"It was the little dharma bum Owen Weinstein and me, sitting in my tiny apartment in North Beach and cooking up macaroni and beans, when Michael died and came back."
Donna Mueller's finally found her place in this samsara wheel of wail, hanging out with the bums and bright mad dreamers of San Francisco. She's read the Buddhist dharma and snapped up the jazz and shouted "GO! GO!" to all the poets.
Then, one night, her boyfriend kills her, but neither he nor she stay dead. Now they've risen with an undying hunger, that makes him smile and think of dark and noble lords. But Donna knows better. She knows what they've become: Never dying and never satisfied. Hungry ghosts. Preta. What he calls a blessing, she calls a curse. Now what's a down and out dharma bum got to do about it?
