{ squab }

Because it is so easy to be difficult and because when someone says red I hear numbers. I count the drips on the side of my cone. Children play in the park and the swing sets squeak. I always say that.

A new sentence came to me last night while I was sleeping and I repeated it over and again in my dream to memorize it. I forgot it as soon as I woke up. I remember that it was the second greatest sentence ever written but that is all. No, I remember that it was about a woman. That is all I ever write about. I owed her more than I gave and I like to be near things but not a part of them.

I sit on a bench and listen to cars pass. An attractive mother in tight jeans holds a tiny hand and I imagine the child being pushed out of her vagina and I imagine the mom being fucked the night of conception and I feel a little bad for thinking about that, or at least for admitting that in my brain there is shit like that.

At home, I put a chair in front of an open window and sit with my back to the world. The curtain strokes my face and neck, the breeze in my hair feels nice and I close my eyes. Cars beep. Motorcycle engines rev. A bus grumbles. Kids. Swings. Ice cream truck. I open my eyes and look out the window. A pigeon jabs its beak at something in the street that is so delicious the bird has lost its fear of death. Several cars almost hit it and it does not fly out of the way. It just struts to the side, the car barely misses, its feathers ruffle in the whipped air, and it struts back and pecks.

A plane flies between a star and a silver toenail clipping of day-moon just above the trees and I stare until the sky makes the blue it only makes just before dark.


~O~