I was desperate for a CVS, but instead found one of those birds—long neck bent like a spring, beak like a spear, caw like a motor that won’t turn over—wading in somebody’s blue blow-up pool.
The bucket was half full of papery spit globs. Soon she’d be able to take it outside and add onto her project: an enormous wasp nest big enough to house a human body.
I’ve been standing here in absolute darkness for months, me and my forty-three counterparts. I can hear the rustling of Gerald Ford’s restless fingers on the hem of his jacket to my right. Below me, Theodore Roosevelt is breathing so forcefully, he may rip his suit. Bottom stage left, Ronald Reagan is weeping uncontrollably.
Hialeah skies have never seen a pigeon as handsome as you, Maceo. Rare is the hen who could ignore your splendor once your flight path has crossed hers.
Once he mistook a prostitute for a hitchhiker, and twice he has invited genies into his truck. All three asked him the same thing: “What do you want? More than anything? I can give it to you.”