Mark Reep is a faded Polaroid oracle taped to the only unbroken window of an abandoned house in Ithaca NY. Offering cheap smokes will avail you nothing. Bring Black Bush in a silver flask. Leave cash under the brick. Rainy days are best.
Mark Reep (American, b. 1960) is an artist and writer whose drawings, fiction, and reviews have appeared or are forthcoming in American Art Collector, Endicott Journal, Bluecanvas, Metazen, The Word Riot Anthology, and Fictionaut Selects.
A self-educated artist, Mark was founding editor of the mercifully short-lived lit & arts quarterly Ramshackle Review. He has exhibited original work regularly for over twenty years, and makes many of his images available as affordable artcards and prints. Original drawings currently available at Exhibit A, Corning, New York; Jardine Gallery, Perth, Scotland.
Where will I go now? Oh,
I don’t know. I dreamt once
a child’s drawing of a house
all scribbly black crayon
swayback roof crooked
chimney. God, do you
remember how cold it was
that night? Oh, that’s right
you weren’t there. I tried
to call a fire, but fire
never liked me. That all
seems so long ago. I don’t
get cold much anymore.
From The Lucid Dreamer’s Handbook (page 61)
If when you wake the clock is blinking, your ordeal
will not have been meaningless, nor will your day
prove uneventful. But look closely: If its hands
are bent or charred, beware the blind woman,
her distrustful dog. The train will be stopping in
1967. Please do not lean against the doors.
In the Garden of Delicate Torments no one asks your name, or why you’re bleeding. We’re all bleeding, fool. Isn’t that what you wanted? Never make eye contact, speak unless you’re spoken to. Remember: Your only safe word is yes. You can endure more, can you not? For me?