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Robin heard the marching of Union soldiers outside his window. The rustling of bayonets resting against blue uniforms poured from every drop of blood. The marching band blew grey tones from behind the charcoal clouds. The tuba’s dualistic nature enabled it to serve as a fog horn alerting the passing ships swirling beneath the thunderstorms over the ocean two blocks down on Perry Street. A sudden surge of electricity overcame Robin as Rachel Pierson’s cold hand reached underneath his cotton un...

I'm not a very good person. I know if I made this confession at one of my Narcotics Anonymous meetings (and I've felt like doing that many a time) I would likely be bombarded with bumper sticker affirmations like "a person is only as good as his inner voice tells him he is," or "you are the person who is the sculptor of the new you,'' or "God don't make no junk," and while I believe in some sort of higher power, I'm pretty sure he was taking a smoke break when I was going through the assembly...

Taken from my home, placed aboard a ship, shackled to the hull with four-hundred men, women, and children. Forced to lie in urine while rape and murder surrounded me. When we reached the Caribbean, I was separated from my family. Placed aboard an auction block, while white folks put brands on me and beat me for my trouble. Now I'm picking cotton in the heart of Dixie Land. Six days and nights a week, on the seventh I pray for my master to let me sail away again.

Population relocation makes the desert bloom. Severe measures knock upon the door, while Turkish swords dig into a mother's womb. Railroad tracks billow devilish smoke beyond deaths floor. Babies tossed from cattle cars like bouncing balls. Typhoid fever injected into virgin veins. Hunger pains rattle behind the intestinal walls. Grown men grasp heaven's gears to claim their sane. A caterpillar of death strewn across the desert sand. The lifeless and bloody climb the mountain's sky, to scream...