PJ Swift

Dead End

A late night drive, illuminated only by the headlights of his solitary car.  S. turns abruptly into a short street that happens to be a dead end.  Piled up against the dented, rusted guardrail are piles of twisted collapsed words, harshly lit by the headlights of his idling car, all from poems that have crashed and piled up, a scrapheap of jettisoned prose.  S. carefully maneuvers his car, turning incrementally back and forth until finally steering away from this linguistic cul-de-sac.  He peels off, but remains haunted by these decrepit abandoned words.