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Rimbaud-type personality at his summer camp by coming out in the livingroom with a goddamn HAWK on his shoulder—It’s his pet hawk, of all things, the hawk is black as night and sits there on his shoulder pecking nastily at a clunk of hamburg he holds up to it—In fact the sight of that is so rarely poetic, McLear whose poetry is really like a black hawk, he’s always writing about darkness, dark brown, dark bedrooms, moving curtains, chemical fire dark pillows, love in chemical fiery red darkness, and writes all that in beautiful long lines that go across the page irregularly and aptly somehow—Handsome Hawk McLear, in fact I suddenly yell out “Now I know your real name! it’s M’ Lear! M’ Lear the Scotch Highland moorhaunter with his hawk about to go mad and tear his white hair in a tempest”—Or some such silly thing, feeling good again now we’ve got new wine—Time to go back to the cabin and fly down that dark highway the way only Cody can fly (even bettern Dave Wain but you feel safer with Dave Wain tho the reason Cody gives you a sense of dooming boom as he pushes the night out the wheels is not because he’ll lose perfect control of the car but you feel the car will take off suddenly up to Heaven or at least just up into what the Russians call the Dark Cosmos, there’s a booming rushing sound out the window when Cody bats her down the white line at night, with Dave Wain it’s all conversation and smooth sailing, with Cody it’s a crisis about to get worse)—And now he’s saying to me “Not only today but the other day 108