I’m going to get the paper

The unrecognizable sidekick that the superhero takes for granted.  The blank mind into which the great idea was planted.  Being caught on tape, with means, motive, and opportunity.  Lawyering up to the point that you forgot you even met me.  You and me, we, are the same.  No hidden agenda.  No unnamed game.  Enemies of the same draft.  Friends of the same mechanic.  Allies with same tide that sends the coast dwellers into panic.  Signifying depth at a hundred and two degrees with fifty percent humidity.  The daily show posts ads that hint at the fact that you hid from me.  This is cupid’s city.  This is about love, but you can’t see it.  Hidden between the words, between the lines, are the fibers of five hundred count sheets woven from the blanket of love.  But I can’t see it, because its wrapped in the blanket of blood.  These wanderings into madness, make me feel as if I have had this nightmare before.  I might care if there was more that would finally be the end to it all.  But, the blessing that is the curse turned the purse upside down, emptied it out, and gave the curtain call for sometime in the next life. 

What if so and so is actually right?  The one who seems like the lunatic on the fringe, but who is actually kind of sweet in a rednecky sort of way.  What if he is right, and the ones we might look down upon will actually be kings and queens in the next goaround.  These what ifs can be damaging if one doesn’t spend a thorough amount of time reading in the good book.  Just what is that one book that is referred to as good.  Is it the Queran?  The Bhagavad Gita?  The Bible?  The complete idiot’s guide to 80’s television?  My wallpaper is peeling off only to reveal a hidden gesture of kindness in these words.  In these words lies the everlasting mystery of youth, forgiveness, hope, fulfillment out of emptiness, and love. 

We can never forget love.  Ashes to gashes.  Dust to trust.  We stare at the headlines, and our collective psyche begins to bust.  Welcome to the motherland, or fatherland depending upon your pre-existing bias.  Let the cold waves lap on the shore of your overcaffeinated mind.  Let kindness seem novel rather than common.  Not common in the anti-spectacular way.  Common in the typical behavior of the world as a whole sort of way.  Can the bunker that is safe hold enough room for all of us?  Because, if not, the war needs to stop.  The clean water needs to increase somehow, and mouths need to be fed.  Otherwise, there is going to be a whole lot of dying.  A whole lot of crying.  A whole lot of why the fiddly frick was this necessary that is asked by a handful of people who are meek on the Andes somewhere, with dogs who still howl at the moon and pretend they are wolves.  This is love.  Read between the lines.

About SIDEWAYS EIGHT

Being heard, stirred, and perhaps cured by life's many hidden images and the written-spoken word.
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