Birmingham, 1963

From the desks of Mayor Art Hanes and Commissioner Bull Conner; Birmingham, 1963: ticktick, ticktick, ticktick: Bull: they’ve begun to sing. more of a chant. you know—tribal, Bull. Transmission follows: glorious theocracy unbearable atrocity on the wings of eagles utter theodicy undoubtedly an odyssey for the mind to endure beautiful African art proudly displayed on auction blocks while the ghosts of their past sneer from the gallery irony possibly how faithfully those ghosts remain almost as if they were chained to the base no where to turn for a captive audience of the primate exhibit but hand to hand on the glass and we’re not so different we are both victims of our Fathers’ illegitimate sons STOP. Ah, King Luther, you simply don’t understand the Art of Bull. When the souls of your feet are feeling the beat, and the souls of your streets are feeling the heat, who’s to say this decay of the world as your oyster has given you anything but the voice for everything you wish to see in the world? This is Birmingham calling you to the 16th Street altar! You’re invited to watch the Movement of Nonviolence’s Ex remarry, and when a—higher power—pulls you to your knees in prayer, the Groom and his friend’s pets will put guns to your head and rebaptize you as Martyr Lucifer. A damn shame, too. May as well call me elephant man with my ivory towers, sitting my happy ass behind this desk with an ash-rimmed glass of whiskey, but it’s a dog eat dog world, and I hear my dogs run faster than yours. It’s nothing personal, Marty; I’ve got nothing against you or your “friends.” Just keep in mind the people I’m sworn to serve— and how unfortunate it is that I swear to them, not the greater good.