Bill Pearlman's "Prose Poems for A New Day" are a homage to the return of a poetic turn of mind in Rough Road Review's commitment to verse that hangs out at the edge of the world...

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Forge freedoms willingness to respond in all its decadent mire unforgotten as ever you could take me down from anything like a mental picture, roads without end, and aspiring what we will to be our own juxtapositions, we need the saving grace of dawning momentum, just now. I was somewhat awake to the plainer truths and yet it fancied me to know your ways of seeing as well. Now the love awakened is not the love kindled long ago, but it hawks the dried forest just when we could have saved ourselves a billion ways of seeing afresh

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Structureless senses and yet spilling in the drama of others who do not want to even see up till the end of time a face to which we assault the moon-driven sphere of happy go see you through the hoop and the hoopla, destiny amigoed and through the dark undercurrent of the endless child, there runs a query that might in fact echo what was hidden long ago





But I knew you as sudden investigation of musings and though I had no access to your keener fluidities, it still made me aware that you existed somewhere and that I could summon you when the time came to varnish a beautiful style in your company




My mighty influence was truly the Poet who came from afar and had nevertheless granted himself license to conspire in the commotion of bodies that threw us curves and windows of opportune glow through the open and out into the atmosphere




Just this place was sardonically rescheduling farces and ways of seeing that dominated conception just as we wear ourselves in a thin veneer of coverings and startled discoveries, she is our happiest momentum, just as she lives, so fine the remnant of an ancient smile or a gladly accustomed way of being


But operatically, with voices rising in fresh detail, each way we grieve in high style makes rhythms that realize the boundaries of our replies, or at least the makings of romantic settings inspired by all we truly crave





Just your face, no, your figure, your body, your driven ceremonial innocence, straying into the vastness of life, just how it feels to be so subtly represented in you for all humanity to feast on your form

Nor do I want to lose you or keep you from your ways or your fresh takes on what is happening within us, driven by our longings and the undercover mileage of so many shrouded feelings, so much we keep to ourselves and yet it includes just the thought of seeing who you have become, so rich in focus and position






Whatever it is that waits expecting nothing or everything that comes from secret discourse of the poem that is beginning to make sense even without intrinsic or ancient form, but it aches to be heard, within reach of these wild days of breaking through to some kind of outcry, some kind of relevant diction in thoughts ambling toward you

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Blog you very much, blog me or leave me, blogged down here forever, whatever you think it feels like…



Sunken dreams, she was forever within reach, then reached out as I made myself known, skittish, I suppose, listening to greatness, a great while passed in her presence, tired of her finally, a bit flat in the brain, but skilled so we made a deal




I was thoroughly amazed thinking of you a swell looker, dish of sorts no doubt, able to mount a campaign, promising inside the motel, a bed in spite of looking for a theater, good place to make amends




Thinking of you such a priceless pitch your form, what am I to do but want more…




Bodes pretty well being in the lurch not sure who did that to us, but we were glad to be able to help, put yourself in her place




Crush of flesh, great cities aroar with combustive tensions, get close to the truth where one person sings out loud and there is ripe commotion






Cute spectacular reunions, swift interchange, along the river, spent waking hours, spoke in spite of depravities, you look and you see the part you wished for come up and live again




Tolstoy, Gandhi, King, details of the fresh operations, the ways we see ourselves driven back into hurried flesh gripping just what we had to give


Shared prognosis, communal ruins, atop the shingled dome, something dormant about to awaken again, once more the rising expectations, the flood of light











Lying next to the booty in a motel, squaring off through the gate as if hungry again, compassion or greed?




Salty tears decried Sarah Vaughn inevitable as ‘sassy,’ blowing that selfsame instrument, come what may allegiance, stormy fidelities to the wind-swept opportunities golden, refreshed against all eyes




Out of the leap into the fray, just in time to mourn so much time passing, and yet we do include ourselves, being on the go, singing with her, as if one voice of praise united us and we were able to walk and sing simultaneously




--Bill Pearlman
San Miguel de Allende, June 2008