the silverware drawer for something to light it with — a nonexistent pack of matches? An almost-empty lighter? Then, clutching a jacket around my shoulders, feeling like Jane Eyre, I go outside in the cold to get to the breaker box and find I’m standing in the alley beneath a perfectly clear and starry sky. Orion and his belt. The Seven Sisters, of which I can count only six. Taurus and his one red eye.
A celestial end to a peculiarly difficult day.
Here is another prose poem. It’s by James Tate.
Jesus got up one day a little later than usual. He had been dreaming so deep there was nothing left in his head. What was it? A nightmare, dead bodies walking all around him, eyes rolled back, skin falling off. But he wasn’t afraid of that. It was a beautiful day. How ’bout some coffee? Don’t mind if I do. Take a little ride on my donkey. I love that donkey. Hell, I love everybody.