When I was young and untamed,
I dressed in feathers and leathers,
founded my own tribe,
and streaked my face in terra cotta.
My neighbor and I were the palest redskins in the asphalt flatlands,
suburban savages.
We tunneled through the brush
in search of rabbit holes unknown and unseen.
We had the fire inside,
but no elders to feed it.
Still, it was one moment of a few that I struck upon gnosis,
and my shadow knew exactly whom it followed.
Were we just a two-child minstrel show all along?
Was it appropriate?
Did we appropriate?
Am I picking at the smallpox scars?
Adam Delancy is a lifelong fiery romantic; not quite hopeless, but sometimes to his detriment. He sows seeds and sunbathes on an organic farm somewhere in Midwest America. He’s a damn good cook, a pretty adequate baker, and hosted the occasional pop-up dinner before the public health fascists fomented mass hysteria last year. In his spare time, he likes walking to nowhere in particular, in the woods, in the city, wherever he happens to be. He’s convinced himself that he’s been working on his first (and only, most likely) novel, Perfect Nudity, for the past decade. He aims to publish it before he dies peacefully in his bed as a super centenarian.
