Great hustle. Love the effort. Some notes.
Descartes, there are two Is in narcissism.
Laplace, there’s no time for tape review.
Maxwell, save the Goldilocks routine for the bedroom.
Searle, I don’t care how, just put some points on the board.
Alright, now get out there and give ’em Hell!
Nicholas De Marino only knew about two of those before reading up on this.
Fresh from Mount Olympus, the Gods’ new matchmakers dove straight into mêlée.
Hapless grasshoppers huddled in harmony. Rabbits hoarded their lucky feet. Lone wolves packed dens.
And humans? They shacked up, too, fleeing flexed claws and rustling feathers.
The switch from bow and Eros to falconry was swift and cruel.
Nicholas De Marino doesn’t trust pigeons, either.
The year after Pap-Pap died on Christmas, Dad’s ceramic holiday village expands from under the tree to along the wall. The next year, he peoples and houses the coffee table and end tables. The next, we eat off trays in the living room. I picture Pap-Pap walking the tiny streets.
Nicholas De Marino is a published crackpot. More at nicholasdemarino.blogspot.com.
It’s not all bees. Not even most: only honey bees die after they sting you. Google says that’s less than five percent of species. It’s because of your thick skin. The one you grew in elementary school. Keep your head down, hum along. Be hive. Behave. You’ll get your shot.
Nicholas De Marino is a published crackpot. More at nicholasdemarino.blogspot.com.
Eighty frozen peas, thawed, four times a day, down the pigeon’s leathery beak.
An ambulance. Across the street. Up, down, with a body, siren mute, lights still blaring.
Baby bird cries for more.
New widow already in black.
Weeks later the pigeon flies back to the flock.
Unrelated, but inseparable.
Nicholas De Marino is a former journalist and aspiring bon vivant. Read more at nicholasdemarino.com.