It's 11:38 PM, Deacon is out walking, not for any dietary reason; but to keep himself away from his temptations. The cool Californian night air clears his clouded mind, and Deacon breathes in as much as he can. His walk is painful, his right toe is filled with gout, "the rich mans disease" well, this is richest Deacon will ever feel, every step feels like a mile, every throb of pain buckles his knees; but he knows he can't go home, can't go to the ragged places he so covets, this is where he belongs, staggering around the streets of Los Angeles like a wounded animal. His mind is a drift, trying to think of anything other than the overwhelming pain in his foot, with every step he gasps, if he was capable of tears they would be adoring his face; but his tears have dried up long ago, and pain only reminds him that he's alive. Terrible job, wife left me, what is the meaning of family, these are the questions that circle Deacon's mind. A rustle in a nearby trash receptacle breaks his concentration, "not again" he mutters, fearing a would be attacker will harm him and take him of his nothing...again. Relieved, Deacon sighs as a raccoon reveals itself from the dark side of the dumpster. They lock eyes for a moment, they relate to one another, one is looking for treasure in the trash, the other is trash looking for treasure. Deacon bows his head and sets forth, the raccoon acknowledges and proceeds his business. Deacon's foot is throbbing now beyond bare, he knows he needs to rest. His hovel is unreachable, he's swam out pass the rope and can't make it back, an old brick church is a block away, he can rest there, does he dare? Deacon and the lord have not been on speaking terms in some time; but he needs the rest, the lord can privy him that! Deacon sets out, and his foot steps down as if it were on broken glass, he mutters... "God help me".
Tuesday, July 7, 2015
A walk...
It's 11:38 PM, Deacon is out walking, not for any dietary reason; but to keep himself away from his temptations. The cool Californian night air clears his clouded mind, and Deacon breathes in as much as he can. His walk is painful, his right toe is filled with gout, "the rich mans disease" well, this is richest Deacon will ever feel, every step feels like a mile, every throb of pain buckles his knees; but he knows he can't go home, can't go to the ragged places he so covets, this is where he belongs, staggering around the streets of Los Angeles like a wounded animal. His mind is a drift, trying to think of anything other than the overwhelming pain in his foot, with every step he gasps, if he was capable of tears they would be adoring his face; but his tears have dried up long ago, and pain only reminds him that he's alive. Terrible job, wife left me, what is the meaning of family, these are the questions that circle Deacon's mind. A rustle in a nearby trash receptacle breaks his concentration, "not again" he mutters, fearing a would be attacker will harm him and take him of his nothing...again. Relieved, Deacon sighs as a raccoon reveals itself from the dark side of the dumpster. They lock eyes for a moment, they relate to one another, one is looking for treasure in the trash, the other is trash looking for treasure. Deacon bows his head and sets forth, the raccoon acknowledges and proceeds his business. Deacon's foot is throbbing now beyond bare, he knows he needs to rest. His hovel is unreachable, he's swam out pass the rope and can't make it back, an old brick church is a block away, he can rest there, does he dare? Deacon and the lord have not been on speaking terms in some time; but he needs the rest, the lord can privy him that! Deacon sets out, and his foot steps down as if it were on broken glass, he mutters... "God help me".
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