It was Christmas.
No man-made edifice to god.
But there were, you know, certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay.
We rode the empty streets of Houston, this first Christmas, along the streets of fat rich houses stuffed with money, then over to the long bayou that led inexorably to the empty streets of lean houses stuffed with need, and along empty skyscraper-lined avenues, and then finally to no roads at all but rather to freeways under which we have cast off the litter and the lives of those whose unpardonable sin was to poorly choose their parents and poorly choose their genes.
I had run out of tens but the machine only coughed up twenties; I didn’t care.
I handed them out like the beggar that I am, begging for love, for charity, for humanity, for peace and goodwill among all, and seeking it in the only place where you can buy it for a song, on your fucking knees at the mercy of the poor and homeless, where you discover the first Noel, the first Passover, the first Ramadan, there on the hardest and poorest of streets, given freely to any and all if you are only brave enough to ask for it.