I’m a man who believed that I died twenty years ago, and I live like a man who is dead already. — Malcolm X
The still eyes of Malcolm X, stilled by an f-stop and shutter. Winter, 1965. Malcolm is leaving a car, gel [...]
No car to drive to the dump and too embarrassed to borrow one, you scrape the black mold off the underside as best you can, muscle it onto your shoulder. Spores multiplied to the size
After pulling a score from the dumpster behind Krogers I stroll through sliding doors with egg-caked hands. The greeter greets me as I pass. I scan the aisles like a surgeon studying the mint
I want my web to hold. I want to repair what I have made. I was not given the gold hive. In me seethes the silk of invisible worlds. Spinning my body inside of hairline emptiness, I project
In the evenings, we watched Jeopardy. Wore surgical masks once she got sick. Before that my mother sent me to the store for cigarettes all the time. Pack of Salem Lights.
I’d come into the room & try to write a different ending on those anonymous walls. There was less time all the time until time changed. You know what I mean.
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