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Sunday, January 20, 2013

cold and broken

You better get it straight darling:
Poor men wanna be rich, rich men wanna be kings,And a king aint satisfied till he rules everything

from: Badlands Bruce Springstein

The Turn of Tide

She was six when the earthquake ‘of the millennium’ hit. She lay in a hospital bed for six months with few visitors. The Hospital was modern only in her wing the generator ran for a few hours per day. She wasn’t on life support. She wouldn’t talk. It didn’t mean she ‘couldn’t’ talk her doctor kept saying when the administrators wanted to transfer her to a permanent home for the retarded. The doctor knew the home. It was a place that stunk of vomit and pain. Her doctor knew it would be a sentence to hell if they sent her there. “Where were her parents?” the doctor would ask, knowing that the round-up had taken place moments after the Earthquake. The healthy were taken: the unhealthy buried. ‘Triage’ they called it. ‘War’ was another word for it. It wasn’t a war of nations-no- the nation was suspended over a man made cliff. Feudalism was trying to make a comeback.

The mercenaries were plentiful in the time of the turn of the tide. The poverty had people eating poisons that were labeled as food. And their minds were eaten by inserted thoughts fed to them via screens. The wavelengths were separating. Neptune ruled this day.

The planets watched murmuring, as if taking bets. Jupiter, the grand skater back and forth in a building of pattern, the surfers backdoor , a very big wave sweeps across the sky, magnetizing their dreams, if they dare to dream their way out of Empire even away from the planned breakup of the United States of America. Each planet holds a double edged sword, the crossroads, the cutting away.
Would the doctor fallow her calling with the girl or would she drop the thread of that future? The future that could lead her out of darkness and despair…

The Priest stood as Pluto’s man, in the rumble of the fallen church, looking at a photograph of the church spire, a shard of its glass cuts his hand, he looks at the crimson blood and for a reason unknown to him, says: ‘the sacrifice as been made’ then he collapsed in a heap. He woke in the hospital, his bed, next to Lilly, a child of six.
Epiphany Each breath is a portal to another dimension of thought and being.
Each breath can take us into other worlds…..