Cruel and Unusual [antikvár]

prologue (A MEDITATION AT SPRING STREET BY THE DAMNED) It is two weeks before Christmas. Four days before nothing at all. I lie on my bed staring at my dirty bare feet and the white toilet missing its seat, and when cockroaches crawl across the floor I don't jump anymore. I watch them the same way they watch me. I close my eyes and breathe slow. I remember raking hay in the heat of day and getting no pay compared to the way white folk live. I dream of roasting peanuts in a tin and when the tomatoes are in eating them like apples. I imagine driving the pickup truck, sweat shining on my face in that no-future place I swore I'd leave. I can't use the john, blow my nose, or smoke without