Short Lyrical Prose Pieces by K.J.
A Michigan Prisoner
There is sound here.
Not listening sounds, but sounds of distortion and pain reflecting screams that reverberate from the tense, enclosed fields of mind and space and personality out into the surrounding enclosures that make its limited range.
Echoes are not conscious sounds, only the fleeting memory of what was real, had meaning, form, intent — -not shapeless, haunting reverbs displacing reason, self, identity.
The range of sounds has no limit, for they reach private depths not meant to be heard. These are personal sounds: clogged lungs emitting a shredding, silent tearing; muffled coughs seeking anonymity; the sigh of the utter futility of wishes and grandiose dreams; the whisper recitation of a name painful to the mind; the harmful memory threatening stability and sanity; the creaking of bed, or chair, or changed position, all testaments to indecision, doubt, planning, remembering, of feeling a feeling the sound of which is not to be felt but endured.
Sounds that cover every taste, preference, or idea: BALCKSOUNDSWHITESOUNDSLATINAMERICANSOUNDS&THECAPTURESOUNDSOFCAPTUREDAMERICACALLEDINDIANSOUNDS/&POLICESOUNDS/ANDTOBEPOLICEDSOUNDSOFPROTESTSUBMISSION/THEEVERPRESENTSOUNDOFINDIFFERENCESOVERPOWEREDBYBURSTSOFPASSIONATESOUNDSOFEVERYSCOPEANDMAGNITUDE.