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  • I’m listening to a documentary about Mark Twain right now. We would have been great friends, he and I. We would tell giant lies about our past to one another while we ate ham and eggs and smoked pipes and rocked in chairs. He would probably try to get fresh with me. I’d have to slap his hand over and over… Mr. Twain was obviously a tenacious fellow. We would roam small towns moving from watering hole to watering hole, winning at billiards and losing at cards. We would stand on boxes in small towns stating our alike or opposing political cases. He would write me love letters and float them down the Mississippi. I would make up little songs and play them for him, they would slip out windows and never be heard from again. We would picnic on hills in the evening and blaspheme the bugs. The bugs wouldn’t mind, they themselves are full of blaspheme! Vampires that they are!

    Eventually, our lips would find themselves together. We would sit back, surprised at our sawdust kiss, blinking like Does… Then we would break into hysterics. He would then walk me to the head of the Robert Frost Trail… not knowing, of course, that it was the head of the Robert Frost Trail but feeling that it would be a nice place to stroll and reflect on our dusty love affair. He would go back to his wife; OH, what a patient woman. I would walk to the Atlantic, strip down to what God gave me and run like a child into the waves. I’d emerge, half frozen in body but with a spirit on fire. I would then take some rest in the sun, warming my bones while I slipped in and out of slumber. I’d make animals out of cloud shapes while I waited for my sweetheart to find me.
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