There is a heavy sex to colonialism, to the army, navy and air force, and later the drones, a digital sex, plastic USAs...on Army wheels...out west producing sex organs. The image withers like a Cialis commercial, snozzled, in pyknic profile, as if America were a plastic statue on the dashboard of some spaceship held on with suction cups that listen in to the beats of a heart. So when you travel outside the country stay away from the natives or it will spoil your trip. I picked all this up by osmosis. It didn't help that I was reading the Grand Inquisitor at the same time. I would not have survived these disquisitions without the prior years of allowing the true leaven access to heart and mind. Not enough, never enough. So it was American light, American phone, American freedom, not light and freedom in themselves, the one species of white man decreasing. Ruben Dario made that impression, peppermint jelly exploding at night, Alexander, Alexander, Alexander-Nebuchadnezzar is white. Of course that was naive, since the imperial has visited most of the kingdoms, states and nations of the world. But are we too harshly judged by the light of our worst acts? Presidents added up to conspiracy. This Calendar wouldn't cross the water any more than the later book sent to outer space embossed in asbestos on the outer shell of some spacecraft would be grokked by the Albigensian on Betelgeuse. Little still life bookmarks were paged into these satires, a 1584 London maple chest saying, GIVE THE GLORIE TO GOD ALLONNE, a phrase carved into a sideboard at the Folger, but the context sullied and doubted, when the enemies of GLORIE took over. This is civilization. Be glad and walk ye in it. American light, liberty, the chest which is really mocked in the portmanteau of the fictional Orcs while Hesper is singing I love you, I love you, a little like the dream princess, except merchants dream of new Americas...nose the Bermudas, ravish Virginia, as Thomas Randolph says. This cover, off, reveals nothing at all, stolen from Allen Ginsburg on a boxcar somewhere pressing nudely on the honey tube. When I read that one for the radio station the tech was so convinced he bought the book, but the Christian values are two edged in the context of everything else. Would that they produced a falling off of stretch on the stalk of sexual colonialism. Spring to the arms of burlap, poke a stitching, jam a smock. Nothing must be covered up. Not that these cannot be as vulgar as a Volkswagen Puppy in prodction, or corpses sprouting out in the snow in winter that come up with crocuses. So it says among the vulgar, this rose gives many a care of its dying.
If it is possible to have a novel without a character so called, the character here is ourselves en masse, as a collective and a society of the world wherein certain mythological conflicts overwhelm. It is important not to spell these out but to let them creep into our consciousness as in fact they have done over the years. New Philadelphia is a colony, an out post on a Hadrian’s Wall inhabited by refugees who are confronted in their new environment not so much by nature but by myth and this is the record of their adaptions backgrounded by salient features of the first settling of Philadelphia by those mystics of the Wissahickon Creek as it passes through the gorge to merge with the Schuylkill River into the Delaware and then the sea. The series of transfers of water are like the transfers of culture from that old world the colonists abandoned to the new one they know nothing of. Who could know of it, inhabited by monsters worse than the Odyssey and with no heroes or overarching great cause like Helen or Troy or Truth. They thought they were reliving elements of the Odyssey, descendents into hell or hades let us say, signature of that hero. In the beginning their obtuse recommendations were as confusing as scruples against geese. They excitedly questioned each others nerve. But the five microcosms did not notice either set of believers. Since the mystics were predominant, Leviathan was invited which introduced extreme oddities of topography. The majority in that town patterned their lives and homes after this sea monster they saw in the stars and in the cosmos, if not actually in the sea, casting omens of earth and fire and trying to foretell the future, for all the good it did them. They sacrificed to Poseidon right out of the Greek, so though they believed a child was born pure and innocent it was not scrupled to live among tens of millions in the womb. These contrasted with the harbor seal Baptists as they were called, who would begin speaking along the jetties and walks with their eyes closed and go so long that even after their audience had long departed they kept on with their antiphonies. They anointed themselves elders in a Council of Watchers to oppose the intrusion of their so called nemesis from the sky as much as Leviathan was the mystic nemesis from the sea.
There are many ways to offend those who have not seen the cracks radiating from centers of implosion of fissures like Tycho in the Moon, colony craterlets, orbits of phyllotaxis, divergences perceptible as the shape Ohio once was, or became. It too existed after proof of some finite intelligence at work, occurring passim, the a priori rendezvous-proving rule, circle down to circle for one who descends, crossings seen in the meeting-places of more than one canal.
To call them canals is a faux pa from the planned obsolescence of intelligence that once existed, like thinking the world flat mistaking rivers for canals, spheroid for flat, something as if Gilgamesh below the Euphrates Beltway to which people dug tracks and underground trains in their temples to convince themselves theirs was a perfect world. These tracks, taken apart, were not seen, for this they did not do.
Every effort to conceal the one cell organism known as Mammon-Oranus, a huge intestine of money governed in Secret with its primitive media nerves, multilayered in a newfound. For you know the gut has a brain stimulating the tribes with “wow pulses,” This *Stockholm-Munchhausen mosaic of tribes caught between the coasts of the present-day fabulous and history would digest money, excrete money, displace other processes of being. After exposure that the Secret mind could produce these impulses on its own would gurgle would not be spoken full in words.
You will understand that it's hard to accept the time to move on and start over. That's why colonists see themselves in the paradox, to have a thing but not know it, wait a life for a thing to pursue it, do nothing but wait for the thing to renew it, do nothing but wait for the thing to undo it. Frost beets, cracked skin, stout limb, opaque beneath, lives and minds drive what we don't know while we think we are doing something else, and for different reasons too. Spelunking moles, contracted for the moment, fill in the entrance to their sea cave and write stone letters in shale creeks below, who have seen many things, but pay no attention, whose ears are open, but hear nothing. Such reverse timpanis of Beethoven’s 9th pick a phrase, invert it, splice at will. A drum becomes a word. A word becomes a boom echoing in earthquakes. What hubris, to think that after a thousand generations, alive in the last, that the life of governments, books, civilizations disappeared, when they clearly did not, to say that both sides prevented this revelation. Who says there are two sides? Colonists underground and Plain Folk. The one to bring it about the other to dissolve, which thoughts compel the verse I execute.
Adverbs before nouns in the foyer, ballistic glass lacerations at Chelyabinsk, American Ground Zero, fairly intruding, we have these moments to remember. Smart talk on the rug, ambiance, facts please, and then the door. Liqueurs, bracelets, chairs keep the surface. Wittgenstein lifts his head on a pedestal at Airpark. Could that head speak it would say the colonist like a mouse is meant by the Armed Forces to be an experiment to save itself. But inside the colony, no-colony, to serve the greater cause, I cannot in good conscience apocalypse the mouse. We assemble today therefore against this blind cosmic doctrine. Shiites have Nostradamus to thank for their escapes, Nostradamus, Blake, St. John fall on all heads. Colonies and colonists underground stand cataclysm, hide from rocks in rock. The colonial underground is clearly not made to recognize. The moon, Dulce or the Archuleta, take your pick clonies, aliens or gfovernment, although you spell check hard. When the fgov fills in the harbor at night, tigre extremes, you get the pint. I read The Apocalypse of Stars. It is an honor to join our brothers where they throw bodies into tombs that come out alive from Elisha's bones, who only wants to be taken up, but has to wait like and here, now, when the angel looses its vial and Euphrates dries up like a fig, the Kings of the east march.
This utterance of language, roots and alphabet is the least spiritual power of the Sons. But the meaning was not in the sound, to look in the sound. The meaning was not in the syntax to look at the connections. The meaning was not in language, for the words, the languages were within the still voice that spoke. Indeed they sounded, but like what language, none or one or all and what did they say, impossible words from the deep?"et erit illa frenans transeuntes" made "a place there, a grave to be buried in; on the east of the sea"; a valley through which travelers used to pass a sulfurous lake, to which there may be allusion to the sea of Chinnereth, or Jarchi and Kimchi; which sense is a passage to the east of the same sea, a road to the east. Stop of the nose of passengers; the ill smell of months observes this monument passing where the multitude shall fall, the reason for their being out of the way; which sense again notices that it is near two mountains that a city, as it were, once magnificent, among any that you name that come to mind, Rome, Jerusalem, at their best suffer an implosion, superstructures falling into rubble, parapets mixed with fountains, holy and unholy, better than the organ meat and tissue of the twin towers where cardboard crumbled, we give it that. These were real brick, marble, stone whose parts withstood demise of the whole, skeins lay tangled, and that's what remained, except the city was a paragraph, the whole precognate concept a rubble together, five sentences tangled in one, images broken and misplaced for the cranes, so to speak, except our cranes are accident and sound demolition which pull the parts out from their tangle to reseat them in the colonies, passengers and the like, the whole city rebuilt as it were, not that it ever existed, but if it didn't how did this mess end up on the ground? You see the point that out of chaos must come order, as if it described the valley where they bury his army, the Grand Seignior general Antiochus, such of it as remains after the fowls, the bones left; himself also a sepulchre, to perpetuate the memory that this event is future, which Calmet takes to be the army defeated, "locum ibi sepulchrum", or Starckius; "locum ubi sit sepulchrum", Cocceius. (c) Ebr. Comment. p. 585. (d) Dictionary in the word "Vale" (e) So R. Sol. Urbin. Ohel Moed, fol. 66. 2.((f) "et erit illa obturans transeuntes." Here is an edda to enjoy in the Lindisfarne, Wycliffe, Tyndale, German, Scandinavian or English which Sea captains, gold cargoes, frankincense souls, multinational corps, blondes, City/Woman nations, Gilgamesh starring with Ishtar as "the foul goddess" with bond traders, globe internats unmasked. Intercourse. Intercourse Alejandro-Nabucodonosor, mountaintops and rivers, succubi Christabel now hold their hands and wait for them to ring. Uncapped pirate samurais with credit cards. That's the adagio.
…
My first work
was to obscure these landings. Like leaves blown into letters on the street,
that spell things we do not want to know, I water and tramp the obvious. But
word shells wash up. The sea paints pictures in the sand so fast words are
futile. I am very busy. The sand is obvious. By the time you read this
forest fires will be burning trees into sentences. It is late.
Metaphor of the Leaves
Inmates and police had common cells. Their brains are studied to promote
robotic sources. Corporations, Universities, hospitals run the arches.
Careerists, norm police provoke madness as class rights. The bosses pretend not
to notice weekly instances of mutation in the malls. Hospicio Cabañas, built as
an orphanage becomes a deconsecrated Man of Fire. Gaslit doubt is built here. Centers for Brain Health make diseased brains. Memory,
perception,
sanity,
projection, introjection
hold trials. Psychopathic auto cut flash clip frescoes bloom and darken, crack
and spall. It’s certainly too much to believe public events staged. Evidence is
an iridescent airbrush. Stagings are incomplete. The needs of further
manipulation are a comfort. We are thrown out of the circle.
Landings
Rival views of the Landings were endlessly ridiculed. No one thought from the
staging that the technological revolution was staged. “Facts,” were broadcast
with analysis of the “facts.” You could say I came to the grave worlds to
ask, “whose is this, which one is this?” Mummies of a thousand years, white to
bone would understand the analogy with Maurois’ Tragedy in France —
possess the soul by Vichy confederates and propaganda – or Why England Slept
— appease by fabrication and myth. New titles for quislings: Global Science,
the Alien Savior.
The first Quakers of new prose took documentary form, gathered first hand,
culled from sources. Literature factura. It was a lot like pouring a concrete
foundation, prosthesis of flat folded sheets of the unspoken. Should words get
a public burial? Authorities overruled. The idol of government held bodies
responsible, buried beneath and got on, site of some secret. To bury something
dead and gone came every word spoken.
The burial was secret because the kill was. Watchman Lee used to call it dead
Adam. The list of beliefs, poets of influence, heard and unheard, cried in
vision to hear the same remixed. Cloud powers split words into sheets.
Arches
There is no
obvious connection between this horizon and a series of dreams of dozens of
arches I remember from the message of the leaves. A colored image of a nose
bleeding among honeysuckle. That was under an arbor of bees flying. Yellow and
white fragrant tubes. Coming toward me, my brother, blood flowing from his
nose. I am four.
Another arch preoccupies the county home of Uniontown, PA. I visited at ten.
Who visits an insane asylum at ten? A long whitewashed tunnel extended to
either end. A padded door swung massively in on metal hinges. The inmates
ranged outside the tunnel and in to stumble and moan. The path was elevated
above its gutters so it could be hosed. I didn’t smell anything but
disinfectant. I am going down this tunnel. There is slobbering on both sides.
Now you see them hunting also in cemeteries at night with spades and boots.
Radios, novels, microwaves seek to restore communication with lost powers.
Flashlights look for turned earth, but Adam’s residual soul was secret. Oracles out of power were reduced to
writing. A cry in the river of light, to write anything human in speech, to
navigate a sea so warm the leather hides of the boat smoked on its stretched
frames.
I landed just as the freeways were built, ordered my own dump trucks of dirt so
children could slide down feet first as I did the original slag hills where I
grew up. Houses here had been bulldozed to pavement. Excavation
began by flood light at night. There were ringside seats all day. Leave came to
walk the barriers, explore the pits, but not one artifact was found. Kmart, at
16th St and Roosevelt, yielded hundreds. We walked the freeway at Christmas
that year, picnicked on the bridge over 24th St. before sliding down the berms
of shale and dirt.
I lifted one of their dictionaries. The Social Impact of Technological
Slavery — begins with the European Discovery of America. The new Indian
replaced with social, political, commercial new worlds made room for psychics
and glands. Discoveries overturned for murder. Ex-terrestrials bigger than
Columbus enthroned King Pentagon. Like the arch angel, timing is all.
…
A HISTORY OF CHE GUEVARA’S
HAIR revised
History of Pyruvate Phosphatase
Revolution does not dialogue with itself.
The thing that made this clone was that the shared experience was gone. Each
Day brings out the test tube shot, to play it all again, but it doesn’t make
you trust this narrative where heads detach. The hallucinated have come to tell
you that yr utilities are being shut off.
To spark such riddles the thing is not quite in the
middle cloud of nuclear explosions being dodged. And, another decap, the thing
that is, is not. Another decap! Just two guys on the assembly line making heads
and who trade barbs of inward glory that few can share. “Our mistress thigh is
nothing like her bum.” It’s the same metric, and all, and the same rhyme. Only
the words are changed.
Two little babies was sittin in bed, standing on
the assembly line assembling heads, they sent for the doctor and the doctor
said, yammering (in italics), you go below I’ll stay above, trading quips to the background noise above.
of the heads, of the heads of the suppernumery heads.
This Plus a reminiscence of their arrival by boxcar in the underground with fellow captives, once entitled Psyche, the Sir Edmund Lockerbie.
With a concluding postscript of
the fgov. in German,
Me and Wold
You go below I’ll stay above, the Volksstamm Director thought, as directorate does. So be
consumed, Agencies melt to stone. I’ll get back to you. Government
functionaries, military illuminate kings and queens. The super horned rich from
previous screens. Blood only brood, gene women mainly propagate new. Under
cats. Will there be no men? Wie die Farbe witklich! Will there be
no culture? Ground Blink. Human growth culture shock. Lit, music, art drugged,
gene pools raise the children and their dogs. Controls oppose proles.
Shrunk heads are a comin, their ears are in sight. I didn’t think the disbods could learn, but they could
sure talk. When I told the Company they were unteachable injections were
served. I call it a Company. It was an American Adam startup that wanted
finally the last of Gibbon. None of the buggers could hear, so we, me and Wold,
sang to mock the engineers, the influence of a mind on itself, the dependence
of what it does on what others have done and that’s how we found out the heads
could talk.
I went down to caverns measureless to man with no
markings except codes, wandered 14 levels below the stairways Capitol. Nun,
seine Seele hat Schmerzen! The walls went down from stone to plain carved
rock. They storeth artifacts, statues further down. I struck the hours till I
found stairways up. None connected to another. I kept walking to an elevator,
pushed Up, found myself in a non-public Capitol, told them I was lost. I had a
clearance tag. To think I can imagine it. Passages slope to where the hearts
are stored. I’m not supposed to say the halls are lined with liver. Busts of
decaps escorted me to the main, sanctioned with different means of taking.
Professor Filbert said those heads had been transplanted from someone’s empty
neck. Prisoners rode that way out west with guillotines attached.
What do I do;
what do I say to myself;
how do I look at people?
Rows of heads exhibited at the Underground Met gave insight in three second bursts. Ten thousand times ten thousand galleons supplied a part to act as if the others were. But since Johnny would not head-off grandma subjects were delivered through passages in the mouth.
Heads worried that the bug would unify the H.
Heads worried they wouldn’t be able to fill the NASA quote
when Canaveral replaced Mauthausen.
Nobody knew the horror but Mr.
Dick. Outsiders policed the house, more like themselves than not, the Strams
Mundane Alien Corp. There is a lack of clarity about the imaginability. You
need a lotion.
Then I looked up–and there before me were two women
who lifted up in a basket Che Guevara’s hair. Comparing DNA hair from the
mausoleum in Santa Clara, Cuba with his DNA body finally put an end to Time’s
100. Voice to skull technology, plasma conduit rendered. With wind in their
wings like a stork, the eyes of Che burned with impatience. Wold and I could
see every good disbob strung up to the Animate Machine: insectothopter,
adiabatic qubits, augmented cognition, synthetic cognition. Lewis’ Devine
babbled like the Head of Cuchulain: Three deaths. first when the body
ceases function (meaning Licklider psycho acoustics). Second when
consigned to the grave (neuro prosthetics). Third in the future, when
your name is spoken last.
There were of course more than
three deaths in this underworld. The first was when they took a head from its
past and all association and harnessed it up. Bosses on the lookout for more
heads sorted these by vocation. Philosopher Wisensteins, Wittgenstein’s head,
pontoons of Huxleys, Aldous, Thomas, and Russell went down with McKenna. Oxytocin
robot ethics, and LIDAR against fear. You nitpickers call in doubt what you
don’t even know, that aircraft carriers were sent in that first attempt to
colonize Neptune. Simulacrum never quite conceals the truth—it is the truth
which conceals. My Borgs adore you human dyads linked up to machine.
Many on the waiting list received oxides under old
grants. Encephalics breed far more imprints than they can use. Einstein was
reassembled, all those autopsied divisions were false. Whole brains in
the underground had so deeply infected de Garis he couldn’t sleep. He stayed up
late and talked to the heads. Consciences were swollen with predictions of the
coming Third War. Etherized on a table, we heard him mumbling among our heads:
“jolted out of nightmare I see lithium, spraying mood
stabilizing, bipolar mania, fine tremor, nausea, hyperthyroid weight
gain. I see Dante leave the malebolge toward the pit. Tuft by tuft in a century
or so the hands of giant Nimrod. Blow a horn, other giants chained Abimilech,
superior to Mordred, Italians frozen in cracks. It shake me. I don’t….”
We have reached the point exactly where the thigh
beam ends at the haunch’s curve.
The palaces of our imprisonment were on the news.
Lightning flashes from both sides of the brain detached the vitreous. The head
detached-severed brain that minds think under control. Microheads call it
dystopic to believe people would be needed. How else invite Colonization with
the mouth of Presidents? Nobody has figured it out, but do not close the ears.
In his dream Lockerbie stood next to a jello baby in
a carriage. Those pumpkins felt the dilemma of man on the steps of the
universe. Wenn es vorkommen kann, illuminations like
“unthinkable and authorizing at one and the same
time. First comes the outbound journey, search for the strange, voyage
postulate of monsters, storms, then comes the savage. “I am powerless over
compulsion. My life is unmanageable, but I want to do good.” Concussed by
torches of fat, “Chaos resists where most I suffered.”
Ninataka uji butter, vortex yam yarn, rayon
fiber
spinning, first viscose plant marcus hook, american
viscose lewistown.
If you’ve never seen an A-head close, outgassed in
its suit with the headlights on, these translator models hold dialogue with the
Sophias of hierarchy. A-Heads can be promoted to Shiner after their
induction–or disappear in smoke. Disrobes had a body, but a true Disbod had
none at all. Disbod discarnates emptied into lit.
Lockerbie
Somewhere from a beaker sealed up tight Dr. Lockerbie
raved about the giant complex of Vacaville Prison, latter day experiments,
anectine on Leary and Manson. Lockerbie wondered that if he worked for all
the parties in question, and then went missing, which one would do
it? His Jersey Report put the unthinkable gas on tapes made during
blackouts as they were dragged from cerebellums. Do you know where your
microbiologist is tonight? They emptied the prisons first. How ’bout your local
computer scientist? He end up in our Boxcar missing. Seeing the
world-vast war citizen, cheap seats in three second bursts, subliminal gold is
what St. Stephen saw: you made gods out of stars, worshiped heavenly bodies,
had a portable Moloch for your Saturn to carry the idols you worship.
That’s what Sir Stephen saw in Weimar B.
Lockerbie gave these discoveries as we rode,
information that under the Washington Capitol giant moths were loosed. The
world big see. Disturbances covered up the reports that 500 Pumpkins
Colonize Saturn. These rumbled down with the Cantwell Titans and their
landings on Mars. Lockerbie had two mythless effigies drop in opportune, the
severed decaps and the spinners, one by reduction, the other spun. Spinnrade
Gretchen a little while.
Mag-lev shuttles repel below Lockerbie says. Eat the
cake and leave the bread. Sakharov, Mayakovsky, Turgenev, Bogdanov injected the
mice the fliege-hausen know. How far to make a better life for cows.
Prion contamination and encephalopathies easy to sound. That rare Neanderthal
Caveman Swelling stacked up at Sufi Port! Cage after cage of A-heads flew
according to report. Smoke manifests at the crater level of space
invisible to the naked eye, there! metaversal flesh if you
believe. Would that the touch were employed to clean and
fix. It wasn’t our fault the heads could talk. Maybe raise up the
scopolamine levels. I worked the west where dissidents exited from their ships.
Ships, trains, it’s a little hard to nonspeak once below. Don’t worry if planes
are trains, or if they aren’t gesucht wird, hängt, It dependeth on what
paradigm. Don’t worry if human cells have an impact on animals.
The notion is that if a head is missing you can
supply the brain. The brain bypasses. Inject both Kirk and McCoy. That’s
how Lockerbie found out the hundred ruses a programmer got. Made to be a
Gotling, a goatling deduced from secret signs. Planetary companies invented
thousands of substitute names. Many Made One! [MMO] Many Be One, druga, druga!
Shaman, priest, prophet, ruminate. Heads back, that is, before the
Anectine. Their dementia synthesized and marketed a search for the old
afflatus.
F Gov
If you wonder why I’m telling these staged events as
real, they’re not. Clues thrown out of the circle discover a consciousness no
one wants to know. It’s not the eyes that see any more than the ear that
hears. The brain fools the eye, the eye doesn’t fool the brain. If the scene is
unremembered is never “seen,” never was, even if passed directly into
consciousness from Control.
Somewhere undergrounds monitors turn blank.
That slogan, all institutions are demonic? Three hundred pyramid
levels below, Hawthorne found the government roof failing. The history clone
died talking. No outside sun, new to many. If colorless, it gives no
sign. Watching algorithms, cameras, microchips, blood pressure, heart rate,
brain shift, It was conceivable they watched everybody all the time. Et
Tu duty, outside Revelations 18. After losing their first encounter on earth
the Neptune forces
gave out drugs and meditation.
The unconscious anybody can see these Ararat divines
in the EU parliament and in Breughel, or in the Guggenheim and Denver. The FEMA
train beast, animated within, originally carried cargo manacled end to end.
There must have been a market, there must have been a market.
Rocketing down the night tracks sealed, no cracks in the floors like
Weissmandel, rabbi of Slovenia, cut with
a dull blade through the bottom of his Nazi box entering Auschwitz and
escaped like Lockerbie.
When it comes to planet, who gets this base? The
daemon Blum recruited when the trolls fanned out. Wenn du also sagst, du
habest. Natives tranked, stored random guineas, the best and brightest
genes of f gov know the calculated ehad Selective Service complements. They
tranked.
Infrastructure trained in faculties underground.
Programmers foresaw that iconoclasts must go.
Presume you go where none has gone before.
It is necessary to distinguish two
governments in this, but the government Underground did not forgo the home
market guillotine use. Who would not want a guillotine they grant, where a
stray rooster could be dealt, or cut bread. All who join the guillotine throng
assume the honor of Sir Thomas More, and if his head is not yet battlement be a
subject for Madame Tussaud.
Forty foot containers have a guillotine end.
You find yourself in the Amtrak Branch Beech Grove of the Jersey Report among
those martyrs who oppose the gods, who lift the veil, as judged by Psytarch.
Even though Lockerbie escaped the Gundersons cars, the airports and underground
bases, it hardly seems a bridge to a peaceful mind. Under that
circumstance the Psytarch revealed those tin men and undersea rebel tentacles,
half human, half animal crabbots, mutants with scaled arms, paramecium, parts
of butterfly wings, scales, hydra, fish
with bared teeth, snakes that look like Klansmen, defecating upturned eels,
fins, helmets, wasps, falling geese and shattered eggs, clams on half shell
contending, angels with red and gold armor, a disc of white above, against the
creatures of the water below.
Before the semiotic tip of DuPont Circle the left ear of a head of secret
architecture inhabited by the entertainment patriot matrix, you can get cozy if
you want. They said he was a good New Order guy, aught Virgil before Homer, a revival
of the old Apollyon nee Abaddon Altar
Pergamos Denver CERN. Screwy acronyms like MOAB, Mother of All Bombs, tipped
mine shafts nine craters deep. Locked in the ninth vault of Virgil was the Seal
of the United States. It still needs to manifest. Various feedback loops
connect this last to what the spinners in formation say. Read these texts
asleep and then awake.
Note: hat at
All disbod speech is in italics.
Notes of a fellow of the Marfa Research Institute
This underground of the most advanced predictors of human behavior, including interstellar travel as much as exploration of the inner alogical world, are drawn to the alogical because it represents ourselves in some way and because these represent ourselves in some way. Witness all the means of predicting, divining the future from casting sticks, cards, coins to liver dissection. Anything but live in faith, which requires something more, or less. We look into this because we would look into ourselves even as we deny it and us. So I thought to set down here some of this inner world to go along with the plenteous outer so very rosemaled upon the chests. For this celebrated event, on the first of every year, we gather to explain to all sympathetically minded a society of humanity with no grand design except to know ourselves and our civilizations, which are hardly important since they are artifacts we ourselves made.
What we call Oracles began history much before Egypt. And whether you attribute them as those offspring of the sons of god who went in to the daughters of men, or prefer both to a portmanteau, a baggage of traditionally carried belongings as much as the body itself, this chest containing its valuables of heart and lung, which we should no doubt call the hard drive, in addition to its ambiguity, had a surface aspect of such creature/artifact that it resembled a rosemaled decorated immigrant chest. Yes, it is as if you carried yourself in a bag, or were yourself a bag. This body bag caused all the trouble seeing as it predominated the brain, the will and the soul, all of which societies became the vortex of the innermost principles of the world. And even if none or few were aware of it that is why New Year's Day is my favorite of all, since there is utter silence exhaustion of the outer forms. As they boast, where there is alcohol there is no cold, nor sleet, nor snow. There'd be snake dancing that night. So fill your gobbets, toast dark night and silent morning! And then take pity on this world where everything grows shorter, day, time, life, memory, tribulation.
Help in cracking the Orc schist must begin not with geology or furniture or psychology, but with fondness for ornamentation that is made evident by examples, so to call those decorations of the body bag as such, as if bag and chest were furniture of a kind, chest and chest, which demonstrates a simplicity, a slippricity of the whorlicle mode, an oracle made and not made, interpreted in simple lines and sturdy construction as if made for everyday, whose object of representation were a quiet transparency in which inner reposes in outer corresponding dimensions. There comes a point when the enclosed panels of parrot-like birds with tulips and fuchsias, a color ground of red brown, Amish blue, cypress green is made impossible to represent without overarching sorrow. For how has such been lost, and why? Who knows. Are inner and outer opposed in order to deceive? When the blood rushes into the skin the inner movement is visible. The ventricles of the heart and the inner parts revealed in such designs as raised unicorns, but also rampant upon the tulips and lilies, square panel flower sprays in a vase, medallions circled with overlaid six-pointed stars, pomegranates and carnations; you get the picture, are much easier to observe in the outwardly visible, but only if the inner movement is intimated. As though the outward color were the inner's leave taking, and the form was its fugitive hiding place. A hint that raises hair on the neck as if the bridge between inner and outer had been revoked form space.
Flaking Under Flex-There is much debate of this purpose and purposes to nurture society and much effort at finding out it's cause, since the last thing believed is that the sons of god went in to the daughters of men. The ink spioloed over that conundrum has not ceased. Like the blood that runs away from the surface revealed in a sudden pallor, invocations of the notwithstanding, for a long time there was attempt to trace whether the cracks in the finish, a kind of varnish or sheen over the decor, were superficial or deep inside the natural coating. This always begins with interrogations, inquisitions. Statements taken a hundred times go back and forth, as if pacing in a room above us going back and forth and we hear the echo, we hear the sound thereof.
My Prisoner of Chillon, as you walk back and forth in your by-chamber, what gives rise to these questions but your own nature and every additional accident of thought repeated bring out this one aspect of dispute, if we imagine a chest as a shell or carapace, one worn flexed with vibration around the edges near the F-holes, its craquelure steadily advancing between the breasts we may say right up into the middle of the back, then we conjecture that there the thing comes apart where shoulder meets the belly, from the back down, as if a sacred script were stamped in the original, beautiful and clear, legible to all. Then in a moment is discerned on the breast a piece of armor in the form of a heart, or some such, on which one can read all about it, especially since then the figure externalized draws attention to itself. If you sense some impending calamity, some crack in the cosmos from this, that self knowledge is so dangerous as to draw out in time memory before memory, like ragpickers and collectors differentiate value from trash.
Some think this flex of differentials in the dermal layers is caused by the sealed uncured layer inhibiting drying while the outside fully cures, being exposed. When it is held up to the light as though it were a lens, and projects an image of itself onto its exterior, the outer layer dries faster and it shrinks, causing fissures. This takes years to occur. If the inner picture is too refined to look upon, woven from the delicate insubstantial not immediately seen, once the cracks begin they are unstoppable. If the surface is flat the crackling looks a lot like tiny linear fractures which refract in moving light, and a very crisp flaking.
So fastened upon this distraction it is a reflection too which must be drawn aside to view within. These flexes are the oracles themselves, which our civilizations have sought for millennia, sometimes called bone script to be read or interpreted by the knowing. Thus begins the hazardous conflict that leaves behind these footprints, meaning shells, not only, but very coracles of wisdom themselves. We train thus every day to see this scale that covers all or part of the Oracle body, but not the scalp, which depending upon interpretation of its helmet-like crust some call pigmentation, and may imply disordering which has nothing to do with this world. Whether it is disorder or high order, the highest order of the senses is why some thought that there should live in that head a lodger who had nothing to do with the world, but lived out a lonely life unknown. Certainly the object of our observation, our interest, our passion, to know what we cannot know, to do what we cannot do as if we were such creatures ourselves.
Whether water is air, air water, or earth fire, it is all the same in this head that receives telegrams from both sides, the outer and the hidden deep, looking long and attentively to discover whether there is not another face within the faces that it meets. Since the same dissonance occurs in all art it is better not to prejudge. To our eyes the classic carapace resembles an adapt with a helmet and mantle that displays a sheen, much like that spiritual armor which you shall be permitted to convey. This face inside the face, that looks out the way an immigrant looks toward a new land while remembering the old, these days embodied as a maquidore, or rail splitter we shall need a special eye to see, painstaking, persistent, compelling, to probe inward, and benevolent too. Do not fail benevolence in your candor. In the deep that makes breathing easier. What it is we seek in the present instant and past is in the moment we turn the corner and disappear. Whatever the case, we feel safe to take the thing as a being a subject of phenomena we know as heart and light, for the heart must be sensitive to light. So it is possible to find those with exteriors as firm as rock who pass the hidden curiosity, discontent with the external and the superficial, to search the heart and the hidden, to know the invisible.
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