The morning already set the sun
in motion. The rays blur into the
side of his vision. Birds fly without
consequence and cards are being dealt
as the ship horns bellow out across
the river. Sitting across the table, a
gentleman with a beard, weathered at a
young age because his work involves his hands,
taps his foot against the ground.
“I don’t feel up to this, not one bit.”
Is there a choice. Is there ever really a
An ace of spades falls from the deck of cards.
“Why welcome the dead! It’s all futile?”
That evening, Ave Maria filled the
Opera House, internal politics trapped inside,
a heart of baroque obsidian, a stain-glassed heart.
Expecting to be saved, an abandoned church, she asks.
Foolish though it was, she leaves heaven to
become a devil.
A muted piano crescendos the lyrical, whimsical
melody into a sleep so deep that could only be
reached by heartache. The notes end, but she
keeps humming. And, with its end, he awakens
nearly drowned by the marigold’s touch.
“When I speak, I don’t speak as a Democrat, or a Republican… I speak as a victim of America’s so-called democracy. You and I have never seen democracy; all we’ve seen is hypocrisy. When we open our eyes today and look around America, we see America not through the eyes of someone who have — who has enjoyed the fruits of Americanism, we see America through the eyes of someone who has been the victim of Americanism. We don’t see any American dream; we’ve experienced only the American nightmare. We haven’t benefited from America’s democracy; we’ve only suffered from America’s hypocrisy. And the generation that’s coming up now can see it and are not afraid to say it.”—Malcolm X (via thenoobyorker)