There was a sharp piercing pain inside
my soul that want let go as I stood
by the shallow ponds and stare at the
raging waves, how their crushed
existence moves in damaged beats
and hard cracking vibrations.  I
could feel the trickling tears rolling
down my face as I thought about
Jussie Smollet, a thirty-five year
old light-skinned man walking
downtown close to the Chicago
River, who suffered a terrible fate
by two masked men.  The diminished
rhythms within me were emptying
themselves in spit-stained surfaces,
under dank dwellings, weathered trees
and shattered breezes.  And as I gazed
around the dead landscape, I could hear
the mugshot names reverberating in the air
around your broken body, how the filthy
racial and homophobic diction split your
frame apart, slashed nouns and pronouns,
smashed verbs and insane clauses intensifying
in drunken dungeons.  I was falling beyond the
drifting seas as I tried to understand why two
merciless men could be so cruel and harm
an innocent victim, how the world was so
disintegrated and shifting towards blank
depictions, gliding on ice, lost in sunken
dimensions.