Spring 1990 • Vol. XII No. 2 |

From the Archaeology of Dreams

Eight Monkey spins the good thread, whirls in the middle of my left thigh, Nine Toothroad guides us down the good road, straight road long road, a small car goes off the road fast crosses my vision from right to left, heads up the spine of a sand dune, the driver is stocky, skin as white as this paper, someone sits next to him, has a black flat-brimmed hat on, the car reaches the highest point, almost gets stuck in the sand, the driver steps hard on the gas, wheels spin—car lurches over the crest, runs smoothly down the far ridge and straightinto a gulch and out of sight. A young archaeologist shows me a new find—a car wreck no one ever discovered till now. I look in through the right-rear door he leans in through the left-front window all the glass is gone, a black car twenties or thirties, the forest grows right up to it, over it, left-front seat broken backward, body in rags, right leg stretched to the foot feed, head and chest lean to the rear, right elbow bent back tens

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Bubble Hubbub

By Antler

Eight Monkey spins the good thread, whirls in the middle of my left thigh, Nine Toothroad guides us down the good road, straight road long road, a small car goes […]

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