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One River

Go where the water is.

That is where you will find the humans.

The fresh, brackish or salt will do, any place I can fish or wash a dish; so can you.

In the Pacific or Atlantic, any way you want to pan it, humans occupy the planet near something specific.

India and the Arctic, anywhere you want to park it; the oceans to the seas, Mediterranean or the Baltic.

Get you a feel of bitter sand and you land in the Gila and maybe in the Nile if you sail while; where the ancient humans used to pile and steal a pitcher of denial from the hands of a child.

Go see the James in the rain or walk the plains until you find Champagne.

Go see the Great ones just for some of the lake runs or bring your bread crumbs for the duck bums if you cross the Macon all the way to the Masons.

They’re all over the place and no better place to find a trace of a human; from Hoover all the way to Hunan.

It won’t matter if you’re moving on the Yangtze, Xiang or on a plane see; even a train goes to “shui” flowing freely, for the armies and the farms to the farmers of humanity.

Waters of UNITY!

The fathers and mothers agree, unanimously; it pays to raise a family where it ought to be wealthy in liquidity. Even if it’s filthy, it could be seeping, healthy for the fodder.

There’s not a place on this ball of terracotta that the face of a human hasn’t felt the pelt from a drop of; if not a vase, they have a lot of.

From the rains in the Congo to the veins of the Mississippi; around the bends of the Bongo or the waves off the Pongos into the bays at vicious Guinea; a long row from Italy into the mouth of the Simeto or a pouch outside Oreto.

Follow the water to the meadow and you’ll find out where they go; as they go way farther than the Yellow.

River and a pond or just a sliver of wet sand fleas; you’ll find a man and his family or probably the whole clan, see? They’ll be swimming in the Ganges.

The Amazon won’t last too long if you take a wrong turn at a prong and end up spilling out in the Maranon.

Try Panama or take a trip to Canada, up the Ottawa and down the Columbia, around to the Yakima, somewhere in America.

You’d see them though at the Shone in their stirrups on through the Rhone, Rhine and Po in Europe, till you’re whooped in the syrup, on a trip through the Lough Hyne.

In due time you find truth to the rhyme and the reason mankind lives so fine in the ruthless confines of crucial coastlines with useless deadlines in fruitless maritime pastimes, with a mind to be alive.

A kind to arrive at divine brine that would keep them alive; so they can turn something already mined into pall-ready wine.

I think it tastes just fine, but just to help you bib your wearies through man’s unsanities; we all share the bland mud and drink blood from the same tributaries.

Same dammed spits by Fartfist

Published by Fartfist

I am personally a personal personality for a personable person using this persona.

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