At every Rrose in a Prose, we try and write an exquisite corpse. Most take the form of, well, prose. But this month’s turned out to be a poem, and it’s pretty amazing.
Roots Ask No Permission
Roots ask no permission to take hold;
They only need an environment.
I want to be drunk on foolishness
Until all taste buds leave my mouth,
Or until my senses are dull,
Or the banshees quit their song.
The winds collapse their sails
The paper stops its trail
And the empty, standing invitation waits you out.
Breathe in, accept the invitation to travel to unexpected places.
Places that fill spaces we create in our minds,
Minds that we leave bleeding,
Trickle into our lives
With no regard to the paths they lead us to,
Yet show us more than we could ever conceive.
Left to our own devices,
We wallow in our vices,
Up to our chins in sins.
Sins of pleasure,
Sins of passion,
Sins that only spill from the mind of a
The kind a liberal ceases to imagine,
To leave a literal sense of the world,
A case of the sincere sense of the word,
Of ice age mountains
Collapsing amongst the warming of the earth.