This is going to be an ongoing series of my prosaic poetry for anyone who may be interested in that sort of thing.
Fifty-five years into a Christian'd century, a group of vegetational cultivators fuss over the colonial colonel who's breaking his back in order to breed defense from their Buddhism; their tent-pole is of course weakened by the knot of an American noose.
Four million pairs of sandals were exchanged for leathered high-tops, but it did not increase the height of any particular point of view. The eternal message was a mimicry--the worst kind of scream--quickly annihilated by the whispered demands of its opponent. Any movement to aid the king would perish for the sake of mercy. Their gift is in dehumanizing their involvement; they publish their children into the foreground in hopes of steering the barrel from their father's mothering protest.
Johnson sat plotting on presidential bones, but starved the story of its importance. The billion dollar paper chase had just begun--flaring its blond arms in front of a series of drawn stars, as if to communicate peace to the Earth's accountant. Genocide... permanent and penniless, though profit still preyed upon by the predicated pilots of Rolling Thunder.
The last life to lose was taken by a boy who was born in a draft--the color of communism forever foreign to his eye. The Western region would later warrant a rescue; ready to die, it finally fell victim to an impenetrable poet who spoke through a camouflaged radio. He, alone, collapsed the camaraderie of united sons--his hallucinogenic effect tying their shoelaces to the leg of a Vietnamese pig.
The Prose Locker #1: Vietnam 101
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