I found the Rotting Man sprawled on a concrete platform underneath Clarksdale Bridge. He was sleeping on a flattened cardboard box, surrounded by empty forty ounce bottles and cigarette butts. I could hear his snores before I made it all the way up the embankment. His living reaffirms my faith. He is porous, his skin dotted with lesions that serve as peepholes into his grotesque anatomy. He is a grammar of putrid colors. When he moves, the grey-green clumps of exposed muscle wriggle and throb like malformed worms burrowing deeper into the rank caverns of his body. Blessed be the Rotting
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