Sit. The Messiah’s Customary Diner Booth welcomes you. Yes, you: no matter what truth you’re spinning, so long as you’re spinning it earnestly. You’ve got a place with these poems. They’re an intellectual fossil record of shit and summoners and something that Rimbaud would probably like; they’re a gathering ground for Soviet spies and child prophets, disaffected professors and radiant spinsters. Share a soggy grilled cheese with drifters who could just as easily show up enshrined on a tablet of Sumerian pictograms as lounge in a 50s diner. We’re open all night.