I told my brother about flying pigs

How the entire sky is their mudpit

How bits of stardust the size of bacon bits ride on their turbulence coattails

How they frolic about in the starry night

smearing it into a Van Gogh 

How that’s where he got the idea

I told him this, and it was all a lie

 

We spoke again of flying pigs

How Superman is always the third guess because “It’s still too slow for a Space Pig”

How they swoop down like a hawk and prey on your unsuspecting cheeseburger, happily defenseless on a park bench  

How that definitely wasn’t me last weekend at the fair 

How they tumble through space like squealing comets, off to where no pig has oinked before

I told him this, still lies, but spun together

 

Once more we talked of flying pigs

How they like to hover around people’s ears,

keeping their distance, save for one particularly saucy pork chop who liked to watch Van Gogh paint

How they whisper strange things in your ear, like “I can make anything happen” and “Pepperoni will give you nightmares”

How they fly so fast nobody’s ever seen one, and few have heard their squeaks, echoed only through tears in the cosmic fabric, like interstellar rug burns 

How that’s an oddly convoluted response to the question “Are you sure they’re real?”

I told him this, tangled in my Charlotte’s Web of lies 

 

I told my brother about flying pigs 

How they’re so real they’re impossible, their presence alone unraveling reality’s tight-knit quilt 

How if you see a pig hurtling through space, you need to hurry up and wish before a star comes to haggle you

How all pushes, internal or external, begin with the tip of their snouts and your own imagination 

How they don’t need a spider’s web to feel important

I told him this, and I swear it was true