WHAT I LOST WAS THIS:

            “You said,” you say, but I didn’t say, and you reply, “You did,” but I didn’t do. Where does this leave us, but in love? And what’s love but a neighborhood of stoops (crumbling) and (artisanal) aimlessness.  

            A kid ran out of the park at 3:00 o’clock in the morning only to strike a taxicab. The kid bounced, without a shirt, the rent fabric of his breath in the freezing air. A passerby gave him socks. It wasn’t unkind, exactly, but ill-fitting, emblematic of the post-industrial wasteland that saddens our generational critics.

            There sat the kid, untying his shoes (still shirtless) beside the flashing hazard lights of the taxicab, tossing his own socks into the gutter, and replacing them with the warm, sweaty cottons from the donor. I had little to do but watch beneath a loud lamp. I’ll never forget the bunch of agitated blue jays, four or five of them, stabbing the cold with the metallic tone of their vocabulary.

            “Word, comma, your mama.” Did you clarify? Yes, you clarified.

            We were never happier (you and I) than when we were lying to each other. You texting me selfies on windy afternoons and me pretending to receive them an hour later. If I stood somewhere other than where I purported to stand, I did so out of fear, and in losing you, okay, what I lost was this:

            […] the bus stop is empty when the bus arrives. Instead, a worker sweeps old leaves into a dustpan. Why is the sinoatrial rhythm of our hearts keyed to the murmurs of thunder?

This is part of a double issue. If you don’t like stories, you might like a song. See trying to teach a mockingbird the bebop song “salt peanuts”

TRYING TO TEACH A MOCKINGBIRD THE BEBOP SONG “SALT PEANUTS.”

I spend about two hours on the rooftop of my building every morning, writing and singing. Most of this activity must (by necessity) remain mysterious, as it will appear (fully realized) with a rock ‘n’ roll band. Let us call this enterprise “Orchestra + Vocal.” You shall be hearing more about “Orchestra +  Vocal” over the summer, dear reader. Please stay tuned.

Some of the time, however, I sing to a mockingbird. He is the dominant bird in my neighborhood. If you hear twenty birdcalls (and siren) coming from the same beak, it’s him: the polyglot. I especially like it when he speaks blue jay and nuthatch. I say “dominant” because he’s so loud. He perches on ladders, smokestacks, the crowns of gigantic trees, rooftops, ledges, et cetera.

I have been trying to teach him the bebop song, “Salt Peanuts,” which is usually credited to Dizzy Gillespie. Dizzy played the tune with Bird, but by that, we mean Charlie Parker. I’m not aware of any wild fowls who scat “Salt Peanuts,” except for maybe this feller. Listen to him. Am I right? For a few glittering moments, this mockingbird might’ve been a real hep cat.

This is part of a double issue. If you don’t like songs, you might like a story. See what I lost was this: