pi & anne

So much has happened. In the world. Next door. In my family. Writing has always been a conversation with the world on the outside and within, to make sense of it, to steady this life, to walk on. That’s why I keep writing. And sometimes other people see it, and they also see me.

I’m excited to share that Prune Juice Journal accepted four pieces of my freshly written poetry and included them in their current issue 48. I am so happy they’ve found a home!! I’m immensely grateful to the team <3.

Here they are.

hate being responsible
hate being responsible

clay
oozing out
between my fingers

        Orrin Préjean, United States
        Makoto, Germany

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Lungs and Liver

Prune Juice Journal, Issue 48

No one tells you exactly how to dose your child, except for the average.

Amount.
Timing.
Duration.

No one tells you: Are these side effects? Overload? Fluctuations in an avalanche of everyday life?

Get a read on it. Weigh up. Tell the psychiatrist. Tell the doctors. Translate for your child. Set the right priorities, don’t forget anything.

You stand there, having to trust your child’s ability to say whether and how it helps.

Can you concentrate? (Yes. (On far too much.))
You seem more balanced. (Don’t know. (I don’t feel anything.))
You’re getting a lot done. (Yes. (Driven. No choice.))

We cry a lot, yell at each other. I don’t understand. We’re exhausted. There’s this pressure: to get things done, to go to school. Not a single teacher tries to keep in touch.

How are you? ((I’m lonely. I have nothing to hold onto, no goal.))

No one tells you that help can be a big, rough stone. Right in your way. No one tells you that, or your child.

The cross
in the calendar
erased
the next day—
the glimmer of snow through glass.

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Although The World Stood Up And Stopped The Bastard, The Bitch That Bore Him Is In Heat Again.*

Prune Juice Journal, Issue 48

There is a lot to say when it comes to Berlin. About walking down a street, from west to east and back again. Pigeons nod, here and there, pecking at chips from newspaper cones on the ground. A man on heels runs past. A tram jingles. The protest march drums and hisses some blocks of houses away, closer, then more in the distant again.

The white of the sun. A giant cloud creeps along the mirrored windows of a youngish tower.

Amongst other things
the weather report tells us to
prepare . . .
weeds, running riot,
building walls.