Posts Tagged ‘prose poem’

“The love of endings is a love of form. It is a tributary. [ I will lead you down the river of this] It is triumphant, even.   Challenging and channeling; measuring the  riff. The world hurts. The world pains. The world cuts into wounds and we let it let on. We let it let on us. The gush is good.


The lucky is in the happening. The lucky is the way that the stitches run. If we were to take this in a musical direction, first, I’d want a motorcycle jacket first. 


This is a direct address:  “You! Come here!”


This is where I realize the recognizing has fallen.  The report should have stated:  this is precious. This is all a master letter on: wandering. If this is woven together, it will be satisfying. I  promise, what comes is promising.  I will make light dance.  You will believe that it will be.  I will collect the shatterings with my own teeth,” says tomorrow.  


© Umansky 2013


Read Full Post »

Before You Know


I am told and I like being told some things –especially when the wandering steals over me as a hand. I want to say that it is precious, but it is scarfed around the crux. This is a battle with the back. With the back of days. With the back of calves and hands and necks and sides and how will it feel then?


I can remember the liking, but I fear it. Yes. Yes. Yes, of course. That’s it. It’s like being a child: the being picked and picked on. Call this delicious, but it is a delicacy that starts with vomit. It is the only knot I got stuck on. And I am stuck and I am whole-heartedly holed. It is an unknown that I have no thing for. Nothing at all. 


And, I recently discovered that I don’t have a dictionary.  It is okay. I will stay mannered and functional and wondrous in the back of being, and I will remember what it was like, back there, in the happy hour.


© Umansky 2013

Read Full Post »


It isn’t a myth. All stories are based in truth, so I’m gonna tell you.

There were two horses:  Carl and Hans.  Carl came from the air.

No one knew his whereabouts; no one cared. He was a good horse.

He held magic in his hooves.  If that horse bled, it bled gold.   Hans

was a thoroughbred. He came from tradition. He came from hay.

[Haystacks, so high, you wouldn’t believe] He bled oats; he bled

blue ribbons. Together, the two made something metropolis. Before

anyone knew it, they were brushing their manes like Hans, and if

Carl said you needed plaid horseshoes, you better believe you got

yourself not one, but two pair. They captured this town by taking

the lead, and made it a little Ungashtupt. No one had ever seen

anything like it. They turned stables to skyrises. Then, they took off

the blinders, and saw. They saw The World, and it was their Apple.

They made this city; they made you and I. And we’ll carry their

banner into the dawn, into the New Age.

© 2013 Umansky

Read Full Post »

Once upon a time there was a light that wasn’t

an ordinary light, but a machine that brought

this all together in unimaginable ways

and brought units of meaning to everyone

through a set of code.  It carried people

from one place to another in a “non-space”

called The Internet. People developed their

sharps and dulls and delighted in the distance.


©Umansky 2012

Read Full Post »

The Drip

“Drip for me; I’m here. I’m waiting for you. He rubs his head against its silver shine. He rubs his head along her shiny, glossy hair.  He rubs his body along her cool, white skin. Please, he pleads.   He’s waiting for her watery love.

I watch him stare up at her silver face. His body twists and turns in her porcelain arms. (Is he crying? Is he broken-hearted?) He calls out to her.  There is no reply. I feel for him. She will not be coming for him. The train has passed.  He howls and throws himself down along the floor. His dark grey stripes, his small pink nose, his long white whiskers, all echo with a small bit of grief.  I wish I could know what he thinks of his situation.  I have broken his heart.

                                        (Does he know what I have done with the plumber?)


The Fish Wife

This must be how the Fish-Wife feels, thinks the cat, when her beloved has been swept away by life’s delightful bait.   She must wait, amongst the waves for him. She must cry her salt-tears and weave her seaweed song. How does she find the strength not to catapult herself out of the waters, out above the sea, to walk on her own fins and find her beloved? The mind is stronger than the body, thinks the cat.  She plays this same game.  She has hope.


The Kiss

I pick him up, wrap his soft stomach in my arms. His small cat-head rests on my shoulder.  I’m sorry, I say¸ we were getting ants and  I had the faucet fixed.  I put him down. He rubs his head against my leg, then stretches his body up along the kitchen cabinet until he is standing up on his hind legs.   I still love you¸ I imagine him saying.  I place him on my bed. I put last night’s pajamas around him and his eyes slowly close. He’s purring. He’s happy. He’s dreaming of the bathtub faucet’s kiss. He moans. He’s entering the first circle of grief.

© Umansky 2012

Read Full Post »


This is What’s Goin On


A jerky feeling                      a rampage              wrenching & wrestling        enveloped-in  always doing the doing;     the doer does as the doer does                             the backdoor              

the “outdoor-electric”  



I always bring the raw         though raw could mean belonging   the story is inside the cracks       the narrative bits                       symmetrical; parallel;                            adjacent; geometrical        

                                                       all eyes can see it 

so much is withering.



this could be a: catastrophe or eucatastrophe



In the story is a ghost;                      behind the real world; behind the worldliness or wordiness there should’ve been craving a  searching for the elements  for the renumbering                                                                                                          or the re-numbing



If we could trip the shutter           refocus   recombine the heads for the             perfect effect the auto-touch           realism    hyper truth.                          No matter what you name it             

It’s mine.               



At the heart of my appeal would be this.                   Would be this                       Would be                                                                                             


                                this            –            this          would                    


and         this  would             and this mending and unmending and unnecessarilied truth.


© Umansky 2011

Read Full Post »




We don’t have the familiar in English. So, let us not be familiar. We don’t know each other anymore. No universals will align these universes. We’ll fragment the story. Water it down.

Does this help:  all you have said never was.


The truth can be distorted.  History can be shaded.

Imagine this as a tableau:

::all is frozen::

We are allegoried. Another male; another female; all organs; all breath; all wonderfully sure. There is always a predecessor; a stretched-out lie; a triptych-ed implication.  And, well:  Love.


You handed it all to me.    The man said to place  the paper in my hand. He said I was to receive it. No lifting; no heaving; no quick gestures; I was to be plain. Dormant. You did your part  you did and it was deliciously free and it was, it was, still steamy in my palm.

You see, this is a study in motion, You moved; I levitated.

I didn’t mean to open wounds.  Every story is another story; another tainted-tale. A ridiculous fable; a  heightened anecdote; a marriage of words. Now, tell me the real story.  Jump back a few years.

Try to communicate.  Stick to the truth and stay there. Stick to the truth then stick it.

Not every story is worth its words.


© Umansky 2011

Read Full Post »

The Thick of the Real World

The Thick of the Real World

In the thick of it all, it is always the women.  The muse to the flame; the untouchable; the staple of our self-help culture.   We combine the masculine conventions; we fold it over neatly; like a shirt in a drawer – carefully to nip the creases before they cause a fold.  We try not to be melodramatic;  planting our heroines in attainable truths; compostable flower-pots.

We are a conflicted genre: a hybrid of long-suffering and  va-va-voom.   Forget the familial betrayals; what fits the description is the un-sparingness of the breast.  The way it nourishes and patronizes [doesn’t it?]  So many stories about women in houses; women out of houses; women in and out of love – we should open a shop and fill it with Kleenex and booze.

It’s not a mystery – being female.   We are all uncloistered now: free.   Use us sparingly before we  become less-honest; indecent; less-sacrificial.   In the thick of it all:  there will always be a longstanding attraction here in our shape and form.  There is so much youthful enthusiasm in every woman’s pinky. Watch me call you over.                                         Watch me.

© Umansky 2011

Read Full Post »