Ricky, something smells bad with El Colonel. He looks to me like a locust. He’s not telling us the whole story.
The Locust sings ceaselessly but one can’t believe the words, or the melody. If one dances to the music of The Locust it’s possible that the Bee-Eater will catch one.
It troubles me that the cicadas that fly around El Colonel sing mesmerizing songs and not truths, as do the sirens, the long horse, the cicadas without papers.
I see in his eyes and the rosary in his hands every time we come see him.
This wasn’t like El Colonel of old, this one who’s lips say all the time and in his sleep the Our Father.
