Mitchell Angelo


Ten, maybe eleven, pigeons sit inside a crater in the Arizona flatland. Their

wings gently stretch the empty pocket walls, splitting seeds, the hock-joint-

ed boys club. A rabbit passes by and they screech before realizing it’s just a

man singing a song about one.

An orange ranch home south of the cavity claims to be an Andy Warhol

museum. The television loops a videotape of people trying on wigs. A greasy

tarantula holds my hand like a child and asks for a drink of water.

The shrine underneath the sink holds a candle inside a bucket. Hot light-

ning hits the roof and it all goes dark. Her rumble waves the room like a

wild white flag. The owner wasn’t home. I slept in his bed.

With no warning, the tenth pigeon explodes into a pile of feathers and

twigs. The remaining nine or ten pigeons take turns gnawing at his bones.

The savory beak. He is little more than a withered European mouth in the

dirt. How does that protest music go again?

The dusty Southwest rips through my window like a suicidal blue jay.

My plucky hands tremble, oily with bile. The window slams dark in shame. I

stretch myself flat against the spoiled carpet. It’ll be days before anyone


Mitchell Angelo is a creative writing major at SUNY Purchase College, and the managing editor of Gutter Mag. His work has previously appeared in Gandy Dancer,, and The Westchester Review. His microwave is haunted.