My earrings are heavy despite how high they hang up. And my headband’s telling everyone my name St. James Hotel and I am proud of it; proud like the blue soldiers that drink from my bar after all blood has been bled.  I was only peeling paint against brain  matter clouds. I had been paved with cracking concrete against my outer walls and I had long been abandoned, trapped in eternal sleep until the Lord chooses to wake me with the sound of feet against my old, cracked, still cracking sidewalks.  I was walked past by brown bodies, going forth with proud shoulders and shackled ankles that only I could see that only they could feel.  The shouts opened up my ears like shaken bottles of coke overflowing no matter how tightly the blue soldiers closed them, open like bloody foreheads, open like operating tables towards the blue soldiers that put black batons against brown bodies, open like hateful mouths that have been cheering the blues on since I was named The Brantley, since Yankees used my beds.  I am now a muted pink against brain  matter clouds. I have been paved with cracking concrete against my outer walls.  When they were going back I was walked past by brown, bruised, and bleeding bodies, with heavy-hearted heaves, limping legs, ludicrous cries, and proud shoulders.  They’d been muted against their own homes and crushed churches that will only ever know bludgeoned girls and explosives.  The shouts opened up my ears like shaken bottles of coke overflowing no matter how tightly the blue soldiers closed them, no matter how many years have gone by I can hear the feet calm against my sidewalks, I can feel the brain matter clouds Sighing against my muted, peeling, painted pink out walls. I wonder if the clouds are just as tired as the brown bodies shouting beneath them.