July 23, 2021
The Magic Pig Remembers
I remember I used to grow birds’ wings and fly around for you. I would swirl from your bedroom floor to the ceiling where I would go around and around and squeal. I remember how much you liked it when I flew and squealed. It made you laugh.
Sometimes I would have no wings, but I could still defy gravity. I could walk up the walls,
July 22, 2021
Cap was still jawing us, filching my cooler´s food, lobbing it into his, accusing a bucket of stenchy bait by the rods he’d geared for me and Laze at setoff. I got under one of Laze’s arms and legged it across the plank between Cap’s boat and the steep grass riverbank. At toe touch to land Cap rescinded his bridge and forded upriver goodbye.
Ninety-nine wooden steps had been staked into the soil from current’s edge up to a roundoff hilltop summit.
July 21, 2021
You can feel her through the gloves. You can do your best to keep from touching her, but she’ll find her way in. Bone is sharp, sharper than glass and that’s something I didn’t know till I was picking it out of walls. Eddie and I bring extra pairs these days, pull them right over the other. Yellow rubber that makes me feel like a 50’s housewife as I sponge at the wall,
July 20, 2021
When his first wife divorced him the Philosopher King had nowhere to live. A temporary setback, after all he was still an NYU professor. His marriage was annulled on a beautiful spring morning as the days were just starting to get hot. He took his paperwork for a nap in the shade of a big tree in Washington Square park. When he woke the sun was setting. He took his divorce papers to the gym for a few hours and spent the rest of the night in NYU’s library.