I used to, when I was clearing the base,
out, I wanted the supply sergeant to say,
"Welcome aboard, are you checking in?"
"No," I'd say, "I'm checking out." Nobody knew
I had been there. I came and went, an hombre invisible.
That's sort of my career as a writer. It's over. Or all but
done. Nobody knows what I did but me and a handful
of friends. If I told you you wouldn't believe it.
HOUSEHUSBAND is my swan song. Snorts, grunts,
and hisses. The swan doesn't sing as he dies, and he wasn't
mute when he was alive. That's a myth. He makes sounds.
The just aren't very majestic. More workmanlike.
He's getting the shit kicked out of him.