"Russell Edson's universe is our dark side. Ferociously funny as they are frightening, his parables use psychology, philosophy and mythology in portraying the shadowy side of the human condition." These are the words of American poet Morton Marcus in describing this one-of-a-kind author who jokingly called himself "Little Mr. Prose Poem."

Russell Edson. Anytime I'm in need of some inspiration, I open one of his books and read two or three or four or five of his bizarre snappers. The Childhood of an Equestrian contains many of the most flaky and delicious. Below are three for the sampling. Also, please take note of the outlandishly comical woodcut illustration on the book cover, also the fruit of Russell Edson's artistry. Or should I say fruitcake? Perhaps a weird combination of both since writing and performing my own kooky, oddball Edson-like microfiction in years past, I was frequently judged a fruitcake myself. Here goes. Hope you enjoy. Oh, by the way, I included my own buttery trombone piece at the very bottom to sweeten the prose poem pie.

ANTIMATTER
On the other side of a mirror there's an inverse world, where the insane go sane; where bones climb out of the earth and recede to the first slime of love.

And in the evening the sun is just rising.

Lovers cry because they are a day younger, and soon childhood robs them of their pleasure.

In such a world there is much sadness which, of course, is joy . . .


THE TOY-MAKER
A toy-maker made a toy wife and a toy child.
He made a toy house and some toy years.

He made a getting-old toy, and he made a dying
toy.

The toy-maker made a toy heaven and a toy god.

But, best of all, he liked making toy shit.


THE AUTOMOBILE
A man had just married an automobile.

But I mean to say, said his father, that the automobile is not a person because it is something different.
For instance, compare it to your mother. Do you see how it is different from your mother? Somehow it seems wider, doesn't it? And besides, your mother wears her hair differently.
You ought to try to find something in the world that looks like mother.

I have mother, isn't that enough that looks like mother? Do I have to gather more mothers?
They are all old ladies who do not in the least excite any wish to procreate, said the son.

But you cannot procreate with an automobile, said father.

The son shows father an ignition key. See, here is a special penis which does with the automobile as the man with the woman; and the automobile gives birth to a place far from this place, dropping its puppy miles as it goes.

Does that make me a grandfather? said father.

That makes you where you are when I am far away, said the son.

Father and mother watch an automobile with a just married sign on it growing smaller in a road.


TROMBONE BUTTER by Glenn Russell
I toss and turn on my pillow. A slide trombone blasts in the middle of my dream. I fry the slide trombone in a frying pan over a fire. The brass melts and starts to look a little bit like golden butter. I spread the trombone butter on the soles of my feet. This butter will surely make my footprints slide.

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