There was an error in this gadget


essay: #047 Ghost Town

c.AFP/Gett Images

It begins as an ache.
Next, comes the flashback.
Stark and disturbing.
Of the photograph, of the man.
The Corpse.
Jon Doe.
Belongs to no one in particular.
Just floating, really.
Through the toxic aftermath of Ghost Town.
Formerly known as New Orleans.

So sad, these unfolding chapters.
These apocalyptic times.
Brings a lump to my throat.
Makes me raw and fucking sentimental.

Third World poverty reflected in the murky depths.
Of a once hedonistic city.
E-coli bacteria in the water.
And refuse of human remains.
Yesterday vibrant.
Today, a fullstop.


People are talking:
I'm scared right now...What's next?"
Plague, pestilence and the four goddamn horsemen..."
I offer with a wry grin.


I wonder about that man.
And how he ended up as floatsam in the food chain.
Deserted, in his hour of need.
I want to forget I ever made his acquaintance.
Sobering and heartbreaking as it was.
Poor soul.
Decomposing before our very eyes.
Our scrutiny and curiosity ever so human.