The calm before the storm—What storm—You’ll see—Stay tuned.
He sips his coffee, listens to the Monday morning traffic outside his window—people heading for work. An ordinary day—how many more. Birds chirping. Vonnegut writes the birds chirped after Dresden. Greed and stupid, Hawking warns. Personified, the poet mutters, but really only a mirror.
Smokes brisket all morning on Saturday. They read their poems to a small gathering. In a way we all hope for Garćia Lorca’s fate, the poet says—to be taken from our homes in the middle of the night and shot, knowing that at least someone is reading our poems, knowing that somehow one’s poems could be a threat to the goons who would have you believe they are God’s chosen. They are not.
God’s appointed is a woman selling tortillas in a bakery in San Antonio. She is a hundred years old if a day, and she works as slow as molasses. A local poet waits in line for her morning fix of warm tortillas recently baked and writes about her, about the crowd that gathers in the morning at the bakery. If you want to see God at work, go there.