Suddenly engulfed in too much New York. They all breath heavily under this 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 the 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 the freedom. It holds me like a greased pup. We are 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 down here on this shelf to secure a place in Heaven’s grave.
Just before early Autumn, this splash of bloody grace came to wake us from our holy slumber. A splash of bloody grace to help us remember. Help us remember the falling eyes. The fallen eyes sunken deep down here in the lower parts of Manhattan.