Thursday, November 08, 2007

I just got a prose poem published in deathmetal poetry, and accepted in In Posse. Go, prose poems!

There is never enough gas.

I stopped driving after my sister’s death. She died slowly, in three separate car accidents. Accidents happen, the priest told us at her funeral. My mother fell to the ground again, weeping. My father watched her slowly, grinding his toothpick with his enormous incisors. We all agreed to put the car to sleep, but could not agree on a date. My brother wanted Christmas, because of the enormous tacky symbolism and the commercialism. My mother fell to the ground again, weeping, so we turned up the radio. A song about sister Christian was playing, but the guitar blocked out most of the words. The batteries leaked over our hands and our skin turned magenta in splotches. We decided to live underground so my mother could stop falling. The car moved in with us while we decided its fate. I liked to curl up on the engine to keep warm, surrounded by kittens and the souls of car salesmen.

5 comments:

Talia said...

like this.

greg rappleye said...

Good one!

And congratulations!

Christine said...

Thanks, Grey and Talia!

Michael Goeller said...

Yes -- good one. That one line of the priest's -- "accidents happen" -- reminds me of my last confession (a long time ago -- and never since). I confessed to being inattentive and causing a minor car accident, which really must have ruined some people's day, which was all true. The priest said, "there's no reason to confess that; accidents happen, that's why we call them 'accidents.'" Needless to say, I did not find that a very satisfying response.... Maybe that line is in "The Priest Handbook" or something? :-)

Collin said...

Echoing those before me... good and congrats. :)