Dear Mister Trolley Man,

You are my ice cube.

I write to you from a state away. I saw you thrice in one day, and still think of you the same.
I don’t know if you remember me, but I have hope for my hope for humanity. That is not a typo. Even the purest things can deteriorate. Even the purest people can die. The kindest people in my life c…read more

Red seats, white screens before they turn blue.
Low lights, loud sound, cinematography beaten and bruised.
The West Coast feeds us stories about the South,
its growls and hunger- while shoveling their mouths.

Red cheeks, white skin, clerical collars of blue.
Haters, defamers, of those of colorful hues.
Those colorful, no-name, no-joy…read more