Sister,
You aint no pigeon!
Why you spendin all that time
trying so hard to look like one?
Trying to look like something most girls
would be ashamed to be called?
Trying to look like something
that hides its face
under tattered, greasy wings
for every hour that its not
filling its gut
with birdseed
and guilt
and cigarette butts
and shame?
Why you spendin all that time
standing out on the street,
marking time
till you're standing out on street corners
standing on lines thinner than your
girlish legs.
Stradling lines between worlds
between whoredom and
"Oh, what a good little girl."
Why you spending all that time
trying to get some arbitrary amount
of grime under your wings?
As if they were marks of pride
sullying your feathers,
anxious for a spot
of color or
something to justify why
you cry everytime the sun
rises
or sets,
sister?
Why you sullying your feathers, sister?
Don't you know that
you were hatched into this lesser world clean
and pure as both
simile and metaphor for things
most people in this place have never seen
Like fresh fallen snow?
Like a peaceful, welcome death?
Like innocence?
Don't you know you are innocent?
Sister,
bobbing your head
back and forth for these
froggy fools
is a waste of your time.
There's no need for all that ocean floor talk.
If you want to cut them down,
your mouth was made
for more
graceful
thrusts than that.
Sister,
why you
wasting all that time trying
so hard
to stay so high?
When even in the lowliest fields
men will stretch their necks
to see you wading through marsh waters,
hoping you will strut for them,
hoping you will call for them. Hoping
you will spread yourself open,
welcome them
with your wings perpetually parted,
revealing your quickly beating heart
beneath your tender breast. And really,
you need only step lady-like
and reveal a bit of yourself
unmarred
by the knee-high mud and shit of this world
to leave them
dumbfounded.
Sister!
I know you hear me calling you, sister!
You can ignore me all you want.
Sister! Sister!
I will never stop calling you, Sister!
I will never stop calling you
sister!
Showing posts with label rambling. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rambling. Show all posts
4/30/12
5/5/11
Kevin
(Inspired by ToTO's Catch a Fire prompts for June 2011)
When I was a boy he had
not hands but
cords of muscle,
sinew, tendons,
richly vibrating strings of flesh
filled with liquid-fire spirit
brimming at the eyes.
Even saw it spill out once
when they wouldn't let him hold his son.
He was the fire in our home.
The uncontrollable element
in our family's Feng Shui.
Made winter times bearable,
shielded us against tedium and cold
just from the sound of
--Hip-Hop blaring;
just from the sound of
--maniacal laughter;
just from the sounds of
--the outrageous things he would say.
Other times, he was just
a fire in our house
and it would break my grandmother's heart
just to think of putting
her youngest son out.
Saw him shave his head once
in the bathroom mirror
between rounds of Tekken.
Saw him give me a look
that was all confusion and anger.
"You scared? Why you scared?"
Saw it spill out more than once.
Saw him cover from view,
too late,
a mound of Cocaine
the size of his hustle.
Heard a rumour he was dead.
Heard a rumour he was living
somewhere in Mexico or
Guatemala or
some place he had no business being.
Heard him say he hated the medication.
Heard he was taking up meditation
but only ever saw him staring
out a dirty window
on the wrong side of the bed.
That's not Zen.
That's Benzodiazepine.
"That's not how life works",
Hear my mother say when
he showed up to her office
smelling like three weeks on the street
And ready for whatever job she had.
Heard his cousin tell him
"Look, even my dog have to bark to eat."
Now that I'm a man with
not hands but
cords of muscle,
sinew, tendons,
quietly vibrating strings of flesh
brimming with spirit
like so much smoke,
sometimes you can see it
just at the eyes
when I dream of
what it would be like
to not rely on rumours,
but to have him close
without his fire dampened,
but with a mended spirit
and a heart the size and shape
that his son must be by now.
When I was a boy he had
not hands but
cords of muscle,
sinew, tendons,
richly vibrating strings of flesh
filled with liquid-fire spirit
brimming at the eyes.
Even saw it spill out once
when they wouldn't let him hold his son.
He was the fire in our home.
The uncontrollable element
in our family's Feng Shui.
Made winter times bearable,
shielded us against tedium and cold
just from the sound of
--Hip-Hop blaring;
just from the sound of
--maniacal laughter;
just from the sounds of
--the outrageous things he would say.
Other times, he was just
a fire in our house
and it would break my grandmother's heart
just to think of putting
her youngest son out.
Saw him shave his head once
in the bathroom mirror
between rounds of Tekken.
Saw him give me a look
that was all confusion and anger.
"You scared? Why you scared?"
Saw it spill out more than once.
Saw him cover from view,
too late,
a mound of Cocaine
the size of his hustle.
Heard a rumour he was dead.
Heard a rumour he was living
somewhere in Mexico or
Guatemala or
some place he had no business being.
Heard him say he hated the medication.
Heard he was taking up meditation
but only ever saw him staring
out a dirty window
on the wrong side of the bed.
That's not Zen.
That's Benzodiazepine.
"That's not how life works",
Hear my mother say when
he showed up to her office
smelling like three weeks on the street
And ready for whatever job she had.
Heard his cousin tell him
"Look, even my dog have to bark to eat."
Now that I'm a man with
not hands but
cords of muscle,
sinew, tendons,
quietly vibrating strings of flesh
brimming with spirit
like so much smoke,
sometimes you can see it
just at the eyes
when I dream of
what it would be like
to not rely on rumours,
but to have him close
without his fire dampened,
but with a mended spirit
and a heart the size and shape
that his son must be by now.
3/17/11
Cherry
I'm always caught wishing
I could just hide myself.
Only, unlike those that
want to hold out until
the storm has passed and some
outside force tells them
'Its okay, little children.
You can come out now.';
I want to stay inside
even after that.
Even after after that.
I want to ball up and
hide until either the
world changes or I do.
And faced with the entire
spinning globe as my
stare-down opponent,
I'm pretty sure we all
know who's gonna be the one
to feel the sting of
mortality in their eyes
and blink.
So let me be the one
to change. If such a thing
is possible. Let me
be like the deluded
girls I knew in high school
who gave up all they had
to the world early, then
hid,
thinking they could grow back
their mangled purity.
And why not? Its just a
bit of flesh. Its just a
splash of blood. The pain will fade,
given enough time.
That's what we tell ourselves,
isn't it?
July, 2009
I could just hide myself.
Only, unlike those that
want to hold out until
the storm has passed and some
outside force tells them
'Its okay, little children.
You can come out now.';
I want to stay inside
even after that.
Even after after that.
I want to ball up and
hide until either the
world changes or I do.
And faced with the entire
spinning globe as my
stare-down opponent,
I'm pretty sure we all
know who's gonna be the one
to feel the sting of
mortality in their eyes
and blink.
So let me be the one
to change. If such a thing
is possible. Let me
be like the deluded
girls I knew in high school
who gave up all they had
to the world early, then
hid,
thinking they could grow back
their mangled purity.
And why not? Its just a
bit of flesh. Its just a
splash of blood. The pain will fade,
given enough time.
That's what we tell ourselves,
isn't it?
July, 2009
Cherry by Andre Marsden is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
2/7/11
Written in a weak hand
The following takes up two journal pages as its written mostly perpendicular to the page lines, in pencil, in a weak hand.
- I wanted to see if writing hurts less than talking + it does
- Want a whites
- If you can find straws
- Why did you all allow _____ to be the first thing I saw when I woke up
- Later I want u to look and describe the scar to me
- I still want gatorade + credit
- straws
- money is in purse want $60
- my spine hurts too
- Body causes fever in reaction to injury
9/6/10
The Negro (In Progress)
Photo by Jorge Larios (http://www.flickr.com/photos/vasagritarwow/)
The Negro dreams of rivers.
The Negro dreams of seas.
The Negro dreams of oceans crossed.
Leeward. Windward. Antilles.
The Negro dreams of Empires lost;
Ghana, Mali, Songhai,
And Cries himself into forgetting
Till centuries and centuries nigh.
The Negro pines for Gods of Thunder
and deities made of sweet yam.
The Negro calls himself Ibo and Ashanti.
The master calls him Sam.
The Negro knows nothing of Mahogany,
Cotton, breadfruit, Sugarcane.
The Negro knows only calloused hands,
fear, loathing, pain.
The Negro learns that kindness comes
with cruelty to his fellow man.
The Negro snaps the masters whip
and eats from the master's hand.
The Negro learns that secret things
are where power is best kept.
The Negro summons Ancestor souls
and says 'Nah, man. Is just a fete.'
The Negro seizes Saint-Domingue.
And moves into the house of kings.
Oh Haiti! Oh, Mon dieu! Quel Doux Cadeaux!
Sad land of such hopeful things.
The Negro knows that profit
is the name of the game.
He makes good on the only threat he has
and sets fire to the cane.
The Negro grew scars like crocodile skin
long before he was fitted with chains.
What was once a testament to a tribe's nobility
becomes yet another source of pain.
In time the Negro comes to know his work
and the value of his hands.
He also knows his seed will not take root
until he owns his land.
The Negro is offered freedom
and told it is a pittance of a cost.
Simply fight our wars and wait a hundred years more
and pray your children don't become lost.
5/7/10
Once upon a Time
Once
Once upon a time the world was flat.
Unicorns lived in magical glades, tended by winged sprites and tiny elves.
And there was a vast difference between being dead and staying dead. And that difference was a simple matter of choice.
Yeah. Simple as that. A man (or woman) could simply say 'I'm tired of this life business' And give up on breathing. And later, once sufficiently dead, he could decide that he'd like to go pay cousin Eustace a visit in the country and he'd be there, quick as a thought, rattling chains or moaning through keyholes.
Then, something happened. It was gradual of course - time being relative and 'sudden' simply meaning 'details lost to human memory.' - but irrevocable.
So, before this 'something' - which we will call 'the sundering' since that's what everyone else calls it- happened people had a pretty good grip on things. Flour spoiled in the jars or bread molded over because the piskies got to it, or fires would erupt in forests unannounced because will-o-whisps were angry, and people died just because, and they came back for the very same reason. And for the most part they were spot on.
:
But things changed around the sundering. Men wanted to understand things. They invented enzymes and bacteria that were invisible to the eye, and they invented refraction that could focus light and create fire, and they invented disease, sickness, infirmary, and they invented death, and the dead, and the insurmountable barrier between them.
Science killed the unicorns.
(besides, unicorns - the female ones at least - are actually vile, mean-spirited creatures. Many an Elf had been trampled and gored in the course of tending the glades. This leads some to believe that they had a hand in the sundering, selling out the secrets of the universe in order to make a place for themselves in the new world. And who can blame them. It was an inevitability. And it was either them, or the unicorns.)
Right, so science killed the unicorns. But it wasn't all astrolabes and microscopes, oh no. Philosophy was as much a part of the physical sciences as experimentation was. Great thinkers would sit for hours on end and sort of guess stuff, as they had done since the beginning of time. And it would lead them to some really nutso ideas. And in that time, just around the middle of the sundering, there were four schools of thought that managed to siphon off the last of the worlds magic.
The first were the Algrins. Pronounced All-greens. They were botanists and apothecaries, healers and biologists. Their interest was in living things, plant, animals, and otherwise, and what it was that made them tick.
They came up with all sorts of kooky ideas, like humors - viscous liquids in the body that controlled mood and behaviour - and a blood tide that ebbed and flowed within all living things. There was even a common belief among them, highlighted in the Flora Angelicus Tract, that Plants were the purest and most pious of gods creations, and that even though plants were alive and possessing of a mind, their entire being was dedicated to constant prayer.
Eventually the Algrins sort of went collectively insane. In a sudden fit of practicality - what alcoholics often call a moment of clarity - Florida Algrin, the schools founder, rounded up and dissected the his three brightest students. Finding no Humors and no blood tide he retired to his bed and made his surviving students swear to continue the explorations he'd begun that day. Then, Florida Algrin promptly died, convinced that there was absolutely nothing that was keeping his 138 year old body going.
The school continued, and flourished, and their most learned students became known as the geomancers. You've probably never heard of them.
And then there was Ignacio Giovanni. He was an apothecary, though not a very good one, and he was obsessed with Florida Algrin's teachings. The geomancers, however, would not accept him. They saw him as a bumbler, and an ignoble butcher. Ignacio was just as interested in the workings of the human body as any other Geomancer, but unlike them he wasn't so much interested in the healing arts. In fact, Ignacio killed more test subjects than any single geomancer in his time. And when he was done he would find ways to re-animate the corpses and receive second hand accounts of the land of the dead. Later, Ignacio would meet Guido Romero, a self proclaimed medium and half hearted undertaker, and they would use Algrin's teachings as a springboard into their own endless ocean of crackpot ideas.
Their school was completely unique. One had to be naturally gifted to become a necromancer - a term they gave themselves as a form of bitten thumb at their geomancers who spurned them - And as they became the last few people who still trafficked with the now alienated and often lonely dead, their school grew where others all but perished.
They built their headquarters in the open in Rome and in the Catacombs in Venice, the city of bones that kept the gilded city above safe and try, in more ways than one. When the plague struck, they moved to Paris and found it teeming and most fruitful. And when most were afraid of possessed warriors and cannibals, they found helpful friends in Zimbabwe, friends who even taught the now ancient pair a thing or two. Their school was the second most helpful in history. Though you've probably never heard of them either.
The story of the elementalists is a sad one. They are, if I may use a school analogy without reproach, that kid that always gets picked on because they're too smart for their own good. No one took the elementalists seriously, you see. There was very little space for their sciences in a world ruled by faith. So when they said things like 'Everything is made up of spinning particles' everyone laughed. When they said 'said particles get hot when they spin faster, and cold when they spin slower' they were scoffed at, and when they said 'everything in the universe spins: The particles, planets, the stars, even god spins' they were run out of town, usually by the geomancers. They were the least loved of all the schools, the smallest, the frailest, the last picked in any sports. If anyone had taken the time to actually look at things the way they looked at things, they might have learned that they were the closest to the truth.
The final school was founded by a man known only as 'Greyface'. He was a merchant by some accounts, a Duke by others, but most usually - and most believably in my mind - he was a priest and advisor to a certain line of kings. Whatever he was he had the funding needed to organize his school without anyone knowing, until it had grown to match the size of the geomancers, and spread to rival the reach of the necromancers. They were hermetics, they were gnostics, they were alchemists. They did not know The Truth, but they knew A Truth and it was the most important truth of all. "There is no god." says the preamble to the principia hermetica. "There is only the faith in one. And faith, being a product of man, can be turned with the slightest of gestures. It is not a god who makes the sky stay up and the ground stay down, it is not a phantom hand or the devil that plucks the breath from mens chests and leaves their rotting husks. It is faith, belief, concentrated from every living being that makes this things happen. And with the faith in our hands, we are the gods."
A grim truth to be sure, especially when a certain greyface - as their most learned members take on their founder's dour persona as a mark of prestige - caught wind of the other lingering schools. Radicals that were an affront to their paradigm. How could they control the masses, and as a a result the universe, if there were these other wackos out there filling people with ideas like praying petunias and communicative corpses and spinning. And so, Greyface waged war on the other schools, silently but effectively. There were witch hunts and crusades in those times. Churches that had once told stories of spirits impregnating virgins and men reviving their best friends from the dead because they were REALLY looking forward to that dinner party, suddenly spoke of loathsome tales of defilers and commune with evil spirits. Kings that had once been mostly concerned with counting their coffers and mounting the prettiest virgins in the land became suddenly transfixed with the ways of the universe and had scientists, real scientists, on their pay-rolls.
The other schools were slowly having their last bit of power torn from them. The necromancers sounded the horn. The geomancers said 'leave us heathens' and slowly died out. The Elementalists; they'd switched sides, sold out, became hired geeks for the goon squad. And the remainders went into hiding. The alchemists called that time, and the time just before it - the time when all the schools had formed - the sundering. And as a result, so does everyone else.
Once upon a time the world was flat.
Unicorns lived in magical glades, tended by winged sprites and tiny elves.
And there was a vast difference between being dead and staying dead. And that difference was a simple matter of choice.
Yeah. Simple as that. A man (or woman) could simply say 'I'm tired of this life business' And give up on breathing. And later, once sufficiently dead, he could decide that he'd like to go pay cousin Eustace a visit in the country and he'd be there, quick as a thought, rattling chains or moaning through keyholes.
Then, something happened. It was gradual of course - time being relative and 'sudden' simply meaning 'details lost to human memory.' - but irrevocable.
So, before this 'something' - which we will call 'the sundering' since that's what everyone else calls it- happened people had a pretty good grip on things. Flour spoiled in the jars or bread molded over because the piskies got to it, or fires would erupt in forests unannounced because will-o-whisps were angry, and people died just because, and they came back for the very same reason. And for the most part they were spot on.
:
But things changed around the sundering. Men wanted to understand things. They invented enzymes and bacteria that were invisible to the eye, and they invented refraction that could focus light and create fire, and they invented disease, sickness, infirmary, and they invented death, and the dead, and the insurmountable barrier between them.
Science killed the unicorns.
(besides, unicorns - the female ones at least - are actually vile, mean-spirited creatures. Many an Elf had been trampled and gored in the course of tending the glades. This leads some to believe that they had a hand in the sundering, selling out the secrets of the universe in order to make a place for themselves in the new world. And who can blame them. It was an inevitability. And it was either them, or the unicorns.)
Right, so science killed the unicorns. But it wasn't all astrolabes and microscopes, oh no. Philosophy was as much a part of the physical sciences as experimentation was. Great thinkers would sit for hours on end and sort of guess stuff, as they had done since the beginning of time. And it would lead them to some really nutso ideas. And in that time, just around the middle of the sundering, there were four schools of thought that managed to siphon off the last of the worlds magic.
The first were the Algrins. Pronounced All-greens. They were botanists and apothecaries, healers and biologists. Their interest was in living things, plant, animals, and otherwise, and what it was that made them tick.
They came up with all sorts of kooky ideas, like humors - viscous liquids in the body that controlled mood and behaviour - and a blood tide that ebbed and flowed within all living things. There was even a common belief among them, highlighted in the Flora Angelicus Tract, that Plants were the purest and most pious of gods creations, and that even though plants were alive and possessing of a mind, their entire being was dedicated to constant prayer.
Eventually the Algrins sort of went collectively insane. In a sudden fit of practicality - what alcoholics often call a moment of clarity - Florida Algrin, the schools founder, rounded up and dissected the his three brightest students. Finding no Humors and no blood tide he retired to his bed and made his surviving students swear to continue the explorations he'd begun that day. Then, Florida Algrin promptly died, convinced that there was absolutely nothing that was keeping his 138 year old body going.
The school continued, and flourished, and their most learned students became known as the geomancers. You've probably never heard of them.
And then there was Ignacio Giovanni. He was an apothecary, though not a very good one, and he was obsessed with Florida Algrin's teachings. The geomancers, however, would not accept him. They saw him as a bumbler, and an ignoble butcher. Ignacio was just as interested in the workings of the human body as any other Geomancer, but unlike them he wasn't so much interested in the healing arts. In fact, Ignacio killed more test subjects than any single geomancer in his time. And when he was done he would find ways to re-animate the corpses and receive second hand accounts of the land of the dead. Later, Ignacio would meet Guido Romero, a self proclaimed medium and half hearted undertaker, and they would use Algrin's teachings as a springboard into their own endless ocean of crackpot ideas.
Their school was completely unique. One had to be naturally gifted to become a necromancer - a term they gave themselves as a form of bitten thumb at their geomancers who spurned them - And as they became the last few people who still trafficked with the now alienated and often lonely dead, their school grew where others all but perished.
They built their headquarters in the open in Rome and in the Catacombs in Venice, the city of bones that kept the gilded city above safe and try, in more ways than one. When the plague struck, they moved to Paris and found it teeming and most fruitful. And when most were afraid of possessed warriors and cannibals, they found helpful friends in Zimbabwe, friends who even taught the now ancient pair a thing or two. Their school was the second most helpful in history. Though you've probably never heard of them either.
The story of the elementalists is a sad one. They are, if I may use a school analogy without reproach, that kid that always gets picked on because they're too smart for their own good. No one took the elementalists seriously, you see. There was very little space for their sciences in a world ruled by faith. So when they said things like 'Everything is made up of spinning particles' everyone laughed. When they said 'said particles get hot when they spin faster, and cold when they spin slower' they were scoffed at, and when they said 'everything in the universe spins: The particles, planets, the stars, even god spins' they were run out of town, usually by the geomancers. They were the least loved of all the schools, the smallest, the frailest, the last picked in any sports. If anyone had taken the time to actually look at things the way they looked at things, they might have learned that they were the closest to the truth.
The final school was founded by a man known only as 'Greyface'. He was a merchant by some accounts, a Duke by others, but most usually - and most believably in my mind - he was a priest and advisor to a certain line of kings. Whatever he was he had the funding needed to organize his school without anyone knowing, until it had grown to match the size of the geomancers, and spread to rival the reach of the necromancers. They were hermetics, they were gnostics, they were alchemists. They did not know The Truth, but they knew A Truth and it was the most important truth of all. "There is no god." says the preamble to the principia hermetica. "There is only the faith in one. And faith, being a product of man, can be turned with the slightest of gestures. It is not a god who makes the sky stay up and the ground stay down, it is not a phantom hand or the devil that plucks the breath from mens chests and leaves their rotting husks. It is faith, belief, concentrated from every living being that makes this things happen. And with the faith in our hands, we are the gods."
A grim truth to be sure, especially when a certain greyface - as their most learned members take on their founder's dour persona as a mark of prestige - caught wind of the other lingering schools. Radicals that were an affront to their paradigm. How could they control the masses, and as a a result the universe, if there were these other wackos out there filling people with ideas like praying petunias and communicative corpses and spinning. And so, Greyface waged war on the other schools, silently but effectively. There were witch hunts and crusades in those times. Churches that had once told stories of spirits impregnating virgins and men reviving their best friends from the dead because they were REALLY looking forward to that dinner party, suddenly spoke of loathsome tales of defilers and commune with evil spirits. Kings that had once been mostly concerned with counting their coffers and mounting the prettiest virgins in the land became suddenly transfixed with the ways of the universe and had scientists, real scientists, on their pay-rolls.
The other schools were slowly having their last bit of power torn from them. The necromancers sounded the horn. The geomancers said 'leave us heathens' and slowly died out. The Elementalists; they'd switched sides, sold out, became hired geeks for the goon squad. And the remainders went into hiding. The alchemists called that time, and the time just before it - the time when all the schools had formed - the sundering. And as a result, so does everyone else.
5/27/09
5:40 pm - Filenes Basement across from Union Square Park - 5th Floor Window Seat
In New York we walk against the light. There'll be no delay to our daily pursuits. No insincere righteousness to fix us to your worn, bitter road. Why should we give way? Why yield? Why should we walk when our goal is to fly? Why should we stop? For a little thing like danger, or fear, or failure? For a little thing like the loss of a life? A life which we never know the true value of until we stand to have it taken away. And what would a spent life be worth, having never walked against the light?
5/26/09
10:15 - 4 Train from Mosholu Pkwy to Grand Central
New York is written on the walls. The four train glides on through the sky, weaving past brick and rock and i see it there: barely legibile shout outs. The Boogie Down is getting up. There's no green here. No gardens. No wildlife. Bit like desperate weeds i see grafitti climb from the cracks and assend. It creeps up the side of apartments buildings like its own version of central park Ivy. It settles, gathers, and thrives in little nooks like an east village garden. And in some places it is tended to. Places where the lines between rich and wealthy broadens like the hips and lips and noses and accents of those faithful gardeners. The gardeners take precious care of their charges. They fertilize them regularly while talking shit to the boys. In the summer they let merengue play from open windows and freestyle hip-hop from the front stoop. Everyone knows gardens grow best when sung to. They don't eat without eating among the Spanish Montana leaves. And they don't drink without wateringfoundation first, for all those that have gone before.
They care for the ever growing vines and brambles with equally chaotic calculation; pruning with whitewash, simultaneously culling the rot while giving reverence to the dead. And in the spaces they make, new limbs grow stronger, the blossoms bloom brighter, and the graffiti gardens grow taller, and taller, and taller out of the shadows. Like everything else they strive to reach upwards. Let Manhattan keep their copses and shaded paths. The Village can have their occasional streetcorner trees and guarded, gated gardens. All that is fine for them who have clear days and singing birds and the everpresent sun in people's minds. Let them escape it if they want to. The Bronx is so hungry for light.
They care for the ever growing vines and brambles with equally chaotic calculation; pruning with whitewash, simultaneously culling the rot while giving reverence to the dead. And in the spaces they make, new limbs grow stronger, the blossoms bloom brighter, and the graffiti gardens grow taller, and taller, and taller out of the shadows. Like everything else they strive to reach upwards. Let Manhattan keep their copses and shaded paths. The Village can have their occasional streetcorner trees and guarded, gated gardens. All that is fine for them who have clear days and singing birds and the everpresent sun in people's minds. Let them escape it if they want to. The Bronx is so hungry for light.
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This work by Andre Marsden is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
