We slopped at the bandstand, loving our squid savior. Thanks to him, we poured the cement harpsichords in every bar in America, and the squid's trilling leapt and receded. He got his medal and we went home.
Upset by the car alarms, they used to whine, whooshing up from the dark zone, a billion tons every night. In the morning, they shone in the moment of their birth, and for nine hours slept humming in their crystal beds.
I once met a man who wore a necklace of their beaks, chain garlanded through the nostrils, stained green. Scars gotten in their acquisition swam and hinged across him. I asked him how he'd stood their squeals, but then saw his eaten ears.
We saw them sunning one day, Peggy and I, them lifting their eyes like holy books to the sky, tentacles a fractal of slamming noise. I drank my Pepsi and mouthed, "Let's go." That night they found one on the street. I came downstairs and the backhoe was coming towards it. I still wonder why it tried to walk to us.
The oceans are silent now. Every two months we pour whiskey in it and dance to the harpsichord, fretful stilted dances out of fashion since before white people lived here, and they dream. In their dreams they are silent. In my dreams their purring wakes me.
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