charlie is loving his post as the head of our apartment's cockroach patrol. we have either the world's fastest cat or the world's dumbest pests - yesterday he took a winged fellow down, no sweat. i'm hoping for a transaction similar to boston's, where i let the first one go with a warning and he told his buddies to steer clear of my stuff. i'm supposed to have faith in rehabilitation.

about to conclude my heart-to-heart with samuel beckett. the biography is a real enabler, as SB lived with his mother for nearly thirty years before catching the serious publishing train. moreover, his youthful volleys were often laughably short poems. we like this.
Is he his own strength?
What is its signature?
Or is he a key, cold-feeling
To the fingers of prayer?

He is a prayer-wheel, his heart hums.
He is eating the wind -
In patient power of appeal.
His footprints assail infinity

With signatures: We are here, we are here.
He is the long waiting for something
To use him for some everything
Having so carefully made him

Of nothing.

(ted hughes, "crow frowns")

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