gray morning on easter sunday

I step out onto the street. It’s clear that Jesus hasn’t risen and isn’t coming back. There’s desolation in the crowd. Everywhere I look there’s only poverty, uninspiring concrete, the smell of piss, silent people dying patiently. There’s a sense of boredom worse than panic. In the middle of the city, there’s not an interesting person in sight. I’m alone. Everyone’s asleep. Sometimes I wish I were a firebomb that could wake up the whole world.

Denver 4/12/09