Citizen   They say he’s some kind of nut job, that guy who marches back and forth, right there in front of the post office, and no one knows why — where is he going and what does he want? What magistrate might hear his case, what god is he petitioning? Like holy scrolls, he brandishes his documents, with odd headlines like “ENTITLED” and “OZONE HOLE REVEALED” and “SEVERELY POISONED COFFEE” and line after line of lines, only lines, silent symphonies transcribed in the key of madness minor, and his eyes are shining with the righteousness and noble certainty of saints and true believers — he’s a witness, oblivious, bearing his hurts like lightning bolts, and God knows what he sees.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont July 2016