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Steven F. Klepetar |
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I Am the Walrus, I am the Werewolf, Coo-Coo-Ca-Choo Sometimes, after a good night of sex or the way a patch of sun strikes his furry back or just the right, mysterious cocktail of serotonin and alpha waves the blood still sings in his werewolf veins. And so he bounds against limits of the world, leaping with crazy joy rising in his throat like a furious tide, hurricane strong, irrational exuberance with the market down, jobs scarce and politicians tasting worse than usual. Times like these he rises in the night, beats his chest. Crickets hum along roadside grass, bats outlined against a flashbulb moon. Werewolf surfing on the long curl of night. |