There was a police car parked outside the school. It brought rumors spreading like ink in water, twelve adults in the cafeteria, classes starting with hushed discussions, rumors, officers gazing through cloudy windows, students hesitating just before stepping out into the hallways, emails at 11:00 PM, forced jokes shouted in a crowded room, rumors, newspaper articles, fingers trembling from frustration, what almost happened.
“For the second time in a week, a potential school shooting was thwarted by a tipster who gave authorities a heads up -- this time in the town of Middlebury, Vermont.” (McLaughlin, Eliott & Chavez, Nicole, CNN World News)
Once upon a time, in a village like many others, a village who danced and sang, a village with traditions and myths, a village of stories and magic. The village was nestled into the crook of a mountains’ arm. It was a charming destination. It was filled with violet-covered wooden cottages and cobblestreet downtowns where people sold eggs and bread. The villagers loved each neighbor dearly. They provided for one another and never let anyone go hungry. Every one of them loved and laughed and sang. Except one little boy. He was of fair, dark skin hair and raven’s eyes. Other villagers seemed disinterested with the boy’s blandness, and the feeling was mutual. He was a quiet child who rarely joined in on hopscotch or make-believe. But he was very good at pretending.
gods can do whatever they want, be whatever they want to be. but for you, child...you only want one thing. you want to want.
looking out at hundreds of miles of mountains, every inch covered in emerald pine, you want to be an eagle. you want to breathe the air above those pines. you want to weave in & out of the wind. you want to disappear into the horizon.
& if you were a god, that is exactly what you'd do. you'd grow wings as strong as the mountains themselves & make a home in those soft green and brown needles.
but that would not be enough.
i have found that even the most incredible, inexplicable things are better in the imagination.
yes, you want to fly, you want to escape, you want to be something else,
Musty muggy Washington June evening: A bedraggled begging man is sitting on the side of the road, styrofoam cup in hand, bgging for a way out of his life, following the people passing by with eyes like a flyaway receipt caught in the wake of a speeding taxi.
My sister and I brought over our Mediterranean leftovers, handed it to him with a smile, expecting a heartfelt yet hasty thank-you, but no. He met my gaze with unwavering veracity and crammed 60 years of his history into the minute I stood to listen.
I’m a retired alcoholic (good for you), but didn’t play my rent this week (oh), it’s alright but looking to get rid of my possessions, take this baseball hat, original wizards’ cap (thank you very muich sir, are you sure-?) yes yes no problem- er, do you have a dollar for the subway?- you see, I’m a poet, write for the local paper, I have a copy, hang on, yes, here-