I search for some decor
to pretty up my house
A headboard, some dead boards
or maybe a couch?

The said so to do it
on public TV
my kitchens not pretty
as pretty as can be

But what will the neighbors
think of my design?
they'll report to the magazine
that it's beautiful and sublime!

Some ship lap, some sconces
all wrapped in a bow
i will trend till tomorrow
then die all alone

Rip it all down
Says Chip and Joanna
They are more popular
Than Hanna Montanna

They live on a ranch
an take millions to make
a spectacular suprise
for a couple to take

We all laugh an cheer
at Chip's child like antics
Which makes great TV
as Joanna gets Frantic!

Do Chip and Joanna really
care about you?
As long as the station
gets ten million views

They tell us to fix it
even though it's not broken
go shop till you drop
and spend every token

Buy that cool sign
made from cheap yellow plastic
The richer get richer
but, our wall looks fantastic!

Do not give in
to the big corporate greed
there are sick, hungry people
and starving mouths to feed

so every cent spent
on the corporate wealth
helps the richer get richer
and we go to stealth

Wake up and see vanity
is causing distress
don't give in to pressure
of this corporate mess!

This is a place on the way after the distances
     can no longer be kept straight here in this dark corner
of the barn a mound of wheels has convened along
     raveling courses to stop in a single moment
and lie down as still as the chariots of the Pharaohs
     some in pairs that rolled as one over the same roads
to the end and never touched each other until they
     arrived here some that broke by themselves and were left
until they could be repaired some that went only
     to occasions before my time and some that have spun
across other countries through uncounted summers
     now they go all the way back together the tall
cobweb-hung models of galaxies in their rings
     of rust leaning against the stone hail from Rene's
manure cart the year he wanted to store them here
     because there was nobody left who could make them like that
in case he should need them and there are the carriage wheels
     that Merot said would be worth a lot some day
and the rim of the spare from bald Bleret's green Samson
     that rose like Borobudur out of the high grass
behind the old house by the river where he stuffed
     mattresses in the morning sunlight and the hens
scavenged around his shoes in the days when the black
     top-hat sedan still towered outside Sandeau's cow barn
with velvet upholstery and sconces for flowers and room
     for two calves instead of the back seat when their time came

I dreamt he sent
a care package
A shabby box
filled with
wall sconces
from his
******* apartment
half filled tablets
thoughts and doodles
with a note
to not abuse
substances
and a really nice
vinyl pressing of
some nineties
spoken word piece
with one or
another unknown
ska
alt rock
grunge
band
That sure was nice
of him
I must have
sent some good
psychic *****
Spirits
they call it

I wish to return to the days long completed
when the strangest fantasies lived only in our dreams.
Now there is no more fantasy within the lidded eye.
Sleep exists only as respite from this cruel life.

We find extravagance and folly in every gilded screen.
What use is there then, for unconscious sconces within the mind,
where we can tuck away originality
until it sprouts and spreads like ivy on a British house.

We cast away any respite from this mundane wonder,
staying eager to see what else there is to see
until nothing is left of our ivy covered minds
except for meager impressions of what once was.

People who wait much further down the road
will one day walk back to this forgotten hideaway.
They will see the traces of what was
but they won’t be able to piece together
our lost lives of slumber.

And so the real unselfish tragedy,
is not our decline-
but the ensuing confusion
caused by impatient minds.

My 11:11s were made for sleepless nights
playing back all these scenes
when your heartbeat still melted against my ears,
every sigh that lingered on my temple,
every touch that lingered on my skin
11:11s were made for asking
this dimmed wall sconces what it would be like
to feel your body close the spaces,
to feel it next to mine once more,
of what it would be like to kiss you in the dark,
with complete abandonment,
like a wolf howling its heart out
to the moon after a sunset that lasted forever

It was 11:11, and now, I know
I should’ve closed my eyes
and kissed you that drunken April night,
and melted in your arms when I still had the chance.
Now, I close them, without you around,
wrestling with these fixations
trying to convince myself
that one more recall of the memories would be the last;
one more make-believe,
one more fantasy wouldn't hurt.
One more,

and one more,
and one more,
I said,

and it was 11:12
and suddenly,

it did.

She

does not know

how empty I am,

without her.

My forced absence

drains me.

I miss her skin,

her hair,

her laugh,

her strong legs,

her screams,

her whiskey and mint breath,

her fingers on my chest,

her smelly ******* dog,

her cluttered kitchen,

her horrible wall sconces,

and her muscles flexing underneath me.

I miss the way we fit

so well together

in her small bed.

I miss the nervous

anxious feeling I

would get on the way over

to see her.

I think of the quiet moments we

would have after

making love, when she would twirl her hair,

and give me a new

perspective.

She was unhealthy for me,

I knew that going in.

That doesn’t change

or heal

or fix

or fill

my emptiness.

Wax drips from candles
Placed in sconces on the walls
To light up the house.

-M.H.-

I'm sitting at a wooden desk
A quill in a *** as black as pitch
And with feathers as soft as sea water
The desk with peeling white paint
Has drawers
With crooked silver sconces
To hold the candle stumps
At night, as I write
I use parchment, not paper
Stroking the rough, grainy surface of it
Waiting for my fingers to go numb
In front of me a window
Of warped and misty glass
But I throw it open to feel the air
As its wafts, heavy and salty
Past the curtains I've hung there
And clings to my face and neck
I pretend I am the sea
Clasping the quill in my hand
Freshly dipped into its ***
I write in thin, twisting letters
I imagine they are grape vines
Twisting through an orchard
Fat with grapes
Purple from the sunrise
And these letters make words
So sweet
I can almost taste the wine on my tounge

Lonely, Sad, Men.

I wanna be remembered for my lack of integrity,
my pessimism, and my doubt.
"The life of man, solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short."
Is the fine point in life.
Se la vie - de la mort.
Such is life-as in death.

Such is life of Death.
"Life's horrible at best."
Well **** that thought,
and die in your chest.
"You sir, are a *******."
I'll never be as famous or as bright,
or have shining achievements as adorning night lights.
Sconces.
Crowning my mantle or hiding dusty walls;

But you’re dead now and your body was all
The end of mans night has come, I see an endless morning.
Not as a prophetic insight; but as a lonely mans ending story.
The prosthesis of the heart.

I wake up everyday
my eyes riveted
to the ceiling
as rainbow flecks
radiate from crystals
that reside in the middle
of the uppermost window

this bedroom marked “private”
on the door
has meant twenty-four months
complete control
freedom to design
every detail, every texture, every nuance
Handpicked

A  vivid palette
splashed onto every square foot
hoping to recapture
life’s intense force
while  it  drowns out  
nagging shadows
threatening to swallow
My space

Italian ceramic mask- topped sconces
flanking the empty space
the mosaic mirror
I’m still learning to make
the gilded cream vanity
fit for a princess
still Waits

highlighted memories
fill dusty shelves and cling to walls
called Home now

my queen size bed use to sit quietly
in my guest room
rarely disturbed
now it harbors
my   dreams and fears
afloat on a sea of defiantly feminine
pillows and blankets

an eclectic mix of Me
comes out of every nook and cranny
while my inner sanctum takes shape.

you stand on the corner of your just-gone home, dirt from below the torn-up asphalt making its way beneath your sunglasses, the distance between now and then something you can no longer stretch your knees and step over. your first love is boarded up across the street, succumbed finally to the burn of nineteen’s shallow pockets and standing in the way of a new apartment complex. you walk on, humming so you can’t hear the heavy step of all that’s taking your place. it’s a strain on your ventricles, loving and losing and owning and letting go, when you’re here again. knowing the porch’s soft wood at number 18 while the door is bolted and a stranger’s boots line your closet floor.

it’s not all lockouts and dire prognoses. your tomorrow professes to accommodate a higher wattage than the sconces in your old room, and your visits taste like love and memory and breakfast, and his bed is warmer than your own because he’s in it, and he welcomes you home like that’s what it still is. it feels like he’s not wrong to say so—sometimes, you still belong there. cold coffee in hand from the farthest corner where they know your order still. an opinion on which pizza joint has better marinara. a favorite bathroom. an indelible mark on your old library desk. some of it is yours.

but some of it isn’t. some never was, and some has slipped through your fingers. you hum a little louder as the months go by and the boarded windows give way to a brand-new storefront—one that never knew you at nineteen—so you can’t hear the heavy step of all that’s taking your place. but you keep coming back.

Iron shackles to broken wrists,
cold, wet stone:
chains clank in the night.

Fire flickers on sconces
lining corridor walls.

Footsteps echo
down the hall;
guards speak of
a new prisoner's arrival--

Someone important, wise:
confusion abounds at
this stranger's fate.

What time shall he arrive this eve?
Where will he be taken?
This place was not built for
political prisoners.

The rest of us forgotten:
the small, shared meal lost;
hunger gnarls within.
Moans -- loved food is wasted.

Iron shackles bind wrists
to a cold, wet stone wall.
Moans echo down the hall
while chains clank in the night.

Fire flickers on the sconces
lining the corridor walls.

Footsteps draw near.
Someone is walking down the
hallway. The guards speak
of a new prisoner's arrival.

What time shall he arrive?
Where will he be kept?

Someone important--
that's what one said.
Confusion abounds at
this stranger's fate.

This place was built not for
political prisoners to be taken to.

The rest of us forgotten,
the small meal is lost.
Hunger gnarls within:
no food will come this eve.

Baby, this will make us look be-a-u-ti-ful.
The difference between rich and poor
Has and always will be good lighting,
Marching orders-- no interrogations,
Hang the **** string lights,
Swivel the sconces to the left a hair,
Light me up baby, yes. Be-a-u-ti-ful.
They’re going to see us,
All the way from space think man,
Those ******* sure do have it all,
They must have every last Eaton, Osram
Can you imagine the bill?
Must blow the energy company’s ******* mind.
Yes, baby, yes. More filaments.
Throw some Chicago on the record player while you’re at it,
We’re going to throw the swankiest party this town’s ever seen--
Rich stuff, baby, classy.
Be-a-u-ti-ful.

Once again, thwarted by the raging
Green Gorgon Queen, the Evil Absolute
had no recourse but to turn ever darker;
to retreat into the bowels of the Kave,
where the unholy alliance of the mystical
Ku Klux **** was formed in deepest
shadows; unseen white men plotting
their own & eventually everyone else's
destruction; bent on blind hatred &
meaningless, stupid revenge that only
brought uncomfortable & unsettling
laughter in polite company... but in secret,
they were sure, every decent white person
felt exactly as they did, even as before their
eyes the exhaustless wisdom of legendary
ones & the rapid speed of the machine-age
made the **** seem quaint & out-of-dated
even in their own minds, too embarrassed
to admit the horrible truth, that would have
sent Socrates & Aristotle into howling
paroxysms... sad to see stupidity wasted
on one so ugly; the Moderns had invented
the Neanderthal Ideal to compensate for
the pathetic reality of actually beating
one another over the heads... It was here,
in never seen recesses that the Absolute
summoned his latest dark immoral dread...
The Laugher!!!

Her foes vanquished for the time being,
Medusa thought to take in a show.
Staying in the town knowing Sherman's
fiery advance was yet to dawn on the gimlet-eyed
Rebels. She was ahead of her time
& looking back all the while. The show
was a melodramatic comedy of the type popular
in the pre-gilded era of dusky frontiers
& nascent city lights. The war just revving up,
before she could get back to ****** who as yet
had no fortelling of his own fate at that
ripe young age. Putting the Cowboy of the Future
out of mind & pinning a willowy white brim
in the teeth of Akasha & a few of the others,
as they all wrapped comfortably coiled beneath
the voluminous Chapeau.

Hoping there would plenty of high-stepping
chorines, Medusa prepared to be duly entertained.
Only to be crushed when the show appeared for all
of her high hopes to be a rather staid drawing room
drama of the modern variety; with realistic dialogue
and grave social concerns. It was the last thing she
needed, bu as she was walking out, one earnest
Victorian thespian while dragging her train across
the rickety boards, caught the material on a wayward
nail, which proved stubborn enough to tear
the half-knitted stage rag & unstrung corset
completely off the actress' back...

The first part of the Laugher's devious scheme
laid, instead, the staid audience rose to its feet
& burst into applause, appreciating the forward-
thinking playwright's daring; a completely
unexpected turn, as the brocaded velvet curtain
fell & house lanterns were lit... Medusa had had
her back to the stage the whole time peering
ahead toward the dark egress... Off to the side
unseen & all but unnoticed, the Absolute,
in his true identity of Horace Horatio Whoreson II,
who's progeny would likewise bear upon
the Gorgon's destiny years hence...

As the audience reached the smoking chamber,
slowly reflecting upon their most immediate
impressions & once catching themselves
giggling a bit, tittering spreading throughout
the room until one by one, every man,
woman, maiden & suitor dropped dead
from convulsive choking laughter...

In the hansom cab Medusa thought she
should've gotten her money back for the
ticket, peering at the punched slip, making
note to avoid the New Realism from here on.

Backstage at the theater the actors were aghast
that the audience did not return for the second
act, thinking their careers doomed... but a stage
hand rushing in from the lobby gravely informed
that the entire company in attendance had all
died of from a deadly leak in the gas sconces.

Since the tragedy could not ave been avoided at
any cost, it was attributed to an Act of God &
the actors were relieved of their guilt... their souls
spared; the young actress, however, was never to
quite recover; having witnessed her shame in front
of the stunned then mesmerized crowd of genteel
upstanding citizens & townsfolk who all had
in every likelihood had never seen a denuded young
maiden scamper away in heavy boots after freezing
in disbelief, giving a prolonged view of choice
Southern womanhood to the full house, the orchestra
striking up a delayed tattoo...

Cheeks blushing like bright American Beauties,
the otherwise pale actress greeted the mysterious
courtier with the distinctly foreign accent;

Claiming to be nobility...
he informs the girl that he is a doctor, of sorts,
& proceeded to 'examine' her in the hope that
she had not been injured when forcibly disrobed
with such incautious suddeness...

finding his clammy fingers crawling the girl's
spine & reaching for her ribs, she recoils with
uncontrollable snickering; "I'm ticklish!" she cried.

The hellish black eyes ablaze, the oily perfumed
phantom dashes from her quarters as if struck
by the very lightning of genius!!

If he could merely get the wicked Queen
in the nearest proximity to a feather, he'd
have her at his mercy!!

Disguised as a traveling feather salesman,
the villain enters the gaudily appointed lobby
of the town's main hotel in search of clients
for his dubious wares; "You wouldn't know
of a young madame who might be in mind
to purchase such fine Old World Ostrich!!"
he boasted to the unimpressed help, coming
upon the bored desk-man; "I say, my man,
would there a female presence about that
would love the silken licks of a fine plume?"
"I be needin' a new quill pen," croaked the
roused clerk, "You be having one a'them now?"

Taken by the abrupt request, the quandried
no-gooder is forced to fish through his bag
of props all of which served no purpose but
to provoke derisive laughter; mangled stems
losing their mottled bloom as the dusty
shafts molted in a furious flap of loose spines.

"I say, old man, I've been wearing this top
since Boston," said one gruff old man, doffing
his pate, "You wouldn't have the single red tail
feather of an Eastern Blue Breasted Whip-poor-will
or perhaps jut any old common Goatsucker there
in that bag?"

Having nothing of the sort, the flustered
peddler hurried packing up his flying feathers
rushed out of the lobby back to the street where
a passing crow happened to spot a premium
target for a leisurely midair release....

the gob as big as an egg felt good coming
out too, as it splashed across the bewildered crown...
dripping past spectacles & that with an
inopportune snort lodged in the sinuses...

Momentarily Medusa came down to
the desk & inquired about any messages,
complimenting the clerk on his fluttering
new pen. "Feller was jes' in here givin'
'em away! He had a bunch!"

Having just fed her hair, she
felt there was no need to spoil it...

Being the **** of laughter rather than deliberately causing any,
the archfiend skulked back to his dark lair to write better jokes.

Thinking perhaps the lady in question
preferred more savory fare, & enlisting
his willing Trilby, the young actress
of his recent acquaintance, to approach
said well-heeled lady in the guise of traveling
corset sales-lady; bedecked in leather
high-boys & tightly cinched silk garter,
a waist all of 19" & a face
glowing red atop a head about to burst...  
in High-heeled hob-nail
boots, the dainty young thing sauntered
up to the hotel desk. Captivating at first blush,
the normally near-sighted clerk straightened
his bow-tie. "Can I help you, Miss?"
"Uh, yes. My name is Miss somethinorother,
I'm a..."
"I didn't get that name, was that something?"
"Or other."
"Miss Other,"
"No Miss something."
"What? I missed something."
"My name.
"What was it?"
"What?"
"You say something?"
"My name!"
"What was it?"
"Something, I... oh, never mind!"
"Okay, Miss Nevermind,
what can I do for you?"
"Can you give me a room
with a hot bath?"
"I can give you the room
but you'll have to take the bath yourself..."
"I see you have a new telephone."
"You don't have to look at it, you listen to it."

Medusa, descending the Hotel stairs,
sniffed out the aroma of tanned meat.

"Any messages for me?"
"Telegram."
"Can I have a look at it?"
"Oh, you don't look at it!
You listen to it!" piped up
the corseted pipsqueak...

"And you are?" quote Medusa.
"Something!"
"That you are...what have you
in your leather case?" asked the
curious queen mischievously.
"Oh! Leather," the girl cried,
back in character. "I sell leather!
Would you like to see the new
French fashion line?"
"Why don't we go up to my boudoir?"
offered the mistress at last, then
curtly but politely,
"Amos, send a bottle of twenty year
old bourbon up to my room in twenty
minutes. It's waited this long."
"Will do, Miss M..."
"That's Captain."
"Captain?" gushed the frail female,
"You must be important!"
"I'll tell you all about it upstairs,"
offered the frilly arm of the regal
guest, leading the lamb-like girl
to unknown & unguessed pleasures...

Th plot of course was to get the
Blue hero festooned in some
strappy leather contraption before
moving onto tickle-play, at which
point...

But the girl was already giggly as Medusa stroked
the fuzzy cheek & led her further into her sanctum...
It was Medusa now with one thing on her mind, part
of the deal she'd struck with the Union was that she'd
be responsible for her own *****, which she now felt
firmly within her grasp... the girl sighed, her mind
drifting to the somber performance the night before,
before the single capricious nailed removed her garment
to sudden applause once the curtain had gone down...

She had encountered the strange foreigner
in her dressing room but now under the bewitching
gaze of the fabled primeval beauty, the little lady
had no choice but to wee a bit.

"Oh, I'm wet," she cried weakly as the door sounded.
"That must be the whisky. Now we'll really get wet."

But the clerk had been tipped an honest fin
to allow the odd creature to bring the *****
up to the door of the lady's boudoir suite...

"Let's get you out of these things.
They must be uncomfortable,"
suggested the queen flipping the girl
over on her ample chest &
shifting the shifting petticoats until
arriving at the girl's leather
pantaloons. "You come prepared."
"I sell leather!" the girl cry muffled
by settee pillows. "And you model
it too? Now that's service,
but it must be hot..."

Standing outside holding a seltzer bottle,
the fiend was set to strike, but when the
door flung open, a ***** soaked set of
rawhide Lederhosen slapped him in the
face...the bottle snatched from his fingers
& the door slammed.

Taking a swig, the door flung open again,
this time the bottle crashing down over his head.
"That's not bourbon! Where's Amos, you clod?
You must be new... go and try again!
and if you come back here with water,
I'll drown you with it!" The door slamming
again, feminine titters rising gleefully,
listening outside for the sounds of laughter
proving futile after a few hours, with only
endless cries of "O, Captain! My Captain!"
bellowing from the mistress' suites.

With no one left to do his dastardly
***** work, the Absolute is at last forced
to take matters in his own hands... but not
entirely... of his scant loyal followers
remain Moonshine former sidekick to the
electrically incinerated White Lightnin';

& the traitorous Indian couple Running Bear
the cowardly brave, & the ditzy White Dove
whose true allegiance she knew not where;
kidnapped as a child from her settler parents
who were themselves scalped & worn as
fashionable accessories, all White Dove
knew was the life of a Plains Indian squaw...

Feeling at odds with her Native upbringing
White Dove has no recourse but to Kave of
the ****, where the Absolute sits staring at
French daguerreotypes by candlelight...

Seeing the shimmer white girl in her Native
attire of next-to-nothing standing just beyond
the light, a pale silhouette in the faint flicker.

"Yes?" called the wary man, not at all
embarrassed by his discovery. He had been
here for some time, having gone through
many candles... the spreading white puddle
at his feet.

"I can no longer join forces with the White Man!"
announced the Indian maid defiantly.

The final indignation... the all mighty Grand
Wizard rose up to is full stature, all four foot
five of him and in rushing to seize her
dropped the candle plunging the deep cavern
into complete darkness.

Fumbling his pockets for a match giving
the rebellious squaw time to pick up a rock
& when the flare flamed at his face she
struck him pointedly across the brow with
a careful swing of her honed, limber arm...

Passed out in utter darkness Whoreson otherwise
known as the Evil white Absolute, knew at long
last what it was like to experience true blackness.

As a child, I would write letters. No, I have never been a romantic, just a rather diplomatic child. I would write letters of negotiation to a friend of mine, burn them, and let the ashes be a legible phoenix to him.

As a child, I grew up writing letters. I stopped believing in the existence of phoenixes. Either that or my friend wasn’t really a fan of one. He was way older than I’d ever be, so I was sure it wasn’t a change of taste. It was rumoured that he preferred the savour of sconces, so I kept burning my letters.

As a child, I wrote letters in desperation. I learnt the fine line between a negotiation and a plea. I pleaded…I pleaded a lot in my letters. Do you think dried tears on paper burn too? I think my friend thought it insufficient. Either that or salt water becomes invincible above the clouds.

As a child, I wrote letters. I wrote lots of letters. I wrote letters to the only one I was sure would write back in some way. I think burning those letters wasn’t such a good idea, it made him unable to read them. Either that or he forgot changing mails was supposed to be a colloquy. He’s my friend, right? He’d have replied if he really did see them…right?

As a child, I did write letters. Then I stopped. Then, then I never wrote them again until I was forced to for grades’ sake. They are the only letters I can say I got replies to. Only difference was, for some reason, each one I wrote came back with the marks of a red pen and a word beneath it all.

My body is a temple
Though not yet old—
It crumbles still
It’s missing stones
And the alter’s cracked
It’s survived wars
You see
And terror
It harbors untold evils—
Spirits of those lost
But not quite forgotten

My body is a temple
Built by sinners’ hands
On my alter lies
The gifts of sinful men—
Those who have worshipped here
Some who would worship still
Cast out, by the god
Who still awaits a priest

My body is a temple,
Yes, but I am the god
To which it is devoted
I have given refuge
To many a broken wanderer
They have rested, fed
And been sent on their way
But they have not all
Been so kind
They have taken stones
From their mortar
Glass from its panes
Flowers from their vases
Light from its sconces

My body is a temple
Deep within this forest
Wrapped in vines
And shrouded in shadow
Blooming with flowers
And blazing with light
So I ask before you kneel
Do you worship here in vain?
For far have you traveled
Do you wish to stay?
For every god
Needs a priest

My body is a temple,
That much may be true
But it is not just any temple
It is mine

Hoping there would plenty of high-stepping
chorines, Medusa prepared to be duly entertained.
Only to be crushed when the show appeared for all
of her high hopes to be a rather staid drawing room
drama of the modern variety; with realistic dialogue
and grave social concerns. It was the last thing she
needed, bu as she was walking out, one earnest
Victorian thespian while dragging her train across
the rickety boards, caught the material on a wayward
nail, which proved stubborn enough to tear
the half-knitted stage rag & unstrung corset
completely off the actress' back...

The first part of the Laugher's devious scheme
laid, instead, the staid audience rose to its feet
& burst into applause, appreciating the forward-
thinking playwright's daring; a completely
unexpected turn, as the brocaded velvet curtain
fell & house lanterns were lit... Medusa had had
her back to the stage the whole time peering
ahead toward the dark egress... Off to the side
unseen & all but unnoticed, the Absolute,
in his true identity of Horace Horatio Whoreson II,
who's progeny would likewise bear upon
the Gorgon's destiny years hence...

As the audience reached the smoking chamber,
slowly reflecting upon their most immediate
impressions & once catching themselves
giggling a bit, tittering spreading throughout
the room until one by one, every man,
woman, maiden & suitor dropped dead
from convulsive choking laughter...

In the hansom cab Medusa thought she
should've gotten her money back for the
ticket, peering at the punched slip, making
note to avoid the New Realism from here on.

Backstage at the theater the actors were aghast
that the audience did not return for the second
act, thinking their careers doomed... but a stage
hand rushing in from the lobby gravely informed
that the entire company in attendance had all
died of from a deadly leak in the gas sconces.

Since the tragedy could not ave been avoided at
any cost, it was attributed to an Act of God &
the actors were relieved of their guilt... their souls
spared; the young actress, however, was never to
quite recover; having witnessed her shame in front
of the stunned then mesmerized crowd of genteel
upstanding citizens & townsfolk who all had
in every likelihood had never seen a denuded young
maiden scamper away in heavy boots after freezing
in disbelief, giving a prolonged view of choice
Southern womanhood to the full house, the orchestra
striking up a delayed tattoo...