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Blessed art my fictions, those lying little stories that know from whence they came and where they shall end. They know the score. Sometimes they take a while to coax out, those little devils, but bless their pointy heads anyway.

Blessed art my fictions that tell you like it is and leave you wanting more.

Blessed art my readers who just want a good story and don’t go on too much about the art of my asterisk and the insomnia (or the hangover) that produced it.

Poetry, blessed, misunderstood thing you, once shackled in meter and rhyme now clothed in Slam, exposing sexism, racism, refugee, homeless, the naked, damned people who burn alone. Give me sight to see you and make this a right world for you.

Blessed is truth, though we sometimes call you fiction. Ah, but blessed is the reader who knows the score. (They’re smarter than you think, they recognize your geography and they don’t fall for that same old landmine.)

Blessed is time, and my bed, and this pen, beer, and breathing, that allowed me the space to know what I need to bless…and leave behind.