"This is the last straw," Alma said. She had just opened the mail at the kitchen table. Sitting opposite, Walter peered over the top of his newspaper. "What straw is that?" "It's anothe ... [+]
In a city of black death, white memoryial cloud clopped to meet me on Broad street. The city, desperately crying itself clean after the murder of Walter Wallace Jr., and I meandering toward myrrh and frankincense for a more intimate ritual. We, too fragile for this moment. The goddess uncaring, birthing. I watch water curtain split as a brown skinned white bearded sun breached. Becoming in white coat white top hat, and seated behind grey horses pulling white glass carriage carrying white coffin. The memoryial trust. This present futures sight seized my ghost as right hand clawed left breast. P