On the sidewalks, where breathing marches, humans gather together and sleep on concrete mattresses, frantic life whistles by, gadgets jangling like side arms. Men, dressed in their Sunday best, women swaying, clicking about like gunfire down an alleyway, children making night sounds with their sneakers... A man stands on the corner holding a cardboard sign- “Repent! The end is near!” scribbled in marker the size of madness. He proselytizes at the top of his lungs, he points his index finger to the sky, the same finger he used to pull the trigger in Nam- oiled the barrel of his rifle with more affection than he ever showed another human being, blasted the gooks to smithereens, split their chests open like firewood, stacked them four feet by eight feet; a rick of red and yellow lumber. This finger, that now points to the sky and rumbles of God, found its mark long ago stained in blood. Following orders, seeking salvation in the air, above the busy sidewalk, the din of malnourishe
(The Weaver's Song)