From the Blog

Closest Without Going Over

He’s that same Rocket, that same big-hearted swindler. When I arrive, he’s sitting on the back stoop of St. Luke’s funeral home, the one downtown with the Christmas lights, chain-smoking cigarettes and getting drunk on communion wine from the rectory. He was an altar boy as a child. Before he came out. Or, the priest came out. Or, we all came out and realized that there was more to the world than this town. A mire of strip malls and tract houses built on old Indian burial grounds.

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