End of time splashes through yellow plastic tubes to meet eternity that ends in a sand box. Shriek! Let us do it again. And we awoke as bible words and slogans rained from an amused sky. I saw the four horse men on mules, ride slowly through an abject cityscape to where air was clear and grass for the animals. The weather is always good when not punctuated by TV weather forecast entertainment. We have fortressed our home to avoid receiving or hear other voices. But strange men in black, came and showed me a house in lane, where Barbara Streisand lived in a tent at the back, did her exercises seven o’clock sharp, every day. Twenty eight people circled my house, two of them came said they were termite inspectors, but they were more interested in the kennel where my poodle Hamas lived. Next day the twenty eight had disappeared and my dog lies dead on the steps of the shed I use, when sending secret messages to people who believe in everything just to be on the safe side. Barbara Streisand joined us, dressed in a Salvation Army uniform, urged me to buy the house, she promised me a new dog, I declined, jumped on a passing bus. The driver wore a laundry starched, burnoose and past us flew twinkling, vibrant bushes; green tutus looking for Margot Fonteyn. It was Palm Sunday and not a good day to talk about defensive Jihad
