Baby, it's just one of those things. You dream of hexagons and get triangles. You hope for a bit of moonshine on your paperback and a black cloud splits her in two.

You concentrate on windows and carbon paper and a pigeon drops dead on the ledge. It's not the city or the suburbs. It's just everything.

Me? I work in a cubicle. That's the shape I'm in.

"Send it back," he said, his mouth shaped like a cruel stink.

"Why, whatsa matter with it?" I laughed.

"It's not a twist, that's a wedge. I didn't ask for a goddamn wedge. This is not an ice tea."

The busboy removed the drink, soon replacing it with another.

"Are you goddamn kidding me? This is the same thing. Do you know what a twist is?"

"Yeah," said the busboy, "it's what my fate has suddenly taken."

And he drank it down. Wedge and all.

The disco ball was turning, shattering the darkness with screaming light, the dawn silence splintered by horns, a cannon firing a thick ball of needles. The huns are at the wall, threatening the structure with bass drum. We fire back with tight snare. We are on the move, churning into time, a polyester & corduroy hypno-wheel mesmerizing the gods of youth.

"There are no gods!" shouted Robbie Pinsker and deftly crossed his heavy skates, rolling backwards to the clarion call of the Village People.

Stephanie Friedman invited the whole class to her party at the roller rink. I arrived sheepishly....

My father was born. The pressed leaves of Limerick brushed from the crib. A mirage shimmers over the pond. Ships and flags and trucks. Red brick stoops on analog streets. Lamps on the corners.

We move and it is 30 years later. Soon the crushed leaves of New York gather. The east coast bleeds in tides, rushing us over the Plains.

In the West, we dry in the momentary sun, then open our mouths for the never-ending rain.

Wine, you are wonderful. I won't shout it, I won't be heard about above the din. Nightlife never appealed to me beyond the very notion of it. I appreciate gatherings, but rarely the gathered. And so, wonderful thou art, wine.

I got tanked on pinot gris and focused on her adoringly. She had better legs than this too expensive wine I ordered with careless enthusiasm. Yeah, she was a showgirl. It's as obvious as the hangover I'd nurse in the morning.

The sun this morning grows short thick shadows from the cobblestones. A sweaty head against the curb, red hatching at his temple, bleeds dark light onto the lane.

Did someone win last night?
No, the square is too clean.
But it's too late for so little noise.

Perhaps the town has emptied its contents into the universe, jettisoned the citizenry, the mutts and ferals, the tourists and the visitors.

Oh, the visitors.

Who were those visitors? Cheerless, I thought at first. But, no, I reconsidered, occupied.

I look back at the sweaty head, shake mine, and continue, hand in my...

The Bronx Zoo in my mind was empty. Maybe the gazelles were milling around Yankee Stadium, waiting for Catfish Hunter. The green grass of memory, my synapses folding in the sweeping July breeze, beheld the sweet roots of my birthday candles, climbing the kitchen air like lithesome monkeys, nimble as the imagination.

Just put it away, I don't want to play.

Come on.

Not now.

Come on, we're just sitting here waiting. You know it'll take forever for them to get back to us.

Okay, fine.

All right, who invented the hot air balloon?

I did.

No, the Montgolfier Brothers.

Well...

Listen, if you're gonna answer "me" for every question, it's not gonna be fun.

It's not fun.

You're a real drag.

I'm just having an off day. Let's sit in silence.

Let's try another question.

Fine.

What is next week's winning lottery number?

That's it. I've got to go.

Oh, come...

Running around the edge of an event horizon, static crackling, I never reach the black hole, or it's pulling me in ever so slowly.

After I met them, I thought I'd meet you. It seemed logical, even mathematical, that I would. But I didn't.

And now they're gone with only the echo vibrating, its waves ever-widening, seeking an elusive purchase.

My tastes widened for a while. I found brotherhood in loneliness, soon sought the sun, from one point in the universe to another.

Eventually I heard their songs through the static as a new black hole waltzed my way.

The...

Christmas parties at work. Always held during the day. I lift my head from my desk, shuffle to the lunch room, punch out.

No booze, no music. A potluck. This close to Thanksgiving in a soup kitchen. The owner of the company is a well-known philanthropist and a lesser-known miser.

The meal's adequate. Warm soda floating in the ice of a wet cooler. Outside, the rain falls. The ground's as soggy as the bread slices set beside the ranch dressing.

Merry Christmas. Back to work. I see Caesar in the hall and thank him for his salad.