WALKING THE HILL
UP TO CORNELL
It can only be that book I read, the
one with the bridge on the cover. Aisles
of accolades and words by the ton, everything
precisely going nowhere. The adventures of
marshland hawks, the last words of Henry
Inglemeyer, the lost direction of Samuel Clemens.
I already forget all that. I've been killed by words
and decimated as well by every punctuated
sentence ever penned. Egads! Unpin me Mr.
Nabokov, I am no butterfly to you at all.
When In Ithaca, do as the natives do, I
suppose. Climb that steep hill, bent into
the wind, as any San Francisco Chinaman
would do as well. My name is Thorstein
Veblen, please now take me in.
UP TO CORNELL
It can only be that book I read, the
one with the bridge on the cover. Aisles
of accolades and words by the ton, everything
precisely going nowhere. The adventures of
marshland hawks, the last words of Henry
Inglemeyer, the lost direction of Samuel Clemens.
I already forget all that. I've been killed by words
and decimated as well by every punctuated
sentence ever penned. Egads! Unpin me Mr.
Nabokov, I am no butterfly to you at all.
When In Ithaca, do as the natives do, I
suppose. Climb that steep hill, bent into
the wind, as any San Francisco Chinaman
would do as well. My name is Thorstein
Veblen, please now take me in.
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