It was lurching into port.  "Protestors" had stolen gasoline under a silent, still sky full of (i)God, could only be(i).  Miracles and bloodied documents.  Some will never attribute it to (i)any(i) God. 

     Israel, like Ireland, had been reluctant to hang dirty laundry on the line that magazines and newspapers had strung across front yards.  And the lawns of "proper administration", well, (i)yawns(i) and quarterlies listing a handful of events. 

     People outside of the city just didn't know.  Parts of buses through skulls and shoulders.  Missing body parts covered with rubble and garbage and the occasional shutter or coffee table.  Like cities state-side, "the Streets" had their own ways of operating.  But nobody was not paying attention.

     Stifling bloody phlegm, reflux, and a cough.  Shattered glass under boots and shoes and barefeet.  "Torn heel, but there was acid or some kind of chemical in a shot glass on the tray.  The waiter's tray."  Stifled, hand shot out from curled up to upright.  Upright man pulls body from tank.  "Get in." 

     "I ca, cah, cah

     "Can't 

     "Deal with this." 

     "You must." The explosion had tore off most of the building's rear.  "I'll stay right here." 

     "What kind of," gulp of air into lung and a clenching of unmoored cinder block, one nostril held closed.  "Now BLOW."  A wilderness "doc" put the gritty boogers in a baggie.  Another pulled the string of viscous until blood seen another color in special glasses.  A clothespin.  "We gotta go for a backboard." 

     Gun grabbed.  Pointed at feet.  "Get in." 

     "We'll wait for 722." 

     On "the horn", a mocked-up field radio, (i)good enough(i), "It's most likely mined." 

     Scribbled note: 

     What kind of offcers don't know a port's a ship in war? 

     "Enough." 

     "There'll be time for that." 

     Guts splattered on windows.