'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:
(from the Deep Cleveland Postcard Project)
mania of a dry american
my wrists ignore the houseplants
setting them just below animals
stuck here forever
on the telephone
running out of quarters
as the jukebox
swells to monster size
and starts puking
running from the wrong side