(For Black History Month 1998)


i have a wish
to be profound...
   to be proud and stronger
   and carry myself like the **** poets on Def Jam
voices of Kenya and kings, emblazoned
with wisdom, respected / permanence
tanned in words of Malcolm & Martin's reign...
   to have passions of Nubian queens
   wear a crown to herald my approach
head held high
   without raising a calloused hand,
   copper polished hearts
A presence that only demands simplistic
of silences in the awe, the inspired
unchallenged in my reverence--an African / American ability
   choreography / invention
   the first to dance, when others fear to
to keep it real and say it loud
my human wishes, strong, profound, proud...
sometimes
   gentille...

i wanna be black...
like King Cobra, a hood to umbrella fright
with venom from just my stereotypical sight
   immobilize and paint caucasians whiter
   to be well endowed yet humbly
complicated,
angry but with proven reasons unrequited,
to be singled out by mere appearance
alone, a Halley Berry poster, child - dealing drugs,
   respected yet in the poetry of chains
   creative even in these multi-colored pains
from a thousand lands of strife
music is sister, artistic is brother life
become ingenious
   saxophones in the moody blues,
   athlete of hurtles, jazz / boxing fights / sang...
gold medals, worthy for full frontal
news...

do i amuse you, with these longings?
think do you - it's a cursed delight?
   but life only
   excels with each challenge: our battles
against ignorance / shame defines
the worth we're given
our lot mostly restricted, our lions tamed
perseveres - tho' weep the dust of our ancients names,
and bleeds these,
our cotton soft truths some mistakes
   and Dolby stereotypes revealed
   re-assigned
now worn like brand new:
a garden painted stronger
roots - and robes of shackles' / thorns
sharp with unlocked prejudices
   brown can do no more (for you sir)
   criminal confidences find the unmoving wave of faith
a prominent jaw-line, obelisk-lips
kiss and smack / wet with loving lengths
it is ... no hurt in these earthen eyes
   evident
   stoic, strength, serenity
mine to dance and sing my apathy instead...
about the history, i wish to dis
yes, re-avow
empty empathies before,
   experience my thousands, marching
   Melato’s at the founding fathers' doors, will show
you how to open house
these ghettos of / our violent villages / of tar & soot
shadow our poor ever the more
our stars shine on
   broadway be our stage / Stomps / in the heart, hopes,
   styles rap / songs to battle racial profiles
racial cops in devil blue,
beating brothas, home video tell our news,
while our rich forget the rest
******* **** in their cribs
re-pimped, yes, ******* new money & *****
   of course, they are the talented ...
   almost gods on Apollo / knock on wood...
the music is still
the song still is
the foot is stampeding
the noise will be loud,

i will be proud
i will be profound
   in this time of redefinition,
i will be strong
(i wanna be black) like Etta James
at last...

One hundred to five to one to one
no one
They don't need your apologies
Come around the stand and say that to my eyes
you don't see
They don't crave verdict driven "sorry"s
nailed to a cross by a stone gavel
Burn that haunted cross
As the hearts and souls of the teaming
wish they could do again
trying to stand against definitions of self
definitions of manhood
little girl, only thirty-three years old
silenced in fear, silenced by fear
as the confident voices blow into her ear
1...2...3...4...5
times two
a grip that claims, that yells, that demands
a redefinition to the meaningless phrase
I love you.
Three months--- screams are muffled in horror, quieted verbals
ringing where only one can hear
Seven years---body is sliced by knives as she looks in the mirror
and sees a human hole.
How can you live, how can you say
that you know that everything will be all right with time
Who gets time?
Not ninety-nine thousand
demoralized, demonized, unrecongnized,
set free with a fine, or gone undefined alltogether
as Fear's closet of nails confines a million
ostracized and mortified
unable to band together
thank you judicial priority.
One hundredth of abusers given time
two years later out again
But one hundred-thousand others
hear you tell them
how to heal a womb ***** unsacred,
how to stand against a beast stripped naked,
how to quickly turn a limb placated
before it comes down to bruise her swollen rainbow skin.
And you justify a girl ripped open
entered in agony, her ***** broken
the first time she was eight years old
the hundredth time she was nine.
And you sympathize
as the sad man cries behind the podium
how can you not understand that no means no
no means don't
no means stop
stop means help me.
He understood that
he understood and he disregarded
every being on this rock for his own sick pleasure
I care about you.
he said to himself
Where were you when she got drugged in a bar
Where were you when he was ambushed by orange
Where were you when her husband refused to hear her terrified words
Where were you when they pleaded to anyone
Please please please please, Oh God make it stop
Now where are you behind your news desks, your podiums, your microphones, and your clipboards
when they risk their lives to ask for justice
when they cry out for the safety of their daughters
of your daughters
only so child souls aren't slaughtered
as they are thrown into a system that insists
they are not good enough.
A system of blow-up dolls, of pop songs, of stripper poles
defining a woman as only a hole.
He stole my innocence
You stole my dignity.
You stole my dignity, you stole my daughter's, my granddaughter's, sister's, aunt's, mother's
when you insist that the fix
is covering my body
shielding my ******
and saying no.
No is what I say to you
No is what I say to your apologies, your sympathies, your pities
She shouldn't have to get down on her knees for him
or for you
You say you've seen everything
Maybe you've seen everything
Films, shows, the **** scenes of everything
But you have not experienced everything
And I pray to God
that you have not done everything
But as far as I know, you haven't done anything
And legs and mouth and hearts
will be torn open
as hope is stripped from the holy bodies of the screaming unspoken
over and over and over again
Ninety-nine thousand lives you do deprive
where were you when she died
terrorized when the judge whispered
1...2...3...4----

Fly high,
Know your dreams have wings,
Be an albatross...
Clearing above the blue seas,
Until the curve of the horizon,
Can be bent and seen!

Fly high,
You know you can steer,
Tame the winds...
And break the waves;
Even storms can clear,
Giving way to brighter days;
A new season blooms,
Fear not, nay!

Fly high,
And break off from the hibernation,
See yourself with a redefinition;
Even a single prism,
Gives birth to a spectrum!

regarding parmeßan cheese (in italian): well, you don't really say iguana.

a culinary redefinition, notable when seasoning
delicate side-dishes,
   like mash-potatoes, invoking seasoning akin
to smoked paprika or some bbq powder...
the original term? e.g. a *pinch of salt...
well, a pinch regards more
of the actual act of cooking...
what i wanted was a "spell"
regarding the palette once the food
is cooked and then ready on the plate
to be consumed...
   i had to redefine pinch
with a word more refined...
indeed, it popped into my mind
just now - a hint of whatever
seasoning has been added
to a delicate side-dish.
delicate?
          quiet frankly:
quite bland if not improved.

on another note though...
on today's menu?
    creamy-tomato bacon pasta...
and what is the hint going
to be? oregano...
   diacritical improvement
to sound hearty, soulful akin
to italian?
   óregáno -
  but unlike the orthodox use
of the acute vowel
   in polish, where the use
is more of an orthographic
utility (aesthetic)
  replacing a U...
         i.e. / e.g.
   attempt:
                   próba...
     not pruba...
         you say the word in
the same way...
            but the orthographic
aesthetic dictates you write
the former, rather than
the latter...
  another e.g.
         ****:
                      huj
    rather than
                                   hój...
but in phonetic terms when trying
to sound more passionate italian
concerning ingredients for
a culinary adventure...
   i think the acute O can break from
slavic orthographic constraints...
      nurse, once again,
pass me the diacritical scalpel -
   óregáno! pancétta! mascarpóne!
                        ( ch ) |    parmígiáno! (zia zia)
                            c    |    (******* cheated
                            a    | whereby g becomes z)
                            p
                            p
  ­                          u
                            c
       ­                     c
                            i
            ­                n
                            o?!

p.s.
    rule.­.. you can't finish a word
   with a diacritical vowel...
  the tetragrammaton rule states that
the H already allows a vowel to exfoliate
into a stress-state...
                  but such instaces allow
  a niqab "decency" of the vowel to cover
itself, and not expose a diacritical
high-heel and nice little number:
   a tight red dress of acute stare
by the reader.

It has never been my intension
nor was it ever a bone of contention
to alter or disrupt the social convention
but now is the time to pay close attention
to the decline of the human condition

Responsibility rescinded creating moral decomposition
accountability abandoned causing legal repercussion
right and wrong are muddled in a malicious juxtaposition
public opposition has festered into social imperfection
the omission of tradition by politician’s redefinition


HEED THIS ADMONITION OR ARDENT APPREHENSION
SAGACIOUS SUSPICION AND PERSISTANT PREVENTION


Of the decommission of the Physician, Pediatrician
the Technician, and the Mathematician
and give this acquisition to those with no ambition
even those under suspicion of sedition
or held in detention without fear of restitution

This is the deception of the devolution
of the middle classification
and the total destruction
of American personification
praise the Lord and pass the ammunition

I turn and look at you
And I speak my peace, urging you to leave all you secondary notions at the door
Patiently waiting at the turn style for some one who I know will never show up
Because he is already here
He is me
He is everyone
A genius

Another futuristic constructuralist
Studying equations
Where the answers lies in eternal joy
The difficulty to burn and the ease to understand

Only separated by patience and time
Overthrown and renewed
Refurbished
Barking dogs crafted from jade kissing your palms, bursting through parlor doors smoking on a long stemmed pipe
Writing in blood with a raven-wood quill

And a distraught agonizing yelp echoes in the library
Denouncing the existence of love
Brining what is mistaken as such to surface
Gain, satisfaction, self esteem and companionship
Love is up for redefinition

Bargains and betrayal
Vacations in plains never explored
Taking trains filled with ridiculous faces
Stark raving madness with clarity
Disapproval of sonnets of old that now in the new age are no longer suitable for the forward thinking minds
Necessary brashness
Eminent affection
Everlasting adoration of the suns embrace

Envision the acceleration
Of your heart and mind
As the truth is delivered
Upon you, replacing
Your salvation with a
Glimmer of thought
To inspire you to
Reimagine an existence
Without the excess of a god.
Time, energy, and motion
Becoming interwoven as you
Refocus on a new existence
Where you don't *******
Squander away your time
Worshipping false idols
Warning you against
Worshipping false idols.
When armed with a thought,
The creation of a
Revised world isn't
Such a foreign concept,
But an attainable reality.
Strive for a redefinition
Of the corrupt system
For in action, change
Can be forced on
The unwilling establishment.
Abandon the petty squabbles,
Brother against brother
Over an imagined salvation
Leading only to extermination.
Realign your thought process
And adjust to a world where
Brother allied with brother
Fight for the freedom
From class division,
From monetary idealism,
And from religious ideology  
Picture an existence
Where we no longer divide
But combine to form
A unification
Of revolution.

It’s gonna be a long, long road* / with too many minds / too straight and too narrow, / narrow.  / I know that together we are a big ship to turn, / and it happens slowly, one heart at a time, / but I am convinced / that we can either cut through these waves of change coming our way / to timeless truth and changeless grace / or be swept away by the currents.

I know that culture tells us we need to pick a side, / to claim the ground beneath our feet and fight, / but I refuse to believe that people are my enemies. / This is not a war of flesh and blood, / but of powers and principalities. / How long will we continue to point the finger / and fail to take our own hearts into account? / I believe we are being deceived / by this mess inside our chests.

I know that I am a prodigal son, / and I like to tell myself I’ve had my fill of filth / but the desires haven’t gone away. / I know the feeling of going to bed every night, / thinking “God above, no.  Amen,” / the name of Jesus too painful to speak, or / sobbing in the basement of a coffee shop, / praying, “All I want is one kiss!” / A kiss on the cheek, / a kiss on the lips.

But I know / that to this day I’m living with my Father / because he’s constantly convincing me to stay, / singing, “You are my son; / you are not my slave. / You are not my slave.” / And it’s uncomfortable, / but I’ve learned the secret of facing comfort and pain, / abundance and need; it’s Christ, / who makes a home out of me / when none of my homes feel right. / God, you are my hiding place and not this closet / or these secrets! / I’m resting underneath the shadow of your wings / and not the dark, looming clouds of fear!

I know that I want this word / tattooed in black ink on my heart: abide. / I in him, he in me, / because I desperately need it to be true. / It’s the thought that will be endlessly written  through my life like poetry. / Every rhythm of life, / every half or perfect rhyme, / every break / at the end of a line / is according to the purpose of a Master Poet.

I know that English only goes so far, / and so grace will be my second language; / every word pronounced by this flaming tongue / will be from divine vocabulary, / redemption and redefinition. / My eyes will be open, and yet my arms will be open; / my heart will be open, and this, / this will be my proclamation: / “Orientation / is a beautiful word, / it means not where you are, / but the way you’re facing.”

I know / it’s gonna be a long, long road, / and though I am weak / still I will follow, / follow.

I’ve stood on the corner and slow danced with death..
Held it’s chilly hand and took a deep breath of stress..
The cold street seemed to even heave a heavy breath..
It’s weight falling and freezing in layers upon my chest..
Everything was wrong, I could feel the need to progress..
Sick of flippin’ bags, ***** deeds, and all the rest..
Hoppin’ from bar to bar, wakin’ up feelin’ like a ****** mess..  
Out to party hard, chance the odds and do it all to impress..
But I woke up one morning and knew for sure that I’d digressed..
I’d found a fool in the mirror an all the sudden the facts coalesced..

I needed an out, a place to go, to soul search, a personal expedition..
All I had to find was a suitable place to make the transition..
To shed my filthy skin and leave New York was my only mission..
I had to start the journey that would to bring myself to fruition..
I sold everything I owned and headed to California on intuition..
I stayed in the rut for a minute but finally overcame opposition..
Without a shred of luck, here I am, a straight up redefinition..
I’m cuttin’ everything bad in out my life with surgical precision..
Becoming a free man to follow my life’s greatest ambitions..

49°f on the sunrise, wind in your sails
the coast all calm, my mouth all red
"you want this?" you say, and i kiss you
quick and sunken, teeth like graves
with every inscription an old treaty
international law between the lines
of our coexistence; it is: definition
and redefinition of forces
peaceful conflict, maybe
content desolation

i say to you shining, i say "of course"
i am: the golden boy with a fog on his heart
you are: slimy, so sweet, a snail full of kisses
dismantling the borders of my skin like
a needle, a bug, pure irrationality;
but the sea-breeze sobers
and i know i will be fine
in the stability of your hands
and the love story of your fists

and when i breathe into the sand
i can feel my bruises swell
my scars flutter
the sky burns grey and my thighs
ever pinker; my lips ever more split
and now you hold me like the tide
and i come home with you smiling
52°f on the morn, salt on my face
and i know, i know i will be fine

This is bigger than You and Me.
This is about more than just poetry.
This is a clash of ideologies.
This is a battle of philosophies.

People are little more than metaphors.
Glass mason jars containing different world views.
Tinted different hues. Some are translucent and some are opaque.
If I'm solid umber than you're clear blue,
but this is bigger than Me and You.

This is larger than Us vs Them.
This is beyond Nature vs Nurture.
This is a blessing in disguise.
This is torture.

People are little more than metaphors.
Multicolored jars with their lids half-******* off
containing different liquids that taste like world views.
If mine is bitter than yours is sweet,
but this is bigger than You and Me.

This is about technology.
The effects of social media on humanity.
In the future, we'll attend parties in virtual reality.
Nobody will drive home drunk
and there'll be no fear of catching an STD.
My sisters won't have to worry and your mother won't make a fuss,
but this is bigger than all of us.

This is the search for an answer to the question that has always plagued Man.
This is the middle ground between the Beginning and the End.
This is the Herald of Passion and Love's Last Stand.
This is more than we can comprehend.
This is beyond everything.
This is no man's land.

People are seldom more than metaphors.
If I'm climbing out the window then you're knocking on the door.
If you're progress then I'm a Luddite.
If I'm a lot less then you're a little more.
If I'm an Erectors set then you're a Lite Brite.
If you're still a ****** then I'm not a *****.

The animal kingdom seems to know better.
You don't see birds of paradise plucking out their own feathers.
You never see a lion shaving off his mane.
Though the male mantis goes willingly to his own demise,
one wouldn't call him insane.
He doesn't fight his basic instincts.
He knows exactly what to do.
I have no idea what I'm doing,
but this isn't about me or you.

We're just metaphors.
Hardly more than similes.
Like abandoned puppies left out in the rain.
Like orphans with no families.
Like tumbleweeds rolling across a barren plain.
Like a mouthful of cavities.
We're like characters from a Greek tragedy;
prideful heroes with cursed destinies.

We're every bad cliche from every over-used plot.
"You're everything I've ever wanted."
"You're everything I'm not."

If I'm coke then you're ***.
If you're cold then I'm hot.
If you're Green Eggs and Ham then Sam I Am.
If you're Katherine Hepburn then I'm Humphrey Bogart.
If you're Ilsa Lund then I'm Rick Blaine.
If you're Casablanca then I'm Citizen Kane
If I'm full-blown crazy then you're slightly insane.
If you're speaking directly then hey, I'm just sayin'
We're caught in a web.
One of us is the spider and the other's the fly,
but this is bigger than you and I.

This is a falsified endeavor to find the truth.
This is an exposition on the Feminine Mystique.
This is a journey into uncharted territory, and to go there boldly.
This is a redefinition of what it means to be lonely.

Its national poetry month
2 years ago i wouldnt
Have called myself a poet.
2 years ago i would have
Spoke it, wrote it, though
Never claim poet.
Angelou raised me, to
Feel compared to her
Was never aligned with me.
To be called a poet, was beyond me.

Then it happened,
A shift took place,
And I heard that my voice
Is my poem, my poetic embrace.
My pure thought is the poem.
The universal love poem
Of us, of what is.
So I know I AM a poet.

So I write it.
My voice.
The one no one knows
Yet is their own.
The prior One.
The comfortable One.
My home.

This place, my heart dwells, it longs
To rest again.
To be re-strained through
This sieve of us.
To elect to rest, just a moment more.
Unless my children call,
Ill return.

Though the quest feels near
Its return. The hero heart
Feels awoke.
Dragons slayed, battles won...
Only to find me again.
Bare, alone, aware of One,
Yet alone. Prepare for
Redefinition.
Change, evolution.
Only to find me again.
Bare, alone,

Aware of One.
And my poem moves along,
And I write to move my thoughts
Along. The mind gets sticky
Tough, thoughts like glue.
Though, when I release
Its gone. Not the love,
The incessant thought fog,
Registering all my eye sees.
Sifting through the pieces of me.

And You. All I know is I miss you.
And the embace of your dance.
The hold of your hand.
I dig deeper yet,
And we meet again in my heart.
Aware of our heart. I feel the beat,
I tune and take heed.

Night sets in
Candles glow
Scents are mixing
Dinner, me, and you.
Tonight it all adds up for me
This apron alone is put on for you.
You are fine, refined, redefinition
Of all black MAN.
I will exist right here
Right now
To share with you
Create a scene with you
Whatever you want to do.
Share fruit with me
Get high
Vibe out
Share your dreams with me
Let down your walls
Take off your shoes
Be confident in me taking care of you
Giving into you
Be free with me
Real with me
Rough with me
Sensual with me
Fall into your urges with me
Let me devour you
I will yield to you creating moans of me.
I'm just thinking on some real ****.
Some all night ****
No clothes
No boundaries
Just some exploration of higher elevations
With someone so beautiful.

i look for the redefinition
of my rugged old life.
to erase the tarnished filled
memories that is my plight.

let's create another direction
coming full circle of change.
creating new thoughts to
set the world onto flames.

it's my ignition to crank the
power that be.
supercharged to the max
who else would i be.

powerful, bold and fierce
excepting nothing less.
waiting to be the batter's bat
knocking down every test.

when you write a poem, you own it
you give it your life, you give it meaning
it is your thoughts; it is you

yet as soon as that poem is read by another
it is no longer yours
your meaning — gone

its a redefinition
for the one who reads
it is their work

It’s easy to discern the who what where and when
Compared to the divination of why.
Why are we here?  Why are we alone?
Why are we tortured with foreknowledge of death?

Stop.

That’s the most important why, perhaps.
For it plucked us from the trees
And set us on course
To make some sense of our shortage of days,
To ****** the brass ring of eternity
If only in the collective memory.

(Let us here pause
And give a moment’s thought
To the countless anonymous
Who sacrificed all their
Fleet-footed hours
And all human joy
For attainment of eternity
In the memory collective
Only to have been
Promptly forgotten
In the first moment of
Posthumous silence.)

But this quest is amoral,
It does not specify
Whether fame or notoriety’s the prize.

This is the apple of Eden
The tree of knowledge.
It is the crux of sentience

(Poor sentience,
robbed by redefinition
of all salience and pride,
Left lying shop-worn and ill-used.)

It’s the fear of time, the root of crime
And our demand for assistance devine.
Are our whole lives a scream of protest
Against the known inevitable?
Can inevitability even be known
Without the benefit of hind legs?

(Why the quadruped bias?
(and what does this have to do with inevitability?)
Any more than four legs would render
‘Hindmost’ as opposed to ‘hind.’
Let us be specific,
Whether or not it’s
Neither here nor there.)

Why can’t we make peace with our fate,
And accede to the eventual silencing of that
Hated, feared, beloved voice within?
What does nothing feel like?
What does nothing sound like?
Who would be there to tell?

Imagine our lives
If foreknowledge of death,
Did not exist.
What would be sustained?
What would be lost?
What would have never become?
(I know that my ask is unreasonable at best,
The bell has already been rung.
But this is my poem and I’ll ask what I will.)
Could you live in such a state
Of innocence edenic?
Of course not; not as you are.
But then, who, what would you need to be?
If innocence were refundable,
What would that voice,
That lives in a certain place
Between your ears

(Would that voice still
be hated, feared, beloved
under the prospective circumstances,
or would it be otherwise?)

Have to say

(Does a voice ‘say,’
Or does it speak
For it’s master?)

When in quietest solitude?

Are you uncomfortable?
Will you turn the page?
Would you prefer to debate
Than to imagine?
Do we know which way the wind blows?
Are there any more weathermen?
Or are we all meteorologists?
Does it matter?
Did it ever?


For those who remain,
Let me welcome you
To the Realm of Poets and Madmen.
A distinction without a difference.

please remember me to forget,
this mammon fest...
i have only the slighest
need to require a picture
and a quote beneath
                best in summary:
take a picture -
                 it will last longer;
ain't schoolyard antics
                 the dog's *******?!
it's like watching...
    watching, something
   attitring itself in amethyst
while oozing the scent of lavender!
that's either quirky,
or just plain disorientating.

p.s.
:)? hummy hummy
hummy humming bee
knave... twice the standard,
and let's count
the trans-****** dictionary
redefinition...
  hummy hummy hummy...
                schmile!
cheezers, cheese'oh!
bogus quest, bogus heroes.

The sky is dark. Hazy. Dark. A crack of thunder interrupts the sound of rain penetrating a collection of lonely pines near the edge of a cemetery. It guides an unescapable moment of numinous silence. For one single instant the sky ignites. Hot, bright, white. Just beyond the long shadows cast upon gloomy trees along Locust street a figure comes into full view. Mary dances capriciously upon the grave of her unrivalled faith.

For them, it was a happy day. A ****** trip upstate for an ivy league education. A proper baptism for their eldest granddaughter among waterfalls channeling the firm redemptive grasp of the finger lakes. Before these days of welding fumes and urban decay.

She hid among the books. Projecting her unstable mind upon rows of cast iron shelves to watch them fall three floors below. Her safe existence dissolved slowly while the pages called forward the thrill of pure undefiled truth. And while her peers were busy building an empty cardboard box container faith she slipped from her own eschatological resting place.  

She vanished desperately into an ethereal fog that night. A divine curtain culminating her ignorant adolescence and prophesying dangerously about the upcoming winding Pennsylvania interstate.

She wiped her face and pushed through the dark with nothing in her grandparent’s 4-Runner but a hastily gathered selection of clothing stuffed into a black garbage bag. She spent months watching her fragile soul become slowly crushed by the weight of an immovable system, fraudulent and morbidly obese. She had often contemplated an effective means to quicken her own spiritual suicide but as long as this 4-Runner was moving she would press on.

The state forrest mocked her as she drove. It called her a fool as she began to second guess the decisions she made which led her deeper into this self imposed exile. As her mind began to wander from a state of useful diagnosis into the depths of self deception a white tail flashed quickly across the front of her windshield. That was all it took to bring her face to face with the gravity of her situation. Life and death intersected ten miles beyond the intersection of Windy City Rd.

Mary pulled glass and blood from her hair and struggled desperately to turn the key as if she were running. Not running away from but toward something. Running headlong into a redefinition of life as she believed it to be.

She ran headlong into the temporal seduction of looming blast furnaces beside the rivers of steel. They would drag her search for authenticity through an unholy descent into the lasting clutches of addiction.

Now through abandoned lots Mary walks. Every morning. Every evening. Up steep forgotten streets. Crumbling asphalt, red brick and stone layered inappropriately upon each other. The decay revealing a necessary and unmistakable ode to generations of forbidden deconstruction. At Electric Avenue she would often rush to cast her sins upon the curb of the Hollywood Show Bar.

Day after day this perpetual state of filth quickly stained her hands black. Tar black like the God ****** wasteland she suffered for every day. Maybe a heaven doesn’t exist? Is this is all there is?

She turns the key. Guiding an unwelcome wave of optimism toward the rusted grey Toyota 4-Runner parked in an empty lot beyond the edge of the cemetery.

Through another strange land of death could this rusted out faith still carry her away?

The starter clicks rapidly in anticipation of a crack of thunder, interrupting the sound of rain penetrating a collection of lonely pines near the edge of the cemetery. Just beyond the long shadows cast beyond gloomy trees along Locust street a figure comes into full view. Mary dances capriciously upon the grave of her unrivalled faith.