7033. 51 east 71

51 east 71

In the constant way of beseeching others that comes

from altar boy and bullshit service, I look about me

for a trace of God. All his minions, yes, they're

everywhere I can see  -  but not Him or what 'He'

could be. The name's unimportant. We can call it 

'Fred'.  So I start a little story here, even without

a pen to write it down as I walk along. "Fred, now

what the hell did you go and do that for, who needed

that crippled woman there? Her back is twisted, she

looks like a beggar and  - as she walks  - I see she 

mostly only looks at the ground because of the

twisted hump of her really sad back. The limp of

having two different length legs, what the hell

sort of a joke was that? Fred, I feel for this lady, 

don't you? It hurts just looking. It's Summer now,

you did okay there, thought the heat's sometimes

too much  -  long days, nice nights, yeah. But what's

this lady do in the Winter, thanks to you? She has

to huddle, find shelter, take the abuse of others in

finding warm places to stay, or die  -  frozen to a

particle of numbness, ice-snot out her nose. Fred,

how could you, and is this the way it really goes?
(Or don't you know what it's like?)...