Of Prepositions: A Prose Poem

Aboard a ship, about one or two years ago, above the rough sea, across the widest possible expanse, after a drink of the finest bourbon, against all of my best intentions, along the lines forming in your skin, amid the mist, among the surging anti-trees, WTF, around nothing worth mentioning, as far as I could throw, at last, before dawn, behind me, below me, beneath me, beside myself with something or another, besides, another word for “I’m an idiot,” between the sheets, beyond everything I’d ever imagined between sheets–but that one thing I’ve imagined over and over, in which other prepositions are introduced by way of associating, concerning ugliness, considering the vast beauty, despite myself, down on myself, during the entire episode, spasmodic and euphoric, except in the one case, excepting all other cases, excluding all of your cases, following this for all time from the mouths of babes, in this, inside all of this, into an essay resembling a poem by Beckett, like is now and has always been a verb, except when it’s a preposition, or a conjunction, or a noun, or an adjective, or an adverb.

Minus, which I did not know as a preposition, near other mathematical properties of proportion, of topics for which one  could compose something
near other mathematical properties off kilter, on target, onto a clear case of something opposite what one would expect outside the realm of possibility, over it for now, past the point of all recognition, as per our previous discussion, plus sizes, regarding what is truly sexy, round, yes, save all your notes, since you never know when you will need them, more than you will ever, never know, through thick and thin, to the ends, toward a more perfect union, towards a more perfect union, under one special Deity, underneath, indivisible, unlike anything you’ve ever thought until now.

Up with you!  A plague upon your houses, Montague versus Capulet via stupid, meddling holy man with access to drugs and tombs within the two hours traffic of our stage, through which we realize that a preposition is not always a preposition but that without the preposition we would never know where we are, or when, or how.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry, Writing and Reading

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s