Austin Universe Prose Project

Hey, to follow in Erin's footsteps, I've decided to enact a gigantic (I hope) prose project. Not long ago, I asked a frequent commenter and great friend of the blog, Kat, to suggest some topics for a prose poem I could write. Little did she, or I, know that it would lead to this universe spanning splash of prose masterpiece. So, in the spirit of the initial request of prose poetry, I will submit my piece followed by six topics for the next person to write from (the person does not need to use all six subject, but they are jump-off points for anyone who needs help in choosing what to write about). So here is the piece I wrote with the suggestions Kat sent before the prose. I'm also sending out an email to any worthy aspirants who want to get in on this sweet sweetness, and if you receive the email, send it along to your friends and enemies to see if they have anything to add. Okay? Okay. Without further ado, here's a word from your mother.

Kat's suggestions:

museums
hearing America singing
heat
Hieronymus Bosch
coffee shops
points of origin

prose piece titled:

Prose Katherine

In the museum of love, Katherine heard an old man singing. Oh so long and forgotten, I am America, he chanted, over and over, and she believed him. She wanted to grab his hands and clap, to make him bend on his knees and rejoice. It was the heat of the day, summer being as blasphemous as ever. She wanted him to be wrinkled and deathly and beloved. Hieronymus Bosch and the great landscapes, she thought, and skipped on her heels. But he begged her to leave him. I am no girl in a museum chanting the songs of my fathers, she thought, and slapped the man across the face. In a window, a coffee shop beckoned; she left. Oh gosh, she was hot and cold and caffeine. I believe believe, she chanted herself, and forgot about the tinny man begging for his old time glory hanging from the rafters. My point of origin, thought Katherine, is the old sea, the old country, and a camera. She grabbed a lamppost in the midst of the street. It is wonderful to twirl, to spin, and I hope, she whispered, that it is all make-believe and forgotten.