Brad Cain

Prose #10

Days turn brown, then green as the acres of childhood state parks.  The
aging marks crease my eyes because I am aging with the seconds.  The
passing of days or the mending of hours isn't a portion of what fleeing
thoughts could provide-a plane flight over 14 states in six hours.  The
constant blare of circus melodies makes life rounded in the off and on
of morning-somehow missing the last, missing how I sit and write in
plainness.  Where is the percussion-a called out mystery into this long

This single city is looming on the horizon and I'm fading into the
fourth floor haze.  Coming and going with people, blending into sketches
of earthen colors, it hides our loudness-our individual faults. 
Tangibles are heavy in the harbor and lead me to the next orbit;
enclosed in another country which isn't blue or physical.  I had
mentioned the former, the plus and minus of believing.  But doubts are
venom, are arrows in ethereal flesh.  Poems aren't enough; writing isn't
coarse, isn't emotion leaking on new linoleum.  It can make divisions
glean, traveling at speeds I had only experienced in the back of

Nothing is subtle, but listening to records at 45rpm prompts me in
reverse (10 months).  Spires and steeples delineate causes,
causalities.  Isn't life a mystery?  Writing is excruciating, is sparks
near explosives, cleaving thoughts on white counters.  Once written and
carved, derived with music as a backdrop, the settled stages come to be

Boston 1999 Index