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Apr. 5, 2007 A Hollow Place It was a hollow place and he walked up the streets and looked into the windows. Ten thousand miles he had come, to see another veteran. It was getting to be evening, and there was a part of the road where a traveling carnival had been set up. A barker called to him, and he tried to ignore the call. It was a game where the player shot a gun to try and cut out a red colored star on white paper. The barker told him that he could have one practice try, to get used to the gun, and then pick any prize he wanted. He knew that they often said that, said that you could have one practice try. There was nothing new under the sun. He grinned to himself and went to play the game. He was able to fire the red out from the star, and the man running the game had a change of demeanor. He became quiet, and not as friendly, and no longer looked the soldier in the eye. He just stared out ahead and told him to pick any prize he wanted. He hoped the soldier would not play again, because he was too good at the game, having handled the rifle with such ease. The soldier looked around, and picked a large bird, an oversized Toucan. The game man didn’t thank the soldier for playing, but just handed him the stuffed bird and began calling out to another passerby. The soldier walked on. He looked at the Toucan and said, “What am I supposed to do with you friend?” The evening had now closed in. The soldier walked along a road that seemed forsaken by the world. There were holes in the street, and there were no sidewalks. He balanced on the curb and walked along, the way children do. He began to talk to the Toucan again, “Bird, you were better off there with your friends…you won’t like it with me. I should give you away at least…but there is nobody here now. Bird, you don’t talk much, do you? Did they take you from the jungle? I been to the jungle too, but now I am back. Tell you what, we will keep going, and try and find a coffee, and ask someone where Crescent St., is, okay? Because even if you know, I have a feeling you are not going to tell me, cause you are the silent type, there with your nose and all your bird thoughts, right bird?” Then he walked on, with the Toucan under his arm. The soldier then remembered something. He remembered that when he was a child, before sleep, he would feel terrified. He had not known why he was terrified, or what to do about it. One thing would help at those times. He would shut his eyes as tightly as he could, and think of a Toucan from the popular cereal commercials flying though the jungle. He thought of that now, in this hollow place, where it seemed no other souls roamed, not dark ones or light ones. He kept walking, though the hollow place, as dim electric light from somewhere above flickered halfheartedly on his shoulders, rucksack, and the parts of the bird that stuck out from under his arm. Grenadine Gun Fire Stickers Stickers and Grenadine or the flashes of light from the sky. Owls whispering secrets, and the cases of Pop Shop pop or orange cats and carburetors. Watches. Clocks, watches, and lots of time. Tick tock. Hardwood floors, and the old ladies with the makeup wearing sin. Tennis balls, and nails, or lock washers and wrenches. Wenches too, or beavers making homes, and the air bright. Castles of sand and green cement walkways, where the jellyfish roam, where the snakes hide in corridors, where humid raindrops fall upon our hearts. Big vacant lots, and the birds there, and the trucks too, yellow and orange. Go there, and see where the sea fights with the street, and the spirits roam around the bushes, and peak out at worlds. Consciousness and its pure, but then the thorns come, or the whales beach themselves. Piers and the stock market, or waves and malls. Divers, rafts, and the holy night. Old men who walk in water and gaze up at the sun. Two-tone cars, and the modified mufflers. The lawns are thick with ants and dew, the pelicans dream, and the conch smiles. Carpets and salt, or the aluminum dividers. Planes, white walls staring at huts where nobody goes. The newspapers of the world, and the chain link fences. Lobsters and sun tanned dusk, or the lights bleeding from skies. Grapes, fruit drinks, and lotions. Where the stickers stick, and the Grenadine rests in cupboards. Sharks, little fish, nets, and guns. Guns fire, and other fires burn by the ocean, fighting back the night, the best they can. Notes From The Nowhere Worlds Real life, and the struggles of worlds. From the amoeba to the oversoul. The forests and the rivers and the apple or cherry trees too. From Christ to Kurzweil and before and beyond. Real life is a stinker, and the people have so far to go. There is the sun and the moon and they are waiting and watching, but most of all they are disappointed. Real life and civilization. We have real life, but not enough civilization, though the infrastructure is set up. There is not much heart or spirit that streams through the lands, that is left in the sands, that can keep even stoic Ayn Rand. Real life is the life of money, not the life of dreams. Real life will chew you up and spit you out before noon. Whirling dervishes or pastoral paintings will not help. Stand up straight, as straight as you can, and lift your chin high. Your answer is as good as any answer. Real life keeps on. Walk with an adept if you want, or walk with your own lonely corduroy pockets of sadness, madness, and even strange bliss. ------------ Email Brian Michael Barbeito: Brian1750@Hotmail.com Comment on this article here! ------------ All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com and are not allowed to be posted on other websites. ARTICLE THIEVES WILL BE PROSECUTED! |
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