I wonder whether the casket lid is A death trap like those recalled Drop side cribs that snatched Babies into the jaws of death
But if it is a death trap, it isn’t Inappropriate for this funeral Where my little Christ-love lay Blessed barely an age Before being laid to rest with All this ceremony. All this Ceremony. I’m going to miss this And funeral/baptism cake and potatoes Going off into the worldly world Christ-love less. Loving without Magic underwear and ordinations And special water and oil For anointing and dove Down comforters and man— That casket crib was chock full of stuff I think I can live without. I think I think I can live without.
I am an essayist and poet. My work has been rejected by some of the finest journals in America. Fortunately, it also gets accepted from time to time and has appeared in equally fine journals such as Word Riot, Inlandia, Brew City Magazine, and SageWoman, among others.. In 2002, I won the Academy of American Poets Prize for Vanderbilt University.
For no good reason, I possess an unnecessarily dark humor which is why being third generation California Inland Empirian delights me so. My gods are weird. I once won $350 for writing a smartassed essay on “why the wise use of water is important in my daily life”. I am undoubtedly the Greek god Hermes’ special snowflake. I’m pretty sure I got into college via a series of fortuitous clerical errors.
When I had to grow up and get a real job, I decided against it and stayed a writer. I have worked many odd—and I mean odd—jobs to support my habit: PR writer for country music hopefuls, resume massager, WalMart fitting room attendant and switchboard operator, and telephone psychic, just to name a few.
I am also albino. That's why my psychic gifts are so strong. I traded in my pigment for magical foresight, because that's how it works. It gets all technical. Trust me. That's totally how it works.
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