The Jonez
Susan Shuman
Shelly’s sick. Her nose starts to run
and bleed. Crackling leaves
fall out of the trees and spread
a carpet of scratchy brown
over her world. She hugs and rocks
herself; staring down at the street
that mocks her. A battered street
sign wobbles, ignored. Cars run
through it and punks throw rocks
in its face. The sight leaves her numb: Shelley is the brown
dented sign. And paranoia begins to spread.
Flinching beneath her bed spread
she tries to forget about street
life; but a trembling finger traces the brown
bloodstain on her pillow. Her senses run
wild. Hearing the scrape of leaves
outside evokes the grinding of rocks
into powder. Salivating, she rocks
it hard and shivers; tasting the spread
of wailing madness. Dead leaves
scrawl her name on the street.
Her best pair of stockings has a run
in each leg, but her five-inch brown
stilettos are brand new. Her brown
shiny hair swirls to her waist. And she rocks
across the asphalt feeling the run
in her stocking spread
further with each strut. Street
life agrees with her tonight. Damp leaves
cling to one spiked heel as she leaves
her corner with some john in a brown
Chrysler. An hour and the street
is forgotten as she shaves rocks
into lines of powder. The euphoric spread
dares her imagination to run
beyond itself; shrieking wild through leaves
aflame with psychosis. Arms spread like brown
broken branches, she soars toward the rocks in the street.
22
The Ghouls’ Review