Truth went through a leaky funnel starting in late 1963 that blade-lit afternoon Gary Orrin laughed at Kennedy's murder bleeding through the static of P.S. 41's cheap PA. There's Greenwich Village— a drowsy dandelion—I called it once—and there are the heartsick monitors of afternoons. My mother is late to pick me up, again. She's almost better, but will never find a way to manage the cure. Outside American family life, nothing happens for years until OJ's glove: interspersed with some other sloppy American truth. If I didn't know everything I already know I could count on the dog while she rifles through her morning bowl in the next room. Poor Ruby. She knows more than I do. She is eating the world to save it. Copyright © 2017 Michael Klein. Used with permission of the author. |
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