a kindred madness

 

filtering in from the phantasmagoria of

the phosphorescent flora and electric

fauna of the previous pyramid biosphere,

i find some form of myself sat on a stool

at the far short end of the boomerang

formica counter in the cenotaph diner.

my hands tented in prayer around hot

coffee black in lipstick stained ceramic, i

adjust the eyes of my ui and peruse the

room for further clues along the path. a

row of three booths behind me, cherry

and backdropped by a pair of picture

windows painted with perpetual specials

and backward logos. a cracked screen

printed silhouette of a white wolf howls

at a red moon on the blue moth chewed

canvas stretched across the rum barrel

chest of a kindred madness, both

glorious and partially obscured by beard.

chestnut knots and gray gnarls spiral his

head in a bird’s nest cataract spilling to

his shoulders. always a moon, i muse to

myself and swallow the last of the mud

in my mug. a message inscribed in the

bottom of the vessel reads in indigo ink:

the repetition isn’t accidental, it’s literary

and mnemonic. clusters of customers in

booths along the wall and a peppering of

lone patrons curved around the counter

to the right of me rubbing sleep into sore

rust belt eyes with worn lunchbox hands.

my fellow storm door rattling in a

charmed wind tribesman becomes fully

unhinged and pulls from his apparently

cartoon, opal ankle-cuffed corduroy back

pocket, a riot gear grade megaphone

and begins negotiations for the lives of

the hostages.

 

in the farthest reaching apex of the odd

obelisk marked, spiritual bermuda

triangle of the SoDaC, a preordained

goddess manufactures war in the factory

of columbia with the stolen consent of an

army drunk on the snake oil panacea of

crisis initiation, a false flag cure-all.

 

an alphabet agency soup man in uniform

black suit and tie enters the gravesite

greasy spoon and seats himself opposite

the buzzing, grizzly, alarm clock trumpet.