To awake beyond gates

beneath hallways and bars;

to find you’ve been placed

in some remote gallery,

swathed in remedies –

tips and knuckled of your

fingers surge

with rust. From your head,

like a blue spruce, stem the

weighted excess of

ten thousand happenings

and their flashes. You

lie fetal, plastered to a cot,

hung in emptiness,


Olive Naugahyde adheres

to your back

like paste, a residual

collage of magnets.

Brian Janisse (Apr. ‘18) details the experience further. “After my brother’s psychotic break, when he was safely in jail, I tried to put myself in his shoes (or rather, his county appointed flip-flops.)”

Leave a Reply




You can use these HTML tags

<a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>