Page 13 - Contrast1980v23n2

I touch this hand, lightly, with just one finger.
Probe it, just gently, to begin to get the feel
of it. Compress the skin, a little, or stretch it,
and watch the pattern of wrinkles change in the light ...
broken by sudden wails of disco-pap and pained hatred
of nothing and all. The old woman resting beside me
mumbles as she rattles plastic in her pocketbook. I
glare at her vacantly, then lurch up to wander between
talking clusters of strangers with voices too
loud and laughter too sudden, and out under a grey
sky.

I enter a building that's not my home, and walk
discolored tiles past lock-chianed doors guarding
the lonely sounds of television. My door hides no
chattering ghosts to fill a too-large room. Instead the
electrical rate hike at my feet locks onto my mind,
leading to the latest coup in Betswana. But grey
anesthesia falls crumpled to the floor as I lie back
into my pillow, hand to overheated forehead. I need
stronger drugs, brighter circusses.

You know, there's a hell of a lot a ceiling can
do. It's the best thing I've ever found. Follow the
shadows of the raised paint ridges. Trace patterns
never placed there, and never to be found again. See
how far they can take you, or how long. I've heard
that the eyes remain open during REM sleep.

Dave Cleveland

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