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i used to sleep upstairs from god.
in a small ohio town on the second floor of the home in which i was conceived, born and raised.
he wore a beard his first name had 5 letters his surname had 6 his middle name wasn't "h." but it might as well have been for all the hell through which i put him and all the hell from which he thought he was saving me.
my god was true and livin' he was blue from livin' that by-your-collar, stretch-your-dollar, clock-punchin', shift-rotatin', 7 days on-2 days off existence.
so, he sought heaven in his family and he created paradise from them.
he woke up each morning next to the only dream he ever wanted to imagine.
he achieved his own fantasies with every point and every rebound his sons crammed into the box scores of high school basketball games.
he accumulated siblings and parents among the townfolk who came to love him simply because he was good.
and he tried to pass his version of paradise onto me.
but i'm named for milton, naturally, i lost it.
not when first phone call from precinct hall asked him to bring bail money for his first born,
or when brew and food mixed to soil his brand new living room carpet,
or even when i gave up on athletics before he was ready to.
no, i lost paradise the day i exceeded god.
it was one of those countless one-on-one battles when father schools son on how the game is supposed to be played
he let me jump out to an early lead --as he usually did-- before reigning jump shot after jump shot on my bald, confident head.
but for the first time, my eyes looked down at his and my thighs were stronger than his and when i pounded the ball against the concrete backing him further and further into the paint:
god quivered.
spin move. elevation. ball. slams. through. hoop.
neither of us had the heart to finish the game; we both knew the outcome was inevitable and he knew it wouldn't be confined to that court.
i never celebrated that moment 'cause i never fully believed in it
until years later, when the old man stood in my home --more hair on his shoulders than on his head-- smiling, as he gazed upon a wall decorated by evidence of my journeys and adorned with articulations of the place i had carved for myself in the history of this world; he extended his hand toward mine not to shake it, but to ask for help walking to his car.
---i'm here---
"...do what scares you..." -- l. varela
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