'thank god im an atheist -- for today' he said. no sooner had the words left his lips and the modern day USA missionaries (with the frightening neo-con cross to bear) drew away from him. their scentless literature and lint free linens plain hovering without touching neither skin nor bone in the low summer humidity noon heat. a dry heat. an unencumbered moment. he enjoyed watching them drift away like drift wood he freed from under the dock and sent on its way. drift away, old driftwood, i wont miss you. drifting was a cool thang. drifting was righteous. keep on drifting, drifter.
as the distance grew, he noticed in the dry heat a miraculous sort of hovering. the kind of bait potential converts might take, he knew. these people, they were not of their clothes, the image suggested. he thought he needed to get his eyes checked. cause they were glowing, or their linens were glowing around them. like those luminescent bugs he once came across in Alaska. now you see them, now you don't. whatever it was, it was not invited into his reality test drive. and god forbid its a miracle, he thought again. using the word god for him was the purest rebellion. because it could not be unclean, the word, no matter how irreverent he used it, because it had no meaning to him to begin with. or so he thought on the sidebar. the main event was the glowing missionaries becoming somehow more dangerous. calculating. the simple minded folk might be suckered. this tiny out of the ordinary aspect of light on linen could pull them in, he worried. the big things always in the little things.
But to hell with it all! He thought or said aloud, before pulling and releasing behind him the coil-secured aluminum door that he divined might divide him miraculously from all the cares these damn missionaries seemed to stir up in him and leave him with to contend. The rising tide of unessential cares were exactly what bothered him severely about the missionaries. God forbid one got suckered! then entered into contract or handshake out a gentlemans contract, to sign on for the painstaking BEING.
In his mind he saw it play out, and thats the only place it could get in! his mind. Converter on convert. converter seeing converts in visual hallucinations. Converts that do not exist outside some preaching. The saddest of the sad, he imagined. To BECOME, to MANIFEST the very one (potential energy) they needed you to be to certify the existence of those who walk door to door and sell you your suspicious so-played up freedom to yourself. aka nothing anyone would wish on anyone.
to distinguish and clarify, but hovering like fruit flies or hungry). the literature they held out judiciously like it might burn their skin. the linens stood creased before the ankles, surrounding but not touching. a warm glow of light filtered through the material and into that sacred space no one could see but everyone respected somehow. you must be an obsessive-compulsive or in the military or just have enough free time on your hands to work the cling out of that suit, thought the atheist.
the atheist was full of thought. full full full like no room at the Inn, so go on now! thought piled upon thought and went through the elaborate filter / recycle thought compound (composed by thoughts coming up with fanciful ideas like cosmopolitan cocktails wagging from fashionistas quarter width wrists. compost of thoughts! a good idea and maybe attach selling points to the marketing campaign, he thought, and then crushed that idea into the previous thought, oblivious to the rising of thought dust just up and surrounding (but not touching) his thoughtful large godless head).
no time for religion in the thinking mans head, he thought, that would be like renting space to the new 2009 jobless IOU card carrying wonder fresh out of unemployment living conditions and into smaller quarters perhaps the head of an atheist? should be reasonable affordable accomodations and maybe an idea could be picked up via OSMOSIS that would lead to an outcome other than the catatstrophic one that was playing out uncomfortably close to the catastrophe catastrophizers often feared but never came true...
no sooner had this hope been born, and the freethinker thoughts pressed down upon it and crushed it with the nervous silence they have in the presence of vampire missionaries: the Word must not be lost in static cling! he thought, making light of his situation.
A Witness picked up the trail of this irreverent gadabout, and threw back into the silence of muddy discomfort like church sidling up to state in the gay bar on country road south, itself no longer current, paved over for urban militias to march: Nor wasted on these freethinkers on the many interlocking highways to hell. the infrastructure here has expired and shall lie... like rotting eggs discarded.
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