the universe holds its breath for this one moment — if you don't have a baby it could turn out a lamb, or a piglet, maybe just this once. i am hoping, someday, the universe makes me laugh with this unexpected atrocity, the harmless kind, like sitting on a whoopie cushion in church, or just farting in the confessional. i have been reverent. i have reverence. i have faith in the little things, the ones that go bump in the night, or that box my ears. this means nothing when i want to laugh, when bubbling up inside me is this lungache. when all my world is silent and glowers at me, expecting me to be an adult, i lose it all in a moment; either i fall in the bathtub or i explode in blown raspberries, or maybe i give birth to a ferret. just for chris. of course it would not be harmless. of course nothing is harmless. of course i see you and think "hilarious!" while you are crying. none of this is fair, but funny. none of this changes me. none of it remains on the outside of me. still i want to slap a newborn badger, present him to his mother, say, "please,  just  this  once." — the universe and me, clapping each other amiably on the backs, sputtering and cruel-filled, we let it all go. (by Halsted M. Bernard)
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I acknowledge that I live and work on stolen Cowlitz, Clackamas, Atfalati, and Kalapuya land.
I give respect and reverence to those who came before me.