Prosetry

“Hey, why don’t you write prose poetry?”
This statement was put to me more like a command than a question. Naturally, I strained at the imperative.
You see, I will never write a prose poem. Why is that? It is not because I fear the distant, undefined hinterlands of poetry. In fact, it is from them that I come to this point. It is because I fear prose.
Prose is the market. All come with their shiny products to compete, not with quality, not durability, not with utility, but with good salesmanship. It is the port where every outlandish trinket is worth more than the last. I come to it a humiliated fisherman, an unlucky and lazy farmer.
The purpose of prose is to relate. To tell a story. I have no story. I want to tell a story of a few common reflections. I want to hum the plainest song in all England and be reckoned an artist.
Poetry, that is all that is left to me. Poetry is the silent sanctuary of Saint Vitus. It is the only safe place for my type. In a city so populous, the only empty beds seem to lie in the cemetery. Given the bizzare accomadations, I am nonetheless comfortable, as I finally have found a quiet projection of that environment my mind will always shut itself in. A poet, I conclude that all is well. Were I a writer, I would surely end this nocturne on a minor chord, leave a space for the sequel. I will have no sequel, as I know that I will sing this very song tomorrow. That pleases me, as it’s all I’ll ever need. All that I have written and will write is a chromatic chain of slightly altered facsimile.
How does a poet end something? In the middle of nowhere and without warning. Perhaps  I am no great poet either then, as I am making a point of saying good night and happy fourth of July to you all. But, when you live life like a show, you must take a bow to the people you know.