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My Personal Hercules I have no way to earn a living but to find a giant horse and make it stand in a yellow tent, one harvest-amber town after the next, beside the bigger and sadder bull and the tiny, resourceless stallion, Garboesque, lying on pale straw in a sunken, untouchable court. If my enticement is any more monstrous today than yesterday, if it builds any more power into its sides, if its red-gold plush weaves any broader Belgian tapestry, if it scratches its burgeoning knee with ever more giantteeth, my living and my sadness will prosper, dependent on death to chalk their height— more chaff in a greater fringe of eyelashes. Two-tone phallus, pink end proffered, truck-tire-black tubing retrieving it. Constant alfalfa, barrel of water quaffed with tsunami tongue: It is happier eyeing people to ignore than is "Ten Thousand Hamburgers on the Hoof" next door, happier than the paragon rabbit nibbling its ribbon, blue. We have no home, no hutch, no roost. I am a brute. The horse is mortal and majestic, magnanimous, whose grandeur moves by trailer. Named Hercules, nineteen hands tall, '7 two thousand seven hundred fifty pounds, fiveyears old and grown by tumor— pituitary, once a cinnamon foal in Florida, disproportionate poetry. 18 / ONE: PORTRAYALS ...

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