Brume and snow
cascade down the mountains,
slicking the roads. 

Detached car lights sweep by,
augurs riding horses
in the streets
like their heads
are on backwards. 

City workers are mismanaging
this storm, windows blowing out
of businesses with the junk mail. 

Citizens gather
in legions, contesting
who will lead the revolt. 

Protesters set fire
to the local mall,
seeing who will climb
to its peak
and survive. 

Flames come and go,
townsfolk crowd around the winner,
spineless walruses
following behind the honcho
of the heard.

I forgo the protests
for a train ride
with the apparitions,
offering moot point as payment. 

The spirits drop me
between a cyclone
of Putinism,
and a darker tomorrow. 

I stick out my thumb,
praying that cars run
through this side
of hell.