Slowly, ever so slowly, the tiny blue spiders awaken. They sing and dance like sweet children. Early April is a small child, full of bluster and grace. The fifth of April, I had a dream. I pulled a tiny gray skull from my right rear molar. Then, my face replaced Lincoln’s on Mount Rushmore. I was baptized a Catholic, and you know what that means. I like my reality solid, and preferably edible. I find rational thought the stuff of heresy. I am confident that my mother will someday be canonized. I never actually breath, only sigh.
David Kowalczyk lives and writes in Oakfield, New York. He has taught English at several American colleges, including Arizona State, as well as in Changwon, South Korea and San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. His prose and poetry have appeared in five anthologies and over sixty magazines in the USA, New Zealand, India, Wales, and Turkey.