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Houdini (by Joe DiMino)

"I'll be back!"
Houdini said it.
They meet 
same day each year,
the anniversary of his death;
wait for the great illusionist
to pull a rabbit from a hat,
himself from out of the grave.
"If one exists,"
they  say,
"a trapdoor in heaven
or an elevator in hell,
he will fine it--
Houdini will."

For writers
all words are magic;
a postcard from a far off place,
composed to life--
incantation of rhyme,
potions of sound to spell,
forming lovers from basic clay,
gods and goddesses
from those that simply stay,
won't wash away
after the first rain
or the first gushing vein.

God spoke the world
into creation we are told;
so we imitate
with tongues,
discarding to the shredder
not the truth of living words
but lies
that just don't die on their own;
when not amended
wrongly punctuate and roam.