at the intersection of church and liberty streets, was a large gathering of humans at twelve noon, in manhattan. what began as a tidy cluster of round-bellied jollies with sunburnt necks and vinyl banners, swiftly crescendoed into a hive of nationalist pride. iconic american wisdom echoed loudly from scarlet lips, through a cordless microphone, and out again from a large speaker propped in the heart of the mob.
remeber: several "m's" were missing on distressed poster boards--rage is a clumsy spell-check. the missing consonant seemed banished, curiously, as it begins and ends the name of the enemy. a symbolic omission perhaps...a letter eradicated in permanent ink, blood red.
the speaker quoted frank sinatra: it's up to you, new york, new york. not here, not now, not ever. we will never forget. go home. graves. gods. spit. sacred ground.
parallel weather: as the crowd thickened, sentiment boiled, and vocal chords strained, the park filled with agnostic dust devils, errant branches, rogue wrappers and the threat of rain.
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