Reflections
I miss you. When the world is full of cheers and lights and life, I miss you. When the songs turn wintry, heavenly, and peaceful as imitation snow, it aches like an old wound. I swore I'd have Christmas one more time with you this side of stars. But all the tonic in the world could not cure you. And love simply cannot hold the weight of time. But one day, I swear, time will battle love and lose! One day Love will chisel death to bits. And I won't see you gasp for air in my dreams, ever again. For dreams will turn to proper stuff and rise.
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Everyday
The children are chirping at the bus stop, fed on their parents regurgitations. "Are you Spanish?" "He doesn't look Spanish." "He looks Asian!" (What does that even mean?) Will they ever questions their categories? Will they reject pre-chewed fare one day? Will they fly and go look for solid stuff? And what have I fed my little goslings at home?
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Everyday
I found a lightning rod today, a subtle, soul-grounding stake, copper clad and conductive      to the bone. I grabbed it, felt a lone charge surge to heaven and melt again      to earth. The outcome: threaded like a bobbin, a resignation never to be so uncommon again.
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King Gary

King Gary

Everyday
He descended from the Prices   of Albion, Michigan - a humble lineage if any. He   descended the Mississippi river to the namesake state:    a dry, yankee fish; descended from a radar technician    to a night watchman, from a full-fingered man    to an amputee, from a boisterous firebrand who played a mean hand of Spades    to a wafer in a hospital bed, gagging at the  wretched    machines. Then, he finally ascended. "There shall be no night there: They need no lamp nor light of the sun, for the Lord God gives them light. And they shall reign forever and ever." - Revelation 22:5
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4.5

4.5

Everyday
4.5 A gasp and a cry. Thumping up steep stairs. (Too steep. Stupid builders!) “Creak,” shouts the landing. The end of the      hallway groans. Shuddering with sobs, my boy is waiting      for a savior. “Jesus is keeping you safe.” Fears stilled. We douse the bedside lamp. Darkness pounces, never slinks,      into the room. A preschool imagination fires a million synaptic           candles. Sleep quenches them -      one then 10... Later I pause at the door. Hairs on my neck exalt themselves - What if he’s not alone? The panic of a four-and-a-half year old throttles me.        And ghouls and goblins        and bad guys and grey wolves         parade through the…
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