And now all the trees in this city got frostbite— and no my friends it does not look like there is hope of spring bringing anything back to life. You see the planes overhead trail death across the sky. And that slow falling murder of string bean clouds Bookings could never contain dissipate into clear blue sky on a cold sunny evening. Breathe deep enough and you will taste the air these trees inhale. Breathe slow. Breathe at all, and you will scorch your throat I promise. You see there's a fire burning in Baltimore, at every stop light, on every street, in every parking garage, beneath each manhole— and now the city is knocking on politicians' doors screaming “In flames we want the evil witches.” The slave traders have all moved outside the peoples' limits and all the neighbors in the once good housing have their blinds pulled down. They set their trash on the curb park their cars wherever they won't get towed, pray to a god all the windows are unbroken in the morning —and that no bullets have reached their front steps before day breaks. You see I have seen the hungry harbor streets. And yes my dear Lady L, they cry a lot—bundled in sympathy blankets on top finders-keepers coats, laying over manholes just to feel a little heat in this hard winter with "can you please spare some humanity" scribbled in sharpie on someone's cardboard garbage, doing rounds in endless traffic jams at every stop light, I scream. I scream "I hate this city! No God! there is no love for Baltimore!" Because right now the entire area is a blue light district, and the winter is so cold that the people are froze, and everybody's hungry and everybody's angry in this beautiful metropolitan wasteland which is burning inside out. And now all the people got third-degree. But there is art on the corner of Central and Lombard. A complex mesh of light and darkness —and over by St. Francis there's some sunshine and hope painted on the side of a church—and under a bridge someone got creative and painted a scene that the streets, now canvases, pray they could act out. So for this alone I blow holy smoke into the clouds and pray to my God that He sets the heavens ablaze, sends a downpour of flaming green leaves raining from the sky just to purify the air like grandma's hands used to be rising up outta that ol'skool lye.