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15 Homage to George Herriman The world is forced with corners. One is a jail. One a wildered moon. We walk around like little huts on legs. We are whispered and skinny. The night is long and slippery. The night is roof. Above us a rickety pile of words. We have no food to speak of. We do not bathe although we wipe our brows. And bars are penned by windows. Our names are jailer, cat, and mouse. We walk the bleak village and look for you. emmanuel noose i-62.indd 15 1/4/10 4:31 PM ...

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