Sorry I’ve been away for the past two days which is against this whole daily writing project but I do have an excuse: I am the Easter Bunny koo-koo ka choo. Yes, I’ve been busy hiding eggs and I’m very excited to announce that this year my R and D team have finally concocted the egg that will make all this make this crazy confluence of Jesus, rabbits and eggs make sense. This year the eggs will break open to reveal little baby rabbits with fur colored and patterned like Ukranian Easter Eggs. These rabbits will also be able to quote passages from the Christian Bible. Finally, an Easter that makes sense.
   Now that everything is winding down, I can have a beer and get back to my daily writing…

The Poet-Thief

   The Poet-Thief, who did everything at his own slow and confident pace, strolled the sidewalk and cased the joints on Lilly Street, a short block of houses bordered by William and Napier. His head was now crammed with words that would find their order on a piece of paper to be slipped into a mail slot at one of the houses. He in turn would take something of equal value from the yard. Maybe a freshly bloomed flower. Maybe the nozzle of a hose. Sometimes, as luck would have it, he made it into the house. The Poet-Thief pulled out his pen and jotted down the following in his notebook:

challenge these things to you
        words grow slow    stale
so sing a second cup
           renewal in breaks
 inflates a hissing
           reinstate the missing

 you moments

         why in 32 tongues 
                comes up 
         ever because

of praise
  of pause
   to fill with what was

   He tore the page out of his book and walked through the gate of one particularly large house. He slid the poem into the edge of the red door when it suddenly opened. 
    “I’m leaving this for Francine. Could you pass it along to her?”
    “You must have the wrong place. There’s no Francine here.”
     “Could you see that she gets this anyway?” He put the poem in her hand and strolled down the steps. Under the force of suggestion, the woman stood helpless. There was no reason but in her hand was the rhyme.
     The Poet-Thief thumbed the woman’s watch which was stowed safely away in the bottom of his pocket.