In Stumbleville, A Pack Of Worldlings

A pack of infantile worldings runs across visionary lobster traps. Crucifying nothing, incandescence leaves their fingers. Feet barely touch. A bound fool runs behind, blunders a candle, goes out with ritual gesture.

Facts keep everyone’s heads cool when dead folks crowd the mayor’s house. Leaders emerge from the breakfast nook, colossal haircuts in waves of comic shots. Downtown is full of honchos.

Before elections, municipal leaders switched with men in the service industry. Now old janitors drink all day soda-pop, digging for clams at the mud flats.

A quick dog runs up and down every aspect of local life.

Men are steamrolled by area rug saleswomen. Your floors are too slippery, they say. Do you want your poor child, or worse, your poor wife, to break her delicate bones? A tramp, convinced he is king, keeps an eye on himself.

From the pudding factory comes the sound of loudly whirring blades. Not as sharp as we could hope, but some consolation after the abuse the town received in the radio exposé.

We feel alone in this world.

At the pub, an insect wing descends from the boring ceiling, cheered on by beer mugs. A poster of Yip Man, Bruce Lee’s teacher, hangs on the wall outside the high school. Students must bow low before entering. The county is endothermic.

Villagers could something if they weren’t at a loss. They’ve documented this shamanistic hodge-podge before, but it’s penned in the attic at the old movie house.