No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
It had all started with Jenny on a sunny day that turned to twilight, around 6. I was walking to the bus stop from the cultural center in Costa Rica’s capital of San Jose where I was taking a two-week Spanish language class. That’s when I saw her, the exotic-looking lady who captured my eye. She looked to be in her mid-30s, a combination of Central American indigenous Indian mixed in with Spanish/European heritage.
Few noticed Icarus that day, Heard from high clear air long unlucky cries, Saw with hard squinting, disbelieving eyes One splash after a ballet of disarray...
I’d always loved Provincetown. When I was a kid in New Jersey, my parents would rent a cottage in Wellfleet for a week (or sometimes two when they could afford it), and my memories of those vacations are among the sweetest of my childhood. The beaches and the air and the ocean and the food: all of those were delightful, of course, but there was always one day set aside for visiting “Ptown,” which I guess my parents considered the epitome of weird, and part of our education...