A ***** hybrid clouded his voice; a southern drawl and Midwestern daydream. Mutt to himself, a fire to others, a redundant reverie about a home -- any home -- with pictures of bloodletting, forgetting mothers, Adidas clad feet belonging to hooded killers.
His hands sway in church but his soul doesn't. No belief in either concept: God or soul. Annoyed with the Christian claim that one needs the other. He speaks a voice that echoes, then evolves into a rarity too tame to flounder and fight, too wild to sit and stare.