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?