A form I like to play with is the prose poem. One teacher I had said it was a haunted house, a poem story, or a weird box. These things are true in that context is cut, things always take on this spooky "how did it happen" quality. I think from this Thursday to next, all my posts will be prose poems. Or maybe, maybe each Thursday I write one. It's hard to say.
This one comes from the Frenchman Charles Baudelaire, who famously looks pissed off and deranged in all of his portraits, which is true of his life, though he did have portraits made of himself, so maybe things could have been worse. Still, there is nothing worse than telling people their lives are not tricky.
Click on this fellow to read him. You may need to steal him off your screen and enlarge, or else hit "command+" to zoom.