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May 20, 2009 20:46

Cuz my hair falls in waves, like the heroines in comic books.

Cuz I light my cigs with matches. I took everything I would've when I was twelve and ran from home to hide out at Katie's just down the street.  I have table manners cuz daddy taught me everything I needed to know from Faulkner's genius to how to properly eat from them caviar cans. Everything in Jackson is canned. Georgia's Jackson, not its reflected counterpart down in Cali.  I used to draw the states on Bobby's back before bed-time bludgeoned our imagination into sleep. And when his breathing steadied and I could see his Irish freckles glow with the fireflies, I'd trek the distance. I'd trek with my small fingers. All the way from Jackson to Jackson. His mama called my folks and by the time daddy''s truck pulled up, I'd be sitting on the sofa having tea with all of Mrs. Joyce's porcelain madames.

Daddy was tall, cuz God only builds us tall and fair south of the border. At high noon, our shadows feed only our egos and I eat mine up right before supper's prayers.  He ran a watch repair's shop beside the main cookery from morning till seven at night.
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