They didn't have much trouble teaching the ape
to write poems: first they strapped him into the chair,
then tied the pencil around his hand (the paper had already
been nailed down). Then Dr. Bluespire leaned over
his shoulder and whispered into his ear: "You look like
a god sitting there. Why don't you try writing something?"
The ape, deep in thought, swatted idly at his ear, thinking
Bluespire's buzzing to be that of a mosquito. The pencil
he held seemed archaic, too crude an instrument for his
thoughts. Bluespire had always been a pest, wanting the ape
to do this and do that. Always jotting down notes, as though
anything he learned from his observations might somehow
advance his race, his species. As though humanity might
somehow be saved from its fate by just any old ape.
--HJ
"*Vraiment*,
Poetry can be so many more things
Than what people mostly believe it is."
--Anselm Hollo
Halvard Johnson
================
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Junkyard Dog
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