The serious writer has a hamster. The hamster is dying. She drags her hindlegs and pees herself. The spirit of life is still strong in her: she climbs up the cage as she used to, then falls over to one side. Her left eye is half closed. She might have had a stroke.
while as i said before i was cut from my mother’s backbone it was left to my father to shape my gullible mind, and that’s the truth. every human is a singularity out there with infinite space around & infinite depth beneath. as a child i knew that and i didn’t because black hole awareness …
call me walt because i am of the tribe of that man who bent down by a river where the sky is closest and smelled the grass. and in that grass he found the odor of man and woman and child, all dead or alive, ancestors ancient, too ancient to know their name but not …
