Deep yet pitted silence that night. Broken here and there by the scream of police or fire. “Burn! BURN!” they YELL. “Burn false realities, cleanse back to One Path!” Every night something burned. Ever since the Schism that ripped the town in two. Time now realigned with past and future side by side. Yabo and YoungYYabo walked together in the deep black fever pitch. Somewhere sunk down by Sycamore Street. Footstep and hoofstomp absorbed into blanket of still living…..
“donuts” said YoungYYabo. “That’s all I want.” He’d been watching Twin Peaks, where donuts are a reoccurring visual. The texture, sugar clumps cling, adhered to edges. Super glue to glue skin. Sugar saps strength, brown sludge to slow motion.
The Yabos pass an arm blown off by soldier. Arm blown off of soldier. Past a group soldering the arm back on a robot soldier who had fallen against a pile of light blue aluminum trash cans with portraits of 1991 TV stars painted on them. The robotic 2090 Corpsmen had been patrolling the streets, returning in shifts to their Floating Citadel. All in all there were 15 different authorities now in town. But it was not hard to elude them, all you needed to do was duck into the vast pool of a new period. Hide behind a skin of memory. Step inside a stare of shadow. Peter down a rabbit hole. Melt into a meld of alley and Tra La Lolleys. Ditch into the drip of a drainage duct, the network of plastic pipe bringing the acid and single celled Rainlike miles from the rooftops where city hit the sky, where rich OnceMen played golf under a false sun. A hole in one, a hole in Wonder.
I looked down at myself as this young boy. And OldYabo looked over at me. A broken twisted frame. No, Look again with a new path taken, give a simple token. Old Me stands a healthy third generation EmbryonicSource grown Radical.
I need to find the others, I’ve lost touch…….
