The pig’s name was Clover.

But he never said it out loud. Not to his father. Not even to Clover. Only once, whispered into her ear when the wind was loud and the barn door rattled like it was trying to run away.

Clover used to follow him, nudge at his boots with that wet snout, then collapse beside him in the hay and snore like an old man. She liked the sound of his voice when he read aloud. Especially the cowboy stories. Especially the parts where nobody died.

“Don’t name them,” his father said. Every time. “Names make meat heavy.”

But Clover had a name. Had a favorite spot behind her ear. Had a way of looking at him like she knew something no one else did.

Now she hangs from the hook, steaming like a ghost.

His father is already elbow-deep, hands slick, humming that low, broken tune. There’s a plastic tarp beneath her now, stained from others. The knife glints. The boy can’t stop staring at her hooves.

“Get over here,” his father says—not unkind, just flat. Like always. “You’re old enough.”

He steps forward. He can smell her skin—still warm, still hers. His father slices clean down the belly. The organs fall soft into the tin.

“That’s the heart,” his father says, holding it up like a trophy. “Looks big, don’t it? But it’s just muscle. They all look big, till they stop working.”

The boy nods. Swallows. His throat burns.

“What’d I tell you?” the man says, eyes on the blade now, not the boy. “Don’t name them.”

“I didn’t,” the boy lies.

But in his pocket, his fingers close around a small, dirty ribbon. One he tied around Clover’s leg two months ago. Just once. Just to see if she’d keep it.

She had.

The Three Body Problem

March 31, 2025

Today was my D-Day. Mark and Glynnis both made their decision. As wonderful the previous four months were, there would not be another month (or a day) to enjoy, together.

Glynnis introduced me to Mark and the three of us discovered more than we had originally anticipated. I always wanted Mark. Glynnis wanted me. She referred to me as her “side-piece”. However, she was not interested in Mark wanting me. Glynnis tolerated our times together. She enjoyed the role playing in which we became subservient (a natural position for me) to the orders of Mark. He wanted full control of the both of us. Glynnis wanted full control of me.

I wanted to be always wanted.

If astronomy is any indicator, the Three Body Problem, such as ours, has only one of three possible outcomes. The first, the favorite of Glynnis, was that two bodies orbit each other and the third is ejected into the cosmos, never to return. The second, championed my Mark, was that the three bodies would endure permanent chaos, with occasional periods of stability. The last, my favorite, was that the three bodies would collide, permanently fusing them together, in a spectacular vision, envied by all close enough to watch, and not be consumed by the energy expelled from within.

I lay here, on this bed, alone, forced to accept the only outcome I could not accept. I am an outcast never acquiring the purpose I am singularly designed to fulfill.

Newton could not predict the outcome of the Three Body problem.

What chance have I?

It would be easier to have never met you.

To have never been loved. Wanted. Cared for unabashedly.

Because I hadn't ever had it, so I hadn't ever needed it.

Now I cannot let myself want it.

Perhaps before, when I had my first love in the way that I am yours.

Back when my pale skin wasn't sickly, and my hair was curly and not chemically leached of life.

Back when my heart wasn't hardened and I wasn't all cracked skin and bruises that won't fade.

If you could see the tricks the little magician in my mind pulled,

cruel and unfair to you, you would never look at me the same.

And that thought is the only thing painful enough to draw tears from my apathetic body.

And all I can do is feel the ache, knowing I will ruin this soon.

Will ruin this for you. Because I cannot live healthily, and I cannot accept a love that asks for nothing in return.

Whether it’s in heaven’s warmth,

Or some unknown limbo—

I promise, we will find each other.

And when our spirits reconnect,

We will rest in the comfort of company.

Every ounce of sorrow will cease,

And you will know—I never forgot.

I have missed our simple routine—

Each walk, every embrace, every meal.

Even the moments that once irked me

Became the very ones I miss the most.

I will scour each horizon endlessly,

No matter how long it takes.

And when our souls reunite,

I will finally be whole again.

I have reached the point where I can sit down. After spending the last four hours working in the back yard and garden, there’s nothing left to complete. The brick walkway is once again weed-free. After amending the soil, the potatoes and onions are planted. Netting is put up. Seeds for beets, broccoli, carrots, cauliflower, peas, peppers, radishes and spinach are nestled in their respective beds or pots. The windchime, rain gauge, garden flags and cast-iron pig (“This little piggie went to the garden.”) have been returned to their rightful spots. The bird feeders and water bowl/birdbath are full. Everything has been crossed off Spring’s To Do List. Quite a productive afternoon. But this wasn’t always the case.

Taking inventory of the work completed, I reflect on the original condition of the fenced-in yard when I bought my foreclosed home nine years ago. The exterior was in rough shape but still better off than the interior of the 106-year-old house. The fence needed repairs. There was no electricity to the deteriorating shed. Railroad ties appeared to be solid but were rotted out underneath. Bamboo had gained a firm foothold among the tree stumps and knee-high weeds. Large rocks were strewn about. At varying intervals, bricks peaked from beneath the overgrown sod. And the enclosed patio was not structurally sound.

Each of the first eight years, when the weather in Virginia warmed, I’d postpone my inside repairs and tackle the most pressing landscaping issues. I’d focus on a major job while utilizing any area not needing attention for planting vegetables. Underbrush, weeds, stumps, railroad ties and seemingly endless bamboo roots were cleared. Now I have more sun exposure. The entirety of a brick walkway was exposed and realigned while the rocks were organized. Now the garden feels more inviting. New roof, siding and electrical wiring for the shed. Now I have a functional workshop. The patio was demolished and replaced with proper steps flanked by permanent storage compartments. Now I have convenient access to the yard. Blueberry and raspberry bushes were planted. Two raised beds for strawberries were set up. Compost bins were started. Rain barrels were added. Now the garden is self-sustaining. These tasks dominated my summers. I looked forward to the day when all the work needed would be finished.

And that day is now. I can prep my garden in just a few hours, leaving the rest of the season to focus on planting and harvesting. The birds, squirrels and lone chipmunk get fresh water and food on a regular basis. Within six to eight weeks, I’ll have a steady supply of vegetables and berries well into September. So, sitting on the backsteps, surveying my private slice of Heaven, I know all the hard work completed the previous years has made everything right in the world now. This is a perfect day.

Cindy yawned, and slowly dragged her feet towards the dimly lit kitchen. Her neighbor had come at the crack of dawn earlier in the day to ask Cindy if she’d seen their darling little chow-chow they had named: Choo~Choo.

Cindy bent down, and peered into her immaculate fridge. She had arranged all of her favorite dishes as well as a few exquisite dishes, or snacks in a very well-organized cutesy medieval fashion.

Right dab smack in the neat center of her fridge was a tiny like cauldron that had a tongue sticking out from the side of it. Cindy grabbed it, and thought to herself— time for a hot bowl of some Choo~Choo.

Cindy snapped her fingers, and a winged creature appeared right next to her. It bowed before her, as she asked, ‘‘Would you like to have a bowl, too?’’ She didn’t mind sharing a bowl of chow-chow with the winged daemon.

#CORVUS.

All Rights Reserved.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=tdOtl69Vnxw

It’s kind of messed up—the idea that you could be world-class at something, truly built for it, and never even get close. Not because you didn’t work hard. Not because you gave up. But because no one ever pointed you in that direction. No one said look here. Or maybe they did, but you were too busy surviving to notice. Too busy doing what you were told was practical, responsible, realistic.

That’s what gets me. How much of life is just... being angled. Shaped by parents, teachers, systems, money, fear. Most of the time, you’re not choosing—you’re reacting. Following the path of least resistance. Or the one with the least judgment. And if you’re lucky, that path intersects with your talent. But for a lot of people? It doesn’t. Not even close.

So maybe you’re carrying this sealed envelope inside you. And maybe it has the name of the thing you’d be incredible at. But you’ll probably never open it. Because no one told you it existed. Or they buried it under bills, expectations, and social pressure. Or worse—they told you to be grateful for the path you did get. That wanting more was selfish. That dreaming differently was naive.

And here’s the kicker: you could live your whole life doing “fine.” Competent. Decent. Even successful—by someone else’s definition. And still miss the thing. That real thing. The one that lights you up. The one that makes you not just live but burn.

But most people don’t burn. They simmer. Quietly. Contained.

Because the world is better at building fences than handing out matches.

People say the mystery is beautiful. And maybe it is. On some days, I believe that.

On others, it feels like a consolation. A way to forgive the system for failing you—or yourself, for never getting the chance.

So yeah. I think about that envelope. And I wonder:

Am I supposed to be okay with never opening it? Just keep walking with it sealed inside me, like a joke I’m not allowed to hear?

I don’t know. Some days, that question is heavier than others.

It’s OK

For Mary, the one who needed this the most

The clouds will part

Revealing a Sun that never stopped shining

The Earth did not stop spinning

And you never really thought it would

Take a breath

Look in the mirror

See the smartest person

On any subject you deem important

It’s OK to begin anew

Leaving the mistakes of ago in ago

The dawn of today is the dawn of your life

You are where you need to be

Earlier today March 28th, 2025

(thee hour now fifteen minutes

after eight o'clock at night, cuz

yours truly & wife paced back

and forth from one room to the

other wearing out rugged groovy

Tuesday (for three days) experienced exhaustion

within anticipatory anxiety

while feeling foreboding regarding

impending inspection courtesy

funding source for low income

rental community R(ural)

H(ousing) D(evelopment)

facility named Highland Manor

Apartments allowing, enabling,

& providing safety and security

away from elements harried

styled and swiftly tailored Mother

Nature poised to strike

indiscriminately across Perkiomen

Valley (though this geographic area

rarely if ever experienced

extreme weather phenomenon),

yet occasionally bam wham

thank you ma'am solid punch

evidenced nevertheless no likelihood

divine intervention would intercede

to disrupt yearly the plan for RHD

to take lock, stock and barrel of

property at 2 Highland Manor Drive,

whereat many tenants experienced

high anxiety nervously awaiting

the verdict concerning apparent

violations which would necessitate

immediate actions incumbent upon

management company known as

Grosse and Quade subsequently

affecting spike in rent beyond

the pale of affordability after costs

of repair calculated into the mix

courtesy officials prowling around &

scrutinizing soundness of building,

once upon a time former elementary

school in borough named for George

Schwenk, born and died (1728 -1803)

respectively locally famous and noted

worthily essential man whose mettle

constituted being adept as tradesman,

crafting and repairing metal objects,

from household items & tools to

farm equipment & even weapons,

using a forge & anvil to shape heated

iron, thus recognized as an inimitable

blacksmith, whose son Jacob served

in the Revolutionary War under George

Washington, hence name Schwenksville,

Pennsylvania no longer an isolated

hamlet bleeds into adjacent communities

where said building I live chock a block

with vinyl city, where affordable housing

necessarily requires ordinances & property

inspectors de jure enforcing, mandating,

& yielding de rigueur to arbitrary (usually

yearly) scrutiny of about a half dozen

randomly chosen units within Highland

Manor Apartments to ascertain tenants

deemed and maintained their assigned

units in accordance with standards as

outlined in the lease, which severe

disinclination to abide by coda could

constitute legitimate violation & reason

to be forewarned than after given so

much time to shape up or ship out,

which crises nearly found ourselves

(yours truly & the misses) with no figurative

(and literal) roof over our heads, and

forced to prostitute himself as rhetoric

the great or panhandle as local

historical buff displaying wares of "Lenni

Lenape," (which means "original people"

or "real people" in the Lenape language,

though said indigenous natives also known

as the Delaware, a name given by European)

particularly their kitchen middens whose

ghosts invariably haunt these regions grist,

for the mill of one story teller with overactive

imagination expounding on how one desperate

wordsmith wannabe or spouse sold their souls

to the devil, which action if successful would

which set in motion a vicious cycle necessitating

them to sell other parts of their body namely

major organs until they slowly but surely became

incorporeal beings able, eager, ready,

& willing to roam hither & yon, to and fro

across the webbed, wide world with few

if any obstacles in our way, whereat

nothing will thwart our collective endeavors

to sustain being linkedin to the air supply

eventually becoming absorbed into the ether

real medium encompassing the infinite

eternal cosmos, but interestingly enough

as the hours lapsed into late afternoon

especially when time approached

seventeen hundred hour myself & the spouse

dared the other to even whisper how

the fickle finger of fate showed a thumbs up

that no Mötley Crüe would appear

as the Iron Maiden de jure subjecting

ourselves on the receiving end of Poison,

thus dazed and confused as a Led Zeppelin

aimlessly spinning around like a whirling dervish,

who got stopped in his/her tracks to blink 182 times

plus me and the wife pinching ourselves &

the other to reckon eyes (usually subjected

to adversity since each of us got born) free

& clear of major catastrophe by a hair's breadth,

nevertheless feeling defeated living life struggling

with money woes & impossible mission for me

to eradicate indebtedness to this,

that or some other collection

agency no surprise ratcheting up frequency

when the purpose driven life ofttimes reaching

the tipping point where the grim reaper extended

a bony hand welcoming chemical romance videre licet

an accidental overdose of Fluoxetine elucidating

suicidal ideation as modus operandi to escape

(as a permanent solution)

the travails of penuriousness

still prevail at twenty two hundred hours

and never too late to send out

an electronic sos for munificence.