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“When I get up in the morning, after consciousness of this big form . . .” Maybe so-and-so would like a child, but I am too old to give birth. Too old, too much wanting to live my life, not take care of anyone as so-and-so takes of so-and-so. When I get up in the morning I am water and wine with this big form, this pouring out spiral of stars . . . Everyone Was Drunk South Dakota, August 1989. The buffaloes’ deep red-brown hinged shoulders and beards, their old hinged humps . . . These are the old males, separated from the herd. You can get a state license to shoot them. “So who saved me? And for what purpose?” The rich WASP suburb, 1946. The fight about the Jews on Wall Street. My uncle said, I thought that’s what we fought the war about. My uncle was right; everyone was drunk; my mother was peeling shivers of Scotch tape off the counter, peeling off her good hope. Or was it I who was losing my hope? in the violent lightning white on the white lawn. So why was I handed out of the burning window? For joy. Journalism. Stories. In Fear (1) By the St. Vrain River thirty cars, thirty young men the river at wolf 201 ...

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