Ghost Cat and Rimbaud

This morning I run backwards without history, free in the utopian wind that Rimbaud yearned for but never found. You have to know: sometimes words are secondary.


I call the ghost cat. He takes his time crossing the floor of memory. The ghost dog never left.

Note to self: never write “of course.’


Rimbaud: just another guy who got lost in his noggin.


Oh I love Rimbaud just as I love the ghost cat.


Question: why is the ghost cat “not” history?

Question: what do you feed a feline spirit? What prayer should we say over milk?

Author: skuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University

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