Voices on the Wind Obscure Voices
when the recurring dream is real by Mark Vogel Lost in black/white concrete in the car-clogged great city, the labyrinth impenetrable with phone dead, the destination forgotten along with the awareness of maps, while the crowds purpose bends heads forward, for everyone surely knows the way, while I am mute need breathing desperation/the herky-jerky brain panicked/stymied by static/ just wont work, though how many times I have contrived to be lost/turned toward unmarked roads with no labels, deliberately seeking hidden signs like a game, in a delusion that not knowing can last forever, that wild wonder pushing always discovers an improvised just right niche, except now when oiled/soiled air and a honking powerful agenda pushes me to the curb, where stupefied with mouth open, I am trampled by the callous immersed in dusty lizard-skinned morning. High above, blinking on/off, giant eyes stare straight ahead, unwilling to acknowledge how a hundred blocks behind this minor drama others are appropriately clothed and connected, swimming like rats in the big polluted river. Here at the curb with gum and dirt, shimmering ambivalence about ever moving again.