Martin Ott The Language of Horns After work, I troll the freeway in my dusty Dodge Rambler making up stories to the chorus of engines and horns. I decipher strings of seven on license plates and weave through traffic to match fantasy to face. H2OLWYR becomes a kind-hearted merman defending tuna, sperm whales and trees ground into paper towels to clean the black cough from the Exxon Valdez. HOMEIMP is a sprightly woman of one-hundred-and-seven who saves endangered species of piñatas during Thanksgiving and Cinco de Mayo. PICNICK is a bodybuilder who gulps his own dead skin in a protein shake. I wind my fears along expressways and on-ramps, searching for the sun through a purplish haze. I never get my news from the radio and translate God from the language of horns. And I believe in the journey, the thrum of tires spinning slow. When a procession of headlights trumpets nightfall across the divide, I search for truth in embers: a tail light’s silent warning, flickering rear-view eyes, and a combination of letters that will teach me all I need to know about the art of telling, the dyslexia of anger and love, the muse of freeway static and the wisdom we find in going far. |