I stand beneath the wind wracked oaks, their leaves already turning, some hanging yellowed, others falling brown to the grassy ground.
Two spindly pines, three over-shadowed maples and two sky scraping oaks stand dead in the ground.
As I feel the world turn to winter I contemplate my own fleeting decline:
In my prime our youngest son was born on this day, 27 years ago—his mother pushed him along here in his stroller and later sat wondering when I would come home while she watched him play.
Once, while she and I held hands and sat on a park bench, all but alone in the open park, two servants of tyranny, two white pigs in blue, pulled their cars up to the park, got out, approached us and informed us that we had to leave, for the crime, one supposes—for there was no given reason—of having a serious conversation in the most hushed of tones.
In the winter of my fighting life I have sparred here throughout the descending stages of decline, recently in 100 degree heat, but the message written in the cold-bitten leaves is not a whisper of summer but the rustle of winter.
Among the last of a reviled kind, after committing the sin of manual work, I have stopped off here to commune beneath the swaying giants, to savor a silent curse that the degenerate gaggle that squat among the ruins of this city are swept along the same soul sewer as claimed my degenerate race.
May Winter come.
Rubbing Out Palefaces
Moral Minority Survival at the End of Caucasian Time Paperback
The Lies That Bind Us
The Foundational Falsehoods of the American Dream
