I Don't Do A Lot Of Foisting,

I Smoked And Looked Down At The Bottom Of Pittsburgh For A Little While, Watching The Kids Playing Tiny Baseball, The Distant Figures Of Dogs Snatching At A Little Passing Car, A Miniature Housewife On Her Back Porch Shaking Out A Snippet Of Red Rug, And I Made A Sudden, Frightened Vow Never To Become That Small, And To Devote Myself To Getting Bigger And Bigger And Bigger.

I Don't Care What Is Written," Meyer Landsman Says. "i Don't Care What Supposedly Got Promised To Some Sandal-wearing Idiot Whose Claim To Fame Is That He Was Ready To Cut His Own Son's Throat For The Sake Of A Hare-brained Idea. I Don't Care About Red Heifers And Patriarchs And Locusts. A Bunch Of Old Bones In The Sand. My Homeland Is In My Hat. It's In My Ex-wife's Tote Bag.

The Rest Of Sitka's Homicides Are So-called Crimes Of Passion, Which Is A Shorthand Way Of Expressing The Mathematical Product Of Alcohol And Firearms.

With Patience And Calm, Persistence And Stoicism, Good Handwriting And Careful Labeling, They Would Meet Persecution, Indignity, And Hardship Head-on.

Every Golden Age Is As Much A Matter Of Disregard As Of Felicity.