KYSO Flash
Knock-Your-Socks-Off Art and Literature
Issue 10: Fall 2018
Prose Poem: 196 words


by Gary Glauber

Everyone here in the armory has the face of a peasant painted by Bruegel, and no one remembers how to smile. At the very least, the cold has masked many of the strong odors. Somewhere close a barking dog conducts a symphony of various sirens. This is city life, the opposite of silence, the nemesis of peace. I can’t believe this is where she told me I could meet her parents. Right now, I feel as though I have time traveled to another century where I should protect myself from gypsies eager to separate me from my cherished belongings. I scan the great room and see nothing I recognize. I’m not even sure there’s a way out, and when the gruff bearded man smelling of garlic approaches, I brace for the worst. He starts telling me about a timeshare in the Carpathian Mountains. I signal my need to be somewhere, anywhere else, immediately. My watch has stopped and my phone has lost power. She’s still nowhere to be seen. I’m frustrated, but I realize this is as close to commitment as I’ve ever been. I stop and smile. So this is what they mean by love.


Gary Glauber
Issue 10, Fall 2018

is a poet, fiction writer, teacher, and former music journalist. His works have received multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominations. He champions the underdog to the melodic rhythms of obscure power pop. His two collections, Small Consolations (Aldrich Press) and Worth the Candle (Five Oaks Press), and a chapbook, Memory Marries Desire (Finishing Line Press), are available through Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and directly from the publishers.

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