
they carve slices out of the sky and serve them to the audience, like lovers who brush the silverware off the table, finger-feeding each other the last bite of tiramisu …
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ruminations of a wordsmith-anthropologist... by Greg I. Hamilton
they carve slices out of the sky and serve them to the audience, like lovers who brush the silverware off the table, finger-feeding each other the last bite of tiramisu …
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Then they jam together, the music swells, and damn if thousands of copies of the local Mali yellow pages don’t all flutter at the thought of B
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Ten words, like smells from grandma’s kitchen, like the feel of that favorite flannel, like a man on oxygen performing under a Jazz Fest tent…
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