BLACK PROPHET ON A FIERY CROSS

The frigid winds of February have assaulted New York like the beginning of an ice age. Then I saw him.I had given up on him, believed he had been blown away with the winds of time. I’d been afraid that he had perished, sucked into the meanness of humanity in these last years. But today I stared at his picture; there he was majestic before me, his words no longer hued in bright colors just for me, but in plain and simple black and white, spread out on the table like demented symbols. Black hands held and threw the words at will.