Friday, September 3, 2010


Somewhere in Jalisco
By John Ogden

When the wind howls and the man of ears walks forth into the fields, hands full of the lush harvest of the grape orchards where his grandfather’s ashes cycle from house to house on winds of love, the sound of a gunshot can be heard, echoes through the light-lit smoke house windows to the death of another man who has yet to rise from the ashes of his own grandfather. There is no sound now, no life in the vibration to accompany the passing of ghosts. They are the ones who move in the spaces between matter, fill the void with their thoughts, their needs, the whispering touches of found objects, pots and pans cracked out of coal deposits and cities silently sleeping where ten thousand years ago there was land.

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John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.


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