some plum kismet

 

i pluck my lotus

from the blanket

fibers of a nyx

sewn garden,

confront the

knock at my

bedroom door.

 

i pull open the

passage with slow

deliberate purpose,

greeted again with

horror and marvel.

 

before me stands a

man from wingtip to

necktie, above that

an oversized plate

of bacon and eggs

arranged into crude

eyes and lips

verbatim as one

would expect them.

his brogue monk

straps of roman

leather shine like

sunlight through

the fractal bark of a

stained glass willow.

his suit a slim cut

single-breasted

navy pindot with

a notched lapel

and front pleated

trousers, periwinkle

shirt and a purple

windsor knotted tie.

his eyes sunny side

up, his lips extra

crispy. his head

an ornate blue and

white narrow lipped

fourteenth century

imperial porcelain

dinner plate painted

with the sad clown

face of the second

asterion surrounded

by nth labyrinth

in persian cobalt

and fired off the 

southern shores of

the yangtze river. 

beside him slightly

behind his left

shoulder, brother

neut smiles like he

found his marbles.

 

the breakfast-faced

man speaks as my

ally, greets me

with a molasses

baritone internally,

but moves his

bacon anyhow.

 

i return his address

in kind, speak aloud

to neut.

i haven’t seen you

since the barn fire

and goat quest, it’s

good to, i say.

 

he thinks his

message as the

others,

same, seems they

feel we’re ready.

 

we can speak like

this too now? i ask.

 

his eyes shine like

promethean fire in

a calm living water.

he waves his hand

between us trailing

a scrying cloud of

his own design.

inside it, a vignette

of some plum

kismet, kids with a

vhs horror flick.

 

i look down to

my hands now

swarming with

energy,

technicolor

fireflies

in divinely

composed

dog fights.

 

where to now?

i ask in the hum.

 

the breakfast-faced

man nods his plate

towards my hands,

you tell us, he says.

again he moves his

bacon.

 

i wave my hand

between us.