p . h .    m a d o r e

Landing Gear Rained

 

The world slid off its axle for a moment and transformed into a monument. The stars crawled over the floor of the planet. Landing gear rained from above the clouds. Planes fell like shot seagulls. The world was in disarray for a whisper. Bang and with a crash peasants made out of the situation in a dash. The richer evacuated with their stock reports in tow. In an office building in uptown of a southern upper class town, a woman marched up and down stairs exuding the air of an elephant. The prescribed path was found to lead to recession at the hands of a new and religiously renewed nationalist movement. For a time on the continent, before earthquakes split every region into its own space, bus became the main form of interstate travel, and they boomed, and they grew their operations so that the roads were soon filled with customers seeking an affordable necessary journey. Few airports were spared in the ruckus.


I watched.


Accuracy became a large part of the mother in a nearby home's game of twitchy yo yo tossing. Other realities were formed by virtue of it. A cloud and crowd of newborns stood in sublime agreement at the spectacular spectacle of the melodious, hypnotically demonic flight of the yo yo. Life on earth remained strange and generally faded to blank expressions on dark walls and empty window frames filled by stained glass of otherworldly origin. Nothing seemed correct and these many vibrant rashes of sanity in a land of the dead deader and subtly dying.


Somewhere in a village, there was a fire, a flight, and a wreck.

 

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P. H. MADORE is usually litareview.com