The Prose Poem by Ethan Phibbs

This blue midnight stirs with a myriad of eyes: those islands I know not even the names of; unidentified vegetation, enigmatic wildlife, unpredictable weathers. I swear I saw a bird nest perched on the revolving head of an owl inquisitive of identity. Impending clouds collapse like an airy ocean covering the streets in a gray-blue mass, blurring shapes in the regimented coronas of fluorescent islands, those intermittent planets in the subversive mists spillage. And the anomalous thought of thinking me anchored in light here, a castaway gathering into his anonymous homeland. In an eddying medley of artificial and natural concord, a silence grows close to something elsewhere, stretching away from the globes glow like a shooting star increasing itself past planets: those islands that become clearer from a distant appraisal, undertaking the honest outer regions with impressions of sporadic eyes, multitudinous stars tucked into infinite in the stirring gray-blue.

Between travels and odd jobs, Ethan Phibbs resides in the outgrown shoes of his hometown, Jacksonville, Illinois, where he works more odd jobs, reads and writes, and attends college classes provided for by his previous military experience, waiting for the next experience ripe with potential, full of poetics.