"The stars are threshed, and the souls are threshed from their husks."

Monday, March 12, 2007

Nah. You don't know Hank Williams like I did.

There is a little red arrowish dog who swims through the low air in our pseudo-adobe apartment complex. His owner is a sway-backed skinny brunette with an old Beemer adorned with a bumper sticker that says "Bio-fuel for the Revolution."

This warm hurtful morning I let my cat, the Cat-a-Push, out into the concrete yard he has grown into and owned against a mighty Red-Tailed-Siamese Resistance.

Leaving my citadel among citadels I ran across the dog-thing lapping up the inches towards our slinky hero and the Pushkin, 'ero of ages, ribboned under my door and inside.

Sway-backed girlie's boy-thing: "I would have thought the dog would have been more scared than the cat."

Me: "My cat isn't scared. He just hates to get his hands dirty."


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