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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.