it's a prose world, baby

Here's a prose poem for you hungry readers. Also, look out, whoah, on the heels of Erin's Austin World Poem Project, may I announce the Austin Universe Prose Project. It's along the same lines but instead of poetry, write some good old snips and clips of prose and lick your screen. Then scream and send it back to this frigging blog and do a slam dance in your apartment, home, aviary, etc. Alright, I'll email everyone I can think of with the project, but for now, here's a prose beast.

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We are both the best and the worst life possible. All, we’ve all. Love, we are coming home. Tears and tears and tears, oh god. You need this. Need us. These mountains devour. Van Morrison eats his heart. And apart. And thirsty, desperate thirsty. Another world calls us. Forget Virginia. Don’t take your time. We are the dust of the wings of angels and gods. This universe loves us, the world of eyes and ears and lips and teeth may hate us, but the ethereal universe of flower miracles, of human conscious blisters, is madly in love. We return and bless all every time we die. Ghosts that whisper the secret legends of gold. You return home to the Shenandoah, but I return to the eerie lake and all the myths of plumbers and early millionaires with their skyscrapers and their lust for oil. Trickle down the vine, feed a plant, see a blossoming bud, and then jump into outer space. We are divine, we may hate ourselves, we are loved.