2003-12-17 - 10:10 a.m.
Slothy last ditch crawl in the softest velvet overcoat to the purpose and majesty of our ransacked lands. Mourning wide nosed Indians and bitter Negroes, feet cold and skin buckled, pan ghost-like in unaware unison. "What of this, and this, and what of this our sickness and the bastions of love and lonliness?" The larger question looms like thick black smoke after a car fire: What of our children? The response rises out of swollen bellies and bloody lips in putrid breath and white and anglo and sicker than they. The body of the answer is incoherent because there are bills to pay and lands to conquer and oil to steal and elections to win. And the rightious grow weary of whiteness.
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