PIGS DON’T KNOW
The freshest collar I had was popped and it was mid day and the sun was shining and there were little donuts on the table resting like the bellies of fat men. Playfully rolling to and fro with the wind. Powdered sugar flaking off. I looked up at your face and you’re freckles were getting dark. And your hair was getting long and you seemed pissed off and me. I was only happy then.
Later in the day you went off to play music and I sat home and did the cross word. The phone rang. It was one of those damn prison calls. The automated voice asking if we would accept it. I said, “Naw.” Just like that. My fingers smelled funny when I put them up to my face. Like some sort of enchilada. Some kind of ground, marinated beef. What had I eaten? Oh. I chopped onions earlier. Was that it?
Just then you got home told me about the following.
1. You’re a Gemini and Gemini’s kind of waiver in their thoughts.
2. You get upset when I sniff my fingers.
3. While you were out you smoked again (obviously).
4. Pigs don’t know.
I had a moment where I didn’t know what to do. Like a moment in the past with you where I felt like I had to read a book to understand you. Now here you are. Telling me probably everything I need to know. Is it all we can do for each other? I’ve wondered that for years. The language we’re speaking is the language we know. Isn’t the language. There’s really nothing like that here.
