—for Juan Downey
Even the miniature dachshunds were stoned when they sank their teeth into our ankles, and we were stoned, too, just riding the two floors up from our illegal loft to Juan’s, where he was growing corn and raising bees for his museum show. His bees flew from Broadway to Gramercy Park for pollen—or that was the plan. Roaches loved the rice and beans Juan’s table offered, so he mail-ordered mantis eggs—he’d read the mantids were formidable predators. But when their cases opened and the babies hatched, the incorrigible roaches ate them before they’d had a chance to prey. The bees: they were driven in glass vitrines to Buffalo for Juan’s retrospective and installed, the gallery for the opening gala at the Albright-Knox brightly lit. Too bright, too hot—next day, the curator switched the spotlights on, and every bee had fried. —Oh, and John and Yoko visited one night.