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In love

Whenever I go to lots of events, I fall in love all over again with New York. Most of these events would not occur outside of New York and a couple of other places, the way that people from Detroit grew up hearing a lot more Motown, non-hits, than the rest of us. I'm grateful to be in a nexus.

In the last week or so, I went to these literary events:
* A Prose Pros celebration of excerpts from Martha King's memoir  Read More 
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Poetry Park

It was tucked in a corner lawn, looking over the Mississippi River in St. Paul. No signs or guidance. It didn't seem to belong to the building over there. The lines were burned into steel, marched up a column of fish, swirled in mosaics. River of sorrows, river of migration.

"to fields of ice & northern lights"

"your dream can become real"  Read More 
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The raven king

I like pictures of Johnny almost as much as I like pictures of Buster.

She's a tenant of his building.

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Why do birthdays cluster? I know lots of people born on November 3, none on November 2. Lots on October 21, nobody on October 22. And so on.

Could it possibly mean anything?
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This is most of the output from Janet's garden.

4 cucumbers & a tomato.

In Maine she had so many berries—blue, black, rasp.

The only time I ever ate my fill of raspberries was off a bush near her place in Lamoine.
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Stephen Crane

I'm kind of getting the idea of why I liked him.
Stephen Crane (1871–1900) was born on this date. He was my favorite poet when I was in high school.

A Man Said to the Universe

A man said to the universe:
"Sir, I exist!"
"However," replied the universe,
"The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation."

I liked that he got right to the point, that I could understand it while it still  Read More 
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