Sunday, August 16, 2015

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?)...

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