Pigeon hole

Just around the corner, spun off one of the four compass legs, headed east from the spider mound of round-a-bout there is a steep-pitched house, with bark chips and chained-links and the points of roof are covered in pigeons. I imagine they’re homing based on the small opened-doored coop that sits in the grass, but who really can say?

There are cones, I’ve heard, of 5G rays, that not only blast people to literal deck-deaths, like giant, silent megaphones on the Princess Cruisers, these laser-rayed luciferic eyes in the sky, not golden beams, but slivered, silver swords, these are also the chopping fans of jet engine, jettisoned through throne of screen, invisible wands from hell and what bird, really will not dive?

I think of stuffing a pigeon down into a bottle, the way in which Judy Miller did that day in Mr. Boudwins’ 5th grade class well, really it was a small field mouse, but now destined to die inside of the thick, glass-greened coke bottle she shoved under the stack of newsprint spilling from her top opening desk.

And, those are these that Walmart, don’t mind the way in which the camera is recording as you slide your plastic, pull up your mask, make your way through the Chinese candies, the purple umbrella’s the cheap display of on-sale marshmallow Easter peeps.

I told my father when I was a girl, that I would, yes, I definitely would sign up to be pulled through a black hole, just so I could experience the knowing one cannot know, until they’re the pigeon traveling through a hole and not fastened to a wall, as the saying so goes.

Photo Credit: Arturo Ruiz c/o Unsplash