'With the use of exaggerated gestures, near-somnolent dumbshow, we conversed at length about so many things. You made shapes with your body that successfully communicated such abstract ideas in a way that was wholly understandable. Or maybe there was some telepathy involved, a sympathetic vibration that passed through the glass without setting it humming.'
The Window - Mark Howard Jones - in print.
Lost on the Black Opal Highway
The engine howls and tires whine,
high-pitched into the night,
speeding toward the border
of repressed memory.
Fragments of dissociative flashbacks
hit in random Doppler waves
of kaleidoscopic cacophony
and flickering rapid-eye visions
while relentless, unheard voices
pierce the darkness and scream:
"faster"
"faster"
"faster...
(from the Deep Cleveland Postcard Project)
mania of a dry american
my wrists ignore the houseplants
setting them just below animals
frozen -
stuck here forever
remembering angels
on the telephone
running out of quarters
as the jukebox
swells to monster size
and starts puking
dead ends
wallpaper,
tourniquets,
euthanasia;
running from the wrong side
of obvious.
