“Grilled” gate in what seems the middle of nowhere on this
fantasy island, rum punch and jerk meat, all you can drink and eat, heavenly
days, nasty broken green glass, countless mind-numbing, self-medicated drunks
unshameable, embedded in concrete, what Russell Banks writes in “The Book of
Jamaica,” how much worse it is to lift up the poor with promise of real hope,
real change, and then see the declared others thrive as before, in charge, as
always it is better for them, ideals meaningless, what is the accident of
birth, eye contact at the risk of a dull, dirty knife stabbed into ….
The signs says:
TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT
SURVIVORS WILL BE SHOT AGAIN
Next: Running for Your Life: New Yorker?
