Page Comma The
(Nothing here, really)
Traveling in Where
First impression is a landslide mystery. A half-sober cobblestone,
fire icing through fatigue-massacred pupils, dances the two-step
sketching of a liquid-demented Pandora's paradise. Cryptic
semblance to a fourth-grade textbook reverie rings true, and
from a booth I answer, amongst mob-mounted mutterings and
Teddybear-style cheap fascination. Here we have The, followed
by The, while crime-honored robins float the goods like
cedar-starved termites, pouncing on massless minds and
Nutella-covered pictograms, a dishonest man's feast on an
overpriced, emblematic platter.
Linguistic phenomenon scuttles from lips to ears, a
disgruntled John-a-Dreams on a balmy midnight afternoon,
misunderstood and precisely abject because, a Stranger in a
barn full of easily-deceived rancidness, he scoffs, curiously
nonchalant but respectfully refined, at obligatory conversation
with those of a different nature.
Drifting, a mere two steps behind the coffee-bitten
wolfpack raised by sheep, but admittedly intrigued, are my
reptile-lidded eyes.