Ethan Blakely
Midnight Radio
3 a.m., or nearabout-- And the shadow-shroud of the hill still sits firmly hidden behind the hotel: a silhouette painted against pitch; a nighttime canvas whose black bleeds into black, erasing edges, softening all sense of shape; makes all that curious shade of not quite anything. Above this climbs a thin and trembling tower that pierces the seething stain of stratus cloud. Here, diffused by the drifting dim, blinks the beating midnight pulses of a sleeping city: a symphony of static sound on long-aborted airwaves. A shifting in the street, a stirring risen by the gentle rumblings of some lone road-bound traveler on their way to another kind of nowhere. From where I stand, listening as they retreat into ever-fading taillights, it is difficult to discern, but perhaps they are tuned into the same. |
Ethan Blakley is a recent graduate of Southwestern Oklahoma State University, though he now finds himself not far off the southern shores of Superior. Pertaining to poetry, writing is sporadic at best, but when he does write, he often finds himself in the frame of gothic horror (and is a general fan of all things Poe and Lovecraft). His work has previously been published in Westview Journal of Western Oklahoma, Young Ravens Literary Review, and Wingless Dreamer.