When fantasy disappeared from Fênix and everyone left, Sorry, who fell out of the sky with her Subaru, and a possibly undead storyteller, were left behind. She warned him of an imminent electrified dystopia, and they sought sanctuary in Guarapuava. On the way, they saw herds of armadillos ridden by sephine spiders. Part One is here.
Luck was with us when we arrived in Guarapuava:
the world had not yet ended, and by the teary shores of
the Lagoa das Lágrimas, we came across
the Pensive Teahouse, open after midnight.
All was as it should be in the Guarapuavan starlight.
Late night ghosts were howling at the poltergeists,
the armadillos nestled snugly in their treetop nests,
and as I sipped my fashionable tea,
I felt a momentary twinge, a passing brush
with existential suburbia.
But before my chai was cold, my electric fears were realized:
stormy lightning flashing out of nowhere threaded
silver necklaces through street lamps on Independence Avenue,
and a sizzling halo of corona enveloped the Subaru.
Its headlights flickered on,
and it drove off by itself
in the direction of last week.
You told me Guarapava was a refuge, I whined,
where we’d be safe from the electrical dystopia.
The sephine spiders rode the armadillos here from Fênix.
Look around, you’ll see the glimmer of their webs.
They’re the source of every dream, of all the mysteries
we long for.
Now how obvious they were, floating
with their silken parachutes,
swimming in my tea like leaves to tell my fortune.
An ionized being formed of pure energy
came into the teahouse and ordered a spaghetti sandwich.
He toasted it between his palms.
Him? He’s someone you made up,
an imaginary inventation.
The facts of Guarapuava were melting, pattering
like rainy feet on the Lagoa.
I need help, I said, with fluidic possibilities,
with green icing on a cake, a recipe
It’s time for you to create yourself,
to make a plan.
Sorry pointed at me
with a fish on a fork.
The fish winked.
I will wonder mathematically,
reduce existence to a single point,
the correlated essence, the core
of who I am …
… and I will write edgy words
(a spider sniggered)
that speak of figments
of a spaghetti sandwich,
of heliotropical violets,
and you, in mawkish verses:
The moon was a galoot.
It dangled on a wire over Fênix …
- the locations in Guarapuava are moderately real
- MacArthur Park, Richard Harris, Donna Summer, etc.
Suburbs (detail above, click for full image). Made by VEE, the visual evolution engine.