from The Ghost-Star King
I OEDIPUS sweltered on a Hersheypark bench in late July, parched, pink with skin-fire, heat index 109˚F and climbing, the rush like a nightmare stampede of ghosts, there in the air impossible to touch, a thousand thousand squeals, whoosh-clink of coasters, crinkly bags and slurps of passersby, tears, somewhere tears, flip-flops splatting as a faded …