The heat impregnates Jorjian Brown. Like a car-jacker at night. Taking advantage of what isn’t his to begin with.
“Let me out!” a neighbor cries from Olive and Summit.
“B*tch. Let me out!” Or was it a meow? There were small cats that permeated the floors below her. Not kittens, but little tiny cats. They urinated on the shredding carpet, foul beads sweating in sun-faded, mutant orange.
“Stay here.” The brown man crosses the path of a crow flying jaggedly, a wild jackal, unseen to the crop of dealers just sprung up and hissing with spackle.
Fat raccoon in fence, slipping through metallic crosses and viper-laden wire. They never come out this early in the day. Finding that sparkplug of indecency in all of us. Time tranquil, passion resolute, Jorjian Brown sits steadily by her cracked windowpane, where a smudge of chapstick reeks its glutinous odor into the sun.