Were there no white people in heaven, or at least no Baptists, deer hunters or golfers, for the quasi-judaism of it permits no others: a heaven for Baptists with its exactitude and pageantry, and a “regular heaven” where one may choose his mayonnaise, everyone else. Meanwhile, Baptists sit holding at a stand still the swell of all humanity, from acknowledging things froward and beyond their peculiar Judaism.
And only their divination is given to the folds of cognition, with the Pauline gifts.
Why, a man could spend decades of his life studying a subject, but all for naught: baptists only listen to blue collar tradesmen and stock reports, but not in that order of import, for they would sack the blue collar for the sake of the stock market.
Why, a man could spend decades of his life studying a subject, but all for naught in the face of one who has contempt for education, but claims, perhaps to either private educate or home educate their children.
Why, a man could spend decades of his life studying a subject, one denial undoes so much good, one denial from those whose nascent memories are not good–
O to forget as they breath they sin, or is it as the non-members of them breath as they sin, or sin in every breath, as the Baptist quasi-Jewish deity angrily pitches waffle fries at very human indecencies, knowing provision of only sustenance and cursings ad infinitum.
Why do I descry in diatribe to deride one group’s free choice, and for the perverse sake of everyone else’s free choice? Is it recompense for the disillusion of their avenging of their angry, jealous God? Do I fuel a fire? Nay, I say, neigh. Those arbiters of everyone else’s choices, denied their free choice? Be it not for me to say.
Be it not for me to say.
Jesse Jackson kicked his football, or such was announced in the freshly lighted hours of the day: Fat Tuesday, a celebration to which I know not his esteemed opinion: be it bacchanal, reign of Dionysus, or freedom’s joyous singing, I know not.
Hell, them Baptists are rarely aware of God, anyway, when there are others, a scattered few, who know all is God, despite that the most wise of the Jews called all “nothingness”, and one of them wrote that he saw God’s literally personified ass.
The wanderer who does not belong slowly hand over heel climbs a radio tower.
Words of mythos, psychology, and sociology slice through the haze of a fog without a sea, myst without moisture, evening without day, morning without night, and of course, the always available facility of sight without mind or mind without sight, in their deadly tete-a-tete across a varying dreamscape.
It was Fat Tuesday.
Not that fat people needed a particular day: it seemed something of people’s reason, anyone, for one day, engorging and enlarging themselves among scintillating fares of liquor, expensive soul food, and the breastes of womans in the bold glowing street among streamers, yellers, dancers, debauchers, nervous policemen.
Through the hoar it seemed drowsy reflection of the fatigued, weary universe: the universe looked ahead, and based on our plaintive history, the chaos of present days, that universe may have been uncertain where to start first in all placement, ordering and assignations of the universe entropic. I wouldn’t want to either, and yet, was there a need of an organizing force, a super agent, and the scrawl of watercolor that I presumed my person:
It did not match my movements; it was something else, like reflections in a haunted house: moreso it moved its nub appendages, nubs all one could make out, as a nib of what could be a finger was too far into the gradient of a blank day to discern.
Any day suffices a fat person, suffering one’s guts a constancy of shame in its diet of opinions, perceptions, and always one’s loathing, of the thing not what they are, what they might see in a mirror, but what they believe of other’s opinions of themselves: breasts of woman, both the uncoiled society persons and reclining watchful unengaged savages.
From Frankfurt, Manassas looping through one side of Birmingham jail straight through to the other, bouncing off the Sierra Madre, seen by many and understood by none: balconies were for dictators, ticket holders, and the others were the fuck-all raindrops of God trying to drown mankind in a slow, sure oxidation, knowing full well, hateful old bastard, those in the coliseum had their twilight grottoes and seclusions without conclusions or intrusions of our polite institutions.
Tuesdays, for fat people, was only an excuse not to order from the menu.
One person’s Melchisedec could easily be another person’s idolatrous heathen divining weirdness from the skies.
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