"Race Revelries: A Lamentation in Dice: Reflections on a Tumultuous MONOPOLY GO Experience"7/31/2025  It’s rare that a game will leave you questioning your very participation, but Race Revelries in MONOPOLY GO managed to do just that. I’ve played my share of digital competitions—some forgettable, some exhilarating—yet none has plummeted to the depths of frustration quite like this one. My team and I, the Gold Team, started with a glimmer of hope, claiming a modest 3rd place in the first race. We were functional, if not inspired. But as the event rolled on, any sense of momentum slipped through our digital fingers. The second race unraveled in spectacularly disastrous fashion. My own rolls barely scraped 700 points, an effort matched by my teammates—except for one, whose score was a resounding zero. Zero! It was as if they weren’t even logged in, a ghostly presence haunting our group, their selection a mystery to rival the Bermuda Triangle. Meanwhile, rival teams soared effortlessly, some brushing against the 10,000-point line. We, by comparison, mustered a meager 1,500. That kind of gap isn’t just a defeat—it’s a rout. By the final race, the dice gods had turned their backs for good. Each roll seemed fated to disappointment, the numbers mocking us as they tumbled onto the screen. Hope, once tenuous, now vanished entirely. I found myself thinking: this is the last time. Never again will I subject myself to this travesty of teamwork and luck. Surely, I’ve learned my lesson. And yet, there’s something strange about MONOPOLY GO—a quality both maddening and magnetic. It’s not truly addictive, not in the way of other games that hook you with relentless urgency. But there’s a peculiar charm, a flicker of anticipation with every roll, that keeps you tethered. Even as you vow “never again,” you catch yourself returning, dice in hand, for just one more game—a testament to the paradoxical fun stitched into its very fabric. Something is off with Race Revelries, to be sure. The team dynamics, the luck, the inexplicable selection of inactive players—it all conspires to frustrate. Yet, in the midst of exasperation, there’s still a reason to play. Maybe next time, the rolls will be kinder. Or maybe, just maybe, the fun is in rolling the dice, no matter where they land.
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"A Sunday Morning Walk: Discoveries in Gray Light: Reflections on a Cool Day in My Hometown"7/30/2025  Up North Division, approaching the city limits of The Town of Cortlandt, offers a stroll past the old Hat Factory—a relic of a bygone era now repurposed for new uses. Sunday arrives wrapped in a silvery hush, a morning muted by gray light that diffuses everything—edges, judgments, expectations. The air is cool without accusation, the kind that stirs memory more than discomfort. It’s the kind of morning that gently insists you open the door, step outside, and remember how to breathe. In this soft-focus light, my city sheds its usual outlines. The sun, often bossy and overbearing, takes the day off. Without it, Peekskill relaxes its posture and shows me sides I’ve ignored—those tender city muscles flexed beneath the routines of habit. I head north along Division Street, an old familiar artery that hums with quiet pride. Today, it feels less like a shortcut and more like an invitation. The brick overpasses of Bear Mountain Parkway rise above like sturdy brows, watching over passersby with silent patience. They don’t crave attention, but I give it anyway. Their endurance feels earned. Past those arches, the Hat Factory lingers in red brick, half relic, half reimagined. Once alive with milliners and machinery, it now houses quieter pursuits—creative ones, perhaps, but still haunted by the pulse of old ambition. You can almost hear the echoes if you stop long enough, the rhythm of a town that once stitched its fortunes in thread and sweat. Further on, the city leans into its contours. Homes perch on hillside ribs, toeing the line between gravity and optimism. Their steep stairs and uneven lots feel less like inconvenience, more like personality. The world opens here—Peekskill’s back pocket of sky and slope—and just like that, I’m standing in a view I never knew I had. Blue-gray mountains hover distantly, hemming the town like a secret being kept. It's breathtaking in its unassuming way. Then, in the middle of all this quiet majesty: a Sav-A-Lot grocery store. Blink and you’ll miss it, but don’t. Inside, prices whisper a kind of honesty, far gentler than what I’ve grown used to downtown or in the suburban gloss. It’s a relief, really—an acknowledgment that practicality can be a kind of grace. Next door, a Family Dollar keeps vigil: less romantic, more useful. Its coin laundromat hums like a low-budget symphony, its windows steamed like the breath of tired saints. All of it feels quietly essential, unglamorous and steady. Three restaurants line the street, each one a mood. Amici’s drifts garlic and tomato through the air like an Italian lullaby. Oriental Palace leans into neon and nostalgia, menus sprawling like a choose-your-own-adventure novel. But it’s the Ecuadorian deli that draws me in—a storefront modest in size, generous in soul. Its rising presence in Peekskill is more than culinary; it’s cultural, quietly influential. Our town is turning—not fast, but meaningfully. By now, my thoughts are looser, softened by the cool weather and the rain that rinsed the noise from yesterday. I smile at the memory of Saturday night—a blur of drama and dinner with a companion whose intensity seems laughable in retrospect. Morning has its own kind of wisdom. As I head home, I feel the town breathing. The weather holds—a pewter sky, a warming breeze—and the walk becomes more than exercise. It becomes testimony. We never really know our towns. Not until we walk them slowly, listen more than look, and welcome the unnoticed with open eyes. So I walk on. A tourist in my own backyard. Grateful for gray light and unexpected clarity. For quiet bargains and loud histories. For communities that whisper rather than shout. The world is always wider than we expect—it just hides in plain sight until a cool Sunday morning asks us to wander. 
   Morning chow for the stray cats, Peshwari and Daisy, and occasionally Wendal, the Tomcat, when he appears, along with Robbie the raccoon whenever he decides to show up. Faith. Stray and outside cats have a lot of it. If you’re late bringing their food, they might not wait by the door. But they don’t wander far. They linger just around the corner, close enough to see the moment the door opens. Somehow, they know it will open. Somehow, they know I’ll come. And I do. Not at 6:00 a.m. like they expected this morning. But around 7:45—because even the creator sleeps a little longer some days. Not out of neglect, just… preoccupied. Still, the promise holds. It’s like when Jesus showed up late and raised the man from the dead. A delay, not a denial. The word was kept, the doubters quieted. Faith. I think of it again, not as a sermon or a recruitment. I’m no preacher. Don’t want to be. Don’t care for most of them anyway—preachers, teachers, do-gooders, the ones always telling you how something should be done. Truth is, things get done by your own hands, your own clock, your own device. No one else's. A woman spoke the other day. I didn’t respond, just listened. She had no real faith. What she did have was hearsay—belief borrowed from someone else. “I don’t buy meat from Walmart anymore,” she said. “Because so-and-so saw how they treat it. Leave it out. Let it thaw. Re-freeze it again.” Maybe it’s true. Maybe it’s not. The food industry’s a strange beast. But why sabotage someone else’s choice—someone who can’t afford more—based on a story that might be half-true, or not true at all? Faith would’ve dismissed the whole thing. Shrugged it off as hogwash. Because faith isn’t loud. It waits quietly near the back steps. It believes in what it’s seen. It knows the bowl will come, even if a little late.  After her morning meal, Peshwari, who is going blind, seems content. She senses me through vibrations and, from outside, knows the exact moment I wake up in the bedroom, waiting patiently at the door for me to come out. However, if I’m late, like this morning when I didn’t want to get up yet, they might wander further down the driveway to escape the sun.  Fleeting glances and a great Gin Martini await at The Central, a bar, bistro, and lounge located in the historic yet renovated Peekskill Train Station on Railroad Avenue by the Waterfront. There’s a certain irony to waking up on a day reserved for leisure—the sacred “sleep-in Saturday”—only to rise with the same reluctant discipline as any workday. The sun slips through the curtains, indifferent to my supposed freedom, and I surrender to the compulsion to write. But it’s a gentle kind of writing—unhurried and luxuriant, shaped not by deadlines or the gaze of an audience. This writing, I cradle: inhale, exhale, each syllable rolled between my fingers like beads on a string. Sometimes, it flows like a charm; other days, the words resist, stubborn in their silence. My mind, ever restless, doesn’t observe weekends. Desire lingers too—yesterday’s echo weaving with memory, beauty encountered, fleeting glances and humid thoughts suspended in July’s haze. Yesterday was swollen with longing, and I—far past thirty-five and then some—thank heaven for the soft lens of age. At twenty-five, I rarely left a broom closet unoccupied. Everything brimmed with possibility. Now, I pause before indulging, weigh each temptation with the wisdom of too many sunrises seen from the wrong side. Still, some pleasures I won’t forfeit. Lunch with an old friend at Taco Dive Bar—a cheerful spot on Hudson Avenue near the train station—was a delight. He’d wanted a companion for a quest to Milton, to retrieve a watch from repairs. But the heat—dense, relentless—snuffed out any taste for ambition. Had we a car, perhaps. But the idea of sun-scorched platforms and subway transfers was enough to keep me local. Instead, we gathered at Taco Dive Bar, his evening already shaped by a rendezvous: a play in the City with his goddaughter. The title--Prince Faggot—gave me pause, then a wry smile. How different things sound in a British accent. I nearly joined them, curiosity tugging, but the thought of enduring a New York summer night dulled any wanderlust. New York in July is best left to the heatproof and ambitious. I love her when she’s cold—when the weather and the attitude sync into something brisk and sharp. As always, old friendship was a tonic: laughter, ribbing, reminiscence. I wish he’d stop assuming I’m forever preoccupied with sex, my appetite untouched by age. These days, I’d rather curl up with a good book. No man compares to Fox Mulder anyway—and nostalgia, when it calls, rarely whispers. The blues and yellows of Taco Dive Bar did their magic. Spirits lifted. A frozen drink, mine spiked with tequila, cooled but didn’t stir my wilder side. The heat had already dissolved whatever resistance I had. My hat, soaked through, bore witness. We ordered the Bourbon BBQ Ribs—an unusual choice for me, but a revelation. Tender, sweet, indulgent without being obscene. The pitcher of frozen Tequila Sunrise was a flop, so I chased it with a shot, hoping to summon a mood. It worked. His 5:08 train would carry him to Grand Central for the evening’s show. We lingered, then drifted to Central—the café and bar nestled inside the old Peekskill train station. The breakfast there is worth waking early for, and the staff, young and charming, keep spirits light. My gin martini was strong enough to keep the day buoyant, even as the hours slipped away. So it goes—another Friday in Peekskill, stitched together by sweat and laughter, memory and mischief. A small drama. A slice of heat. Autumn cannot come soon enough. I crave crisp air, dry sidewalks, and the quiet defiance of cooler days. Let Miami keep the heat. Let New York cool her pulse and sharpen her edge.  At Taco Dive Bar, the Bourbon BBQ Ribs—an unexpected pick for me, but an absolute delight. Perfectly tender, subtly sweet, and indulgent without being over the top. 
Eye-catching visuals always capture this author's attention, transforming into stories that linger in the subconscious until they're needed, like this handsome motorcycle guy and skull-themed artwork at Taco Dive Bar, complete with a skull-shaped shot glass of tequila. 
The Central—a cozy café and bar tucked inside the historic Peekskill train station—is great for breakfast, with a young and charming staff. They serve excellent gin martinis, but be cautious not to have more than three... or you might encounter yourself up under the host/bartender.   At Whiskey River during Open Street Weekends, this is the calm before the jazz begins. You know it’s time to return to writing when blogging begins to feel like a burden. You crave something more—something quieter, a clean slate inside a new house, your own sanctuary where the echoes of overstayed visitors fade and the rooms remember how to be yours again. It’s Friday, though, and I’m not here to lament what needs fixing. The urge to write outpaces the fatigue of hospitality—the friend who never left, the lust that fizzled into a sleepover, the living room that slowly morphed into a halfway home. We all stumble. Some fall for the shimmer of attention, others for the illusion of permanence. But lust fades, and maybe monogamy is fiction—charming in theory, wearying in practice, a script we yawn through when the chemistry’s gone. I admire the swans—those birds said to mate for life. That’s a beautiful thing, if you're lucky enough to find the right one. I haven’t. Not like my grandparents, who seemed stitched together by something stronger than habit. Still, this Friday brings better light than the last. I might even lace up my sneakers, stretch, and ease into the day as if it’s waiting for me. Weekends in Peekskill have their own beat. When North Division closes, the road becomes a lounge. Tables spring from the asphalt, drinks are poured where tires once rolled, and music swells from both ends of the street—Division at Main, Division at Central. Whiskey River anchors one side; Rueben Mexican Café holds the other, pulsing with Spanish rhythms I half understand but fully feel. I dance less out of fluency, more out of surrender. By Sunday, the streets are a carousel of faces—at Esther Place, down by the river, and threading through the Flea Market. Peekskill opens up, its diversity on full display. It’s not just movement; it’s a gathering of possibility. So here’s to morning stretches, unfinished blogs, remembered love affairs, and the silent gamble in every wish. Because sometimes, you get exactly what you asked for—and still feel like something’s missing.  No Two Sundays Are Alike in Peekskill  My Major Steaming Crush, Fox Mulder: What if Duchovny ever woke up one day and actually became Fox Mulder? Now that would be something. This morning, I stared at the squeezy Walmart stress ball on my desk and realized I had no memory of buying it. Yet there it sat—stuffed neatly into the lamp's cord hole, silently guarding the cables I actually use. Maybe it wandered in from some alternate dimension, like a leftover prop from Rod Serling’s broom closet.
Truth is, I’m riding out a summer cold that’s nudged my mind into a cozy little purgatory. Not quite here, not quite there—just parked somewhere in a low-res Twilight Zone rerun. And Twilight Zone it’s been, streaming on loop through my haze thanks to Prime and what I think was IMDb TV, though the details are fuzzy, like most of my mental filing system right now. Back when streaming first hit its stride, I had Hulu just for Twilight Zone and The X-Files. That’s how deep my Mulder love goes—not necessarily for David Duchovny himself, but for Fox Mulder, conspiracy theorist, basement-dwelling FBI agent, and patron saint of the weird. He said things—things about porn and masturbation—that you didn’t hear on TV back then. He was charming, haunted, good-looking, and a touch off-kilter in all the right ways. If Duchovny ever woke up and actually became Fox Mulder? Yeah, that’d be something. Then CBS’s Paramount scooped up Twilight Zone, wrapped it in its corporate blanket, and made it slightly...off. The sound never synced right, the vibe felt warped, and aside from an occasional original Star Trek episode, I dropped Paramount as fast as you could say “Next on Twilight Zone…” Still, when you're sick and the world feels too pixelated to read or think, streaming comfort like Serling’s cadence or Mulder’s skeptical squint can cradle you gently to sleep. It’s not just TV. It’s a warm hand on the forehead, a guardian keeping watch while you drift. Reading back, I realize this whole train of thought sounds like Holden Caulfield might’ve written it on DayQuil. There’s something very Catcher in the Rye in the tone—wandering around Grand Central, noticing things, remembering how the station once looked in a book long before I ever saw it for real. And now I kind of want to reread Salinger’s voice, just to sit inside that rhythm again. "An Ordinary Day, Threaded with Cats and Kindness: Reflections from the Edge of Convalescence"7/23/2025  Rescuing a small kitten that fell from a second-floor terrace. Down but not entirely undone—such is the state of being when illness lingers, but necessity and the small rituals of care tug you from the sheets. Even the sick, so long as they can shuffle about, don't remain bedbound for long. There are mouths to feed, after all, and in my case, a chorus of stray cats whose reliance has woven affection through the fabric of my days. They never let me get too close—except, of course, when food is involved. Then, as I set down the dish, their tails offer a fleeting intimacy, brushing against my calf in gratitude, or perhaps simple anticipation. It’s a gentle comfort, the soft swish of fur, as they descend eagerly on their meal, as if it were both their first and their last. It was a day of ordinary heat, the humidity settled into a bearable murmur—if such a thing can ever be said of humidity. In my bathrobe, I stood in the driveway as the cats ate, the air thick yet moving, a breeze threading through the boughs overhead. Once the bowls were licked clean and the morning's responsibilities fulfilled, I returned inside and dressed, surprised to find myself feeling a measure better. The cough that had plagued me had loosened its grip, perhaps cowed by the arsenal of home remedies—medicine, brandy, honey, lemon, whatever promise the internet or memory could muster. I made chicken soup from scratch, reasoning that as long as I could still taste it, I wasn’t about to die just yet. Later, I set out east along Main Street, tracing my steps all the way to the diminished waterfall behind Family Dollar. The cascade was more suggestion than torrent, a trickle glimmering as sunlight scattered across the water’s surface. The day felt cooler than those that had come before, a reprieve. Passing the Italian shop, Tuscana, I paused, noting the sign in the window: closed next week. It wasn’t yet 10 a.m., but curiosity nudged me to try the door anyway. It yielded, and a man inside waved me in. Mario, the owner, has steered Tuscana through thirty-five years of Peekskill’s transformations. As he recounted, the city’s downtown was once a wasteland of boarded windows and shuttered businesses, its streets haunted by those society forgets. “No one came here back then, except the lost,” he said, but Peekskill, like so many small cities, has changed—if not entirely, then enough to matter. Mario’s children are grown; a son of thirty-one and a daughter, both preparing for a Key West getaway that would shutter Tuscana for a week. Like the city, I too was gathering myself—haltingly, but with intent. A walk, a conversation, the soft resilience of soup and sunlight—they all conspired quietly toward restoration. On my way home, I climbed the steep rise of Howard Street, the city and river unfurling below, stretching all the way to Buchanan. As I passed a complex, a small kitten darted from the grass to my feet, insistent and unafraid. He shadowed my steps, refusing to be left behind. I picked him up—such a tiny, warm thing—and tried to coax him home, but he would not leave me. His mother, I presumed, called from a second-floor terrace, tending to another kitten just out of reach. Perplexed, I wondered how to reunite the little one with its family. Salvation arrived in the form of a man in a truck, who, by luck, knew the residents. He knocked; a woman answered. “Did the kitten fall again?” she asked, exasperated, yet relieved. The kitten was transferred from my arms to the man’s, then to hers, and I was thanked for my trouble. Duty done, I turned for home, ready for the medicine that would soon usher me into sleep, the day’s small acts of kindness nestling beside me as I drifted off. Such are the days: illness and recovery, solitude and connection, a city’s history unfolding in chance encounters and the soft reverence of a kitten’s trust
 Artwork for Sale in Peekskill Coffee House I never fancied writing in bed. It always seemed the domain of poets or invalids—sheets rumpled, books splayed open, an air of permissible disarray. Yet here I am, propped awkwardly against thinning pillows, laptop balanced on my knees, the taste of illness bitter at the back of my throat. This summer cold—low on fever, high on tenacity—has claimed my nights and staked its flag deep in my chest. Each dry cough scrapes at my ribs, reverberating through the small hours, stretching out July’s particular brand of insomnia. This month—July in Peekskill—has grown monstrous to me, a season of sticky heat and malaise. Even now, with the mercury dipping after sunset, the memory of oppressive humidity clings to the walls. I've never liked July; it feels like a month that over-promises and under-delivers. This year, it will be remembered among the worst—an unremarkable stretch of time rendered unforgettable by discomfort. Still, the laptop offers a kind of salvation. What a marvel—to follow the work wherever the body demands. I can drag it from bed to garden table, perch it on brick steps, or walk it down the street to the best little coffeehouse in town. Peekskill Coffee, tucked into the old flatiron building, is a crossroads of community: endless faces, the symphony of doorbells and espresso, flashes of possibility. It's effortless to lose oneself there, letting the current of humanity drift past, or pausing to marvel at the parade of strangers. Some are astonishingly beautiful, though not always in ways a photograph could trap—their gestures, the warmth behind a smile, the way they read or lift their heads to admire the local artwork. I’m partial to the crepes, especially the Greek Goddess—spinach and feta, I think, though the ingredients hardly matter. The flavor is memory enough, a texture of comfort that lingers beyond the meal. I savor it absently, letting the taste anchor me as I drift between sentences. Lately, each paragraph is shadowed by a quiet farewell. This bed—this modest, faithful island—is nearly at its end. Soon, I’ll trade it for a high-rise perch with a balcony overlooking Main Street and Fort Hill, that verdant swell above the Hudson. I look forward to the storms, to rain painting the glass, to snow transforming the city below—scenes witnessed from new heights, the world reshaped by weather and perspective. It’s thrilling, that promise of a view I didn’t realize I needed. Once, in the early 2000s, I wrote in borrowed beds across San Francisco, never settling long enough to feel tethered. That was a different Charles—a restless wanderer chasing an unnamed hunger. Now the places hold more weight, the rituals more intention. The view from the next perch will be in the city I love, a city no longer a ghetto I claim as mine: a patchwork of memory, observation, and longing stitched into every sentence, wherever I’m writing from. Maybe that’s what illness and change teach us: no bed is ever wholly ours, and every place—whether flatiron coffeehouse or Hudson-side balcony—becomes a chapter in the strange, unfolding story of ourselves.  Peekskill Coffee House always offers some kind of eye candy to captivate the senses.  The crepes at Peekskill Coffee House are popular and delicious.  “Solitude isn’t silence—it’s the sound of becoming.” There’s a peculiar comfort in solitude that some of us understand almost instinctively—a private, untroubled space where the world’s noise quiets and the self gets top billing. It’s not about disliking people (though the guy who revs his leaf blower at sunrise might push the envelope). It’s more a recognition that our inner harmony tends to flourish when we’re given room to breathe, to think, to write, and to be—with full refrigerator access and no need to negotiate thermostat settings.
For those camped out somewhere between extrovert and introvert, the paradox is real. We thrive in lively company—laughing, story-swapping, lingering at café tables. But once that’s done, we yearn for our own quiet corner: the place where thoughts stretch out, creativity flows like a forgotten faucet, and silence hums as a companion, not a void. It's less about escaping others and more about embracing ourselves—preferably in socks that don't match. Modern solitude isn’t easy to come by. Technology buzzes at the edge of every moment, like a puppy constantly tapping your shin. Even in the bathtub, your smartwatch wants to discuss your heart rate. True aloneness would require a retreat into the woods and a temporary divorce from Wi-Fi—a noble fantasy, but impractical unless you're Thoreau or mildly feral. So we craft our solitude, delicately, between push notifications and Postmates deliveries. There’s still that lingering belief that a life lived solo is a half-written story. That unless someone else is warming your kitchen chair, you must be missing something. But here’s the quiet truth: sometimes, the person we long for is simply not here. And sharing space with someone else—if they’re not that person—can feel less like companionship and more like static. Why dilute our sanctuary for anything less than soul-sparking presence? Until or unless they arrive, solitude isn’t a vacancy. It’s curated peace. Monday rolls around, dependable as ever—tail wagging, bills in hand. But there's comfort in its regularity, a sense that each week inches you closer to your own plans, your own pulse. The rest—the surprise meetings, the mystery allergies—can wait their turn. As Scarlett O’Hara said: tomorrow’s messes belong to tomorrow. So if you find yourself thriving alone, know this: your solitude isn’t a flaw. It’s evidence you know how to listen—to your needs, your muse, and the remarkable person you get to share quiet with every day: yourself.  It’s that season again. The one where open hostility toward Black men is brushed off as “just how things are.” Where you can bat your lashes, pretend you saw him, and turn the other way.
It’s not easy for those of us who happen to be Black men. Men who don’t know the victims our so-called “brothers,” according to them, have abused. Men who would never victimize another human being—because that kind of cruelty isn’t wired into our souls. We hardly exist. But when you’re Black, it takes just one—one reckless, violent act—to stain us all. To make them say, “See? That’s how they are.” To make them believe it’s not just one—it’s all of us. They met online. The first date was fine—awkward, maybe, but sweet. Two men navigating the fragile terrain of attraction and trust. But the second date? That’s when the mask slipped. That’s when brutality arrived, uninvited. Remember King Kong? The way that giant ape cradled the delicate blonde in his palm, as if she were a dream. That’s how they see us. Brutes. Beasts. Threats. And then one man—one Black man—pretends to be gay, uses that mask to get close, and rapes a Latino man. A man who barely speaks the language. A man so tuned into Trump’s America that he believes no one will care. Because he’s undocumented. Because MAGA has made it legal to punish the undocumented. To treat them as less than human. But I’ve got news for you, you dirty bastard. I don’t care what color you are. You hurt an innocent man. You thought he’d be too afraid to speak. You thought he’d shimmer in silence, absorbing the pain you inflicted. You thought no one would care. Well, I care. And I’m not alone. To the MAGA crowd who cheers this silence—who sees undocumented lives as disposable: He is more human than you. More human than any rapist. More human than your twisted laws and your smug cruelty. This isn’t about race. This is about justice. But not the kind handed down by courts that wear their bias like a badge. Not the kind filtered through a Supreme Court that’s as MAGA as it gets. No—this justice will have to come from somewhere higher. From the collective conscience. From the truth that refuses to stay buried. From the voices that rise, even when the system tries to silence them. And yes, the man who committed this crime was Black. Not me. Not some innocent soul walking through the world with dignity. But a hateful Black man who saw another human being and chose violence. Who assumed—because society keeps saying so—that this Latino man was undocumented, disposable, invisible. He didn’t know the man was documented. Didn’t care. Because cruelty doesn’t ask for credentials. Justice won’t come for a race. It will come for you. For what you did to him. For what you tried to do to all of us. And when it comes, it won’t ask permission from any bench. It will arrive like thunder—unapologetic, undeniable, and overdue. |
AuthorCHARLES PEARSON 
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