Typhoni

This is the deepest part of the world. Bird don’t fly here, but there is the sound of wings. The smell, just a struggle in the earth underneath the musty floorboards. Monsters hatch fully-grown from their eggs. Snaky legs indicate chaos. I carry sad omens, slobber down the psychic’s legs to her feet pointed backwards. I roll off the back of a skull strapped on top of a fox who shape-shifts into the irresistible. A Christian, Oklahoma-shaped and melancholic, caught at the entrance of a ditch as the best breath of me tornadoes into the next county.