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Any Port In A Storm

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I am a soldier; please don't ever mistake that. I am called to action by the beckoning of a dis-figured priest. Who stands at a pedestal and waves his arms in the air, wildly, full o' rage and the horrors of faithlessness. As the masses mumble an in-audible groan over and over again, mostly a self-utterance, my countenance grows clouded, vague, confused, un-focused.
I don't buy it.
Would you?

Being constantly reminded of the effectiveness of productivity, I see no social gain, not by their standards, to pursue any individual desire. But the multitude of my complex awareness and sensitivity is in vein; I grow blind. MY GOD I CAN'T SEE!

A business man with a taste for the theatrical looks me in the eye, offers money for my opinion. It's not for sale. A deaf, mute woman communicates.
" Have you lost your mind,"
I hear her whisper through sign-language.
No, not yet, but I'm close.
I leave the church, take to the streets. Reality is more precipitable here; it grows on trees in the Congo, they say. The folds of a man's shirt un-veil a nine millimeter. The sign reads: Homeless. I enter. My eyes re-focus in a dimmer light. A clerk bearing an embarrassing grin says,
"Do you like it here?"
"It's not home, but it'll do, for now."
Before I fall asleep I brush the dust off an abandoned dairy, It reads:

The revolution of the earth about the sun, one year, is no small thing. For here in this time can be seen the transformative metamorphosis of a boy into a man; a man into the out-stretched reaches beyond the soul's visibility known so well, and hereafter lies a place in time where the meaningless grow, the dead walk and all those seeking an impossible victory from the heart and lung of an empty pretense, may stray among the statues and structures of the very beings they have sought after...





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