Engulfed in too much New York, they breath heavily under the din and crush. American Indians are still down here—savages, as they were called, by creators of stoic myths and merciless deities. Their words still hold a stone’s stance in our foundation. Manna Hatta.

If I give them credence, their ghosts will purge this sallow skin of guilt, wash this perfumed carcass of pomp, clean of lousy ease and perilous welfare. I can not give up this freedom. It holds me like a greased pup. We are the hungry paparazzi with hairy teeth, halitosis of the memory, grandiose creators of googleplexic reasons to seek fame. But our fame is reserved for God alone. Now we wait on the shelf to secure a place in Heaven’s grave.

Then, just before the early Autumn, a splash of bloody grace comes to wake us from this holy slumber. A splash of bloody grace to help us remember. Help us remember the falling eyes. The fallen eyes sunken deep in the lower parts of Manhattan.