The King of Beers

Transmitter wrote this in the wee hours:

The epicenter of mediocrity,
The grand basin of tranquility,
The heartland prepares for harvest.

The dust, an empty carapace, lacking nutrients,
Twists and consumes to fill its void.

Dormancy: the trough of a sign wave.
Before greatness comes great mediocrity.

The land — locked in dormancy gathers strength,
Pressure that pushes plants and awakens New Madrid.

Another wave in the dust,
As contradictions run together,
Like a chain of S’s, incomplete infinities.

Corn and hops suck at a dry drink.