THE HAUNTED HOUSE
—Russell Edson
Now the house of earth was not always a house. There was a time when nothing rotted. A time only of sanitary atoms. There were no smells, no blood clots, no flowers, no mice. And the earth was with egg or sperm.
Death arrived with life. They were lovers from the beginning. They fed each other. Life fed death, but death also fed life. It was their habit, they could not live without the other.
The God said, let there be life, but let it be guarded by death...
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THE JOY ATTENDANT ON THE LITTLE JOURNEY
—Russell Edson
A man was gradually turning into a swine. And at the same time trying to put his affairs in order.
As he lay in his own turds he was trying to think. But it was getting harder and harder...
Now let me see, he would think, should I hire a swineherd, or a chauffeur? Of course I shall eventually end up at the slaughterhouse. Looking forward to it. Perhaps I should hire a hearse? I must make arrangements while I can still think. For instance, will such a little journey demand a funeral?—A journey completed when I have come apart in hams and various cuts of loin, picnic shoulders, spareribs, bacon; perhaps even sausage.
—Lard? Oh yes, I should hope lots of that. And fatback, too...
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THE MESSAGE
—Russell Edson
The Captain becomes moody at sea. He's afraid of water; such bully amounts that prove the seas...
A glass of water is one thing. A man easily downs it, capturing its menace in his bladder and pissing it away.
A few drops of rain do little harm, save to remind how grief looks upon the cheek.
One day the water is willing to bear you and your ship upon its back like a liquid elephant. The next day the elephant has no more willingness to have you on its back.
At sea this is a sad message.
The Captain sits in his cabin wearing a parachute, listening to what the sea might say...
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THE FLOWERPOT
—Russell Edson
An old woman was examining one of her shoes, turning it over and over again in her hands like a spider wrapping a fly in its web.
What is that thing in your hands? cried her husband.
My womb, she sighed as she held it out to him.
Oh, no, he cried.
But wouldn't the nice gentleman like to drop a seed or two into an old lady's flowerpot?
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Today's prose poems are from The Tormented Mirror by Russell Edson (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2001).
—Medusa
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)