ESSAY
THREE PROSE POEMS JOSE HERNANDEZ DIAZ The Human Tree I started growing tree branches out of my head and hair after my girlfriend broke up with me. She said I was a lost soul and a bad seed. I told her I’m talented just a bit disorganized. That’s when branches began to dangle from my forehead. Eventually, lush leaves bloomed from the brown branches. I was turning into a tree all right. I accepted it. After all, I was indifferent. A lost soul one could say. What did it matter if I had crossed over to plant life? I was alone. Perhaps a blue bird could live among my branches. So long as a woodpecker doesn’t destroy my bark, I’ll be fine. I’ll survive. I always have. New Kid in Town I was on the subway when I saw a clown, a pirate, and a mermaid. Since I was new to the city, I tried to act casual. The clown was dressed like a bright rainbow; the pirate had his trusty parrot side kick, per usual; and the mermaid was majestic like the ocean. The funny thing is nothing happened. The clown got off Downtown in a hurry. Next, the pirate exited on Main St. and the mermaid must have gotten off after me. I tipped my Dodgers’ hat to her as I exited at the circus. I enjoyed my visit at the circus. I saw a man on a tricycle juggling a samurai sword. I saw a lion mimicking ballet. The move to the city was just what I needed. Trapped I’m trapped inside of this prose poem. I can’t get out. The lack of line breaks is too liberating, it’s anarchy in here. Everyone is doing as they wish, feet up on the coffee table. I saw a man writing graffiti on the Governor’s mansion, the bravado. The wind is pleasant here. Pleasant like the ocean. I wanted to be a short story writer growing up; I settled for a puppeteer. I like the music in here, jazz and Spanish guitar. If you ask me, I don’t think prose poems should last too long. Eventually, you run out of gas, naturally, like a tattooed biker on the interstate. I’m trapped inside of this prose poem, but I don’t want to get out. It's nice and cozy in here. I’m invincible.
16 | LITRO
the building block of all communication and culture, from the page, to the stage, to the screen. I am constantly trying to envision the literary arts community doing better at being seen, valued, respected, and supported by everyone in our society. I’m a founding member of PEN America’s Literary Action Coalition, and we’re working to earn that recognition from the government, investors, culture makers, consumers, and the population at large. Like I said, it’s not easy. You might agree with what I’m saying, that there is a need here, an obvious niche to fill and bridge to build. But why me? Why me specifically? Am I really qualified for the job, never having taken a poetry course in my life, no framed BFA or MFA diplomas on my wall, no relative who just happens to be Marina Abromovic’s accountant? Well, listen to this: in public elementary school in Sacramento, CA, my fourth-grade teacher wrote “such a creative and smart girl, but she talks way too much and distracts the other students with her stories” while I wrote not one, not two, but three “Young Authors” books to submit to a district-wide writing competition. Whether I won the competition is a story for me to tell my therapist another day. If that childhood anecdote doesn’t strengthen my application for this peculiar role, maybe I don’t even want the job. See, I’ve always known what my mission in life is, even as a little kid. My mission, my calling, is to help people connect in creative ways to build a better structure for society. Not just for connection’s sake: again, it is the means not the end. We need to connect more deeply and must actively reject the alienation and isolation that our society sells us, so we can reweave the fabric of our communities and patch together a more resilient, equitable and empathetic society, cutting out the ripped and rotten bits to heal and grow stronger. I have known my goal since my memory
