Monthly Archives: October 2005

Crow-Fly by Synchronicity

Posted on by
3

obsidian is shinier & blacker than coal .. & never capitulates to diamond.

<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> 

Crow-Fly by Synchronicity

 

    A crow’s wing must read the ebullient air, that grail, like braille? Feeling a bosomy intimate terrain we cannot even see. That crow, my obsidian bird, can see where I’m going, tho I, more landbound, take the, if lucky, meandering route; if not, the jagged route.

    I am well into my third Great Experiment. Certainly the most damned dangerous in daylight terms – I mean, I could get run over by a train I can see.

  The first Great Experiment is chronicled in 800 words in a fable called Justice.  I find out through 20 years as a window washer that the fortunate super-educated could do their share of the grotty jobs so we would not have to have an invisible undereducated class of which we never speak in order to get the latrines cleaned.

   The second Great Experiment is mostly unchronicled except in the blognoire, the akashic record, a few sketches here on agogblog, and the posthumous papers. An intense and immense decade of my tender battle with Digrif, a demon with whom I’m addicted. (Well, you like breathing too, don’t you?)  Across the timescapes, it is fascinating, elating. Here in this cul-de-sac of time, it is sometimes so painful, my bones bleed. Monde tordu. Wry world. Twisted world. If I only get to keep the memory of one thing, I trade off the possibility of Justice for the whole world for our implausible story, him & me. 

   This Third Experiment is in the dark arts. Not wicked, though wicked people have plied them. Dark like night is dark. It’s a calculated madness. I am navigating the last third of my life by poetry, by synchronicity. Reading the runes. Like the crow’s wing upon the courtesan air, I am allowing myself to be blind to the modern exhortations of necessity. Listening so carefully, watching like the fox the rabbit, or the rabbit the fox, breathing in the hieroglyphs of scents,  I am sensible to the signs – not in some, I like to think,  cult madness, but in a keenness of attention to the poem into which Fate is writing me. The metaphor from the inside.

    It is a certain enchanted view, as we shaman are taught to recognize and endure, and, even, procure. But this is different. More abyss. More quicksand. More much more vertigo.

    To say that synchronicity is a slippery slope is a bad time-rider’s joke. Am I really going to trust quixotic, clearly psychotic-able Fate to laying out clues like crumbs for the little bird? And am I supposed not to end up as rot-swollen body floating face down on the flood-sewage of <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />New Orleans?         

    Writers are used to being in the hand of Fate. When you get your own voice for sure at last, it’s like being knighted. You never need doubt the holy voice again. Soon tho, you realize that you are really an amanuensis for Something Which Speaks. The Ego does not write. It receives, like a pagan communion, the elixir. You are alive in the runes, the 3D of your sentences as they unfurl, the sentiments into images, around you. It is the alchemy.

   But to trust this impulse in your own living story with its bank accounts and rain and culverts as well as the parrots’ feathers is nothing if not risky. It’s being risqué may well not make up for how risky it really is.

     People who deny synchronicity are the wooden people who clodpatedly pay little attention. Synchronicity can be sly. Or Shy. Or bloody undeniable. As an example, a few years back, because of the crush of time, I had decided to stop taping my tv show of twn years, the Rhapsodic Life, where I performed 22nd century philosophic fables. I was very sad. I was parked in the Wells Fargo parking lot, crossed the street to the bakery for a consoling banana nut muffin, and as I passed the windows at the back of the store, this woman came running out of the store and grasped my hand with both hers, and said, “Your show saved my life.” Well, I guess I’m not quitting my show,” I laughed to myself. Manypoem (the multi-verse) can give you answers or nudges or kicks in the trousers, but 30 seconds later? It was compelling.

    Earlier this evening as I was fending off a bout of (financial) panic, actually behind this same bakery I swear – a vortex I guess & I haven’t been there in six months – the car which had pulled up next to mine had the license plate QUNTUM. Those of you who follow pogblog know that this Quantum motif is all over the blog. Quantum Schools etc. The thing that is hard to describe objectively is the precision and intimacy these bigger synchron moments can have.

    As you hang on a vine over the edge of a cliff, you say ok ok, I won’t panic yet.

    (I’d appreciate it if you don’t pipe in with rational advice because it only spooks me from the wild path I’m going to explore. I am convinced that as we clamber along in this next decade more & more sychron will appear and the parallel worlds will interinfluence each other more consciously. I’m a scout. Always have been a scout.)

 

Clearly there is gonna be a lot more about DUIS – driving [a life] under the influence of synchronicity, but I gotta go write some bilious romantic nonsense to Digrif.    

 

…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of pogblogian material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com

………….<^>……………..

It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

9 The Road . Eb . Grass . Rattlesnake Tooth . South . tzol 152  10.31.05 mon

ffwofw 913§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1118

..

the pro-peace world begins today with you

………….<^>…………….  

the World Government Game

Posted on by
3

Profounder Flounder

& the World Government Game

<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> 

This piece starts fable because if you don’t playful-up your mind, you won’t grok the quantum leap-frog to a new model near the end. Lube your mind.

 

   Profounder Flounder often preferred resting in the mud to being a super-hero. She liked lying in the mud thinking, like Faberge eggs, small great thoughts. Interwoven with sophisticated fishy erotica. Piscine eros was all about brushing one another with melodies of fins.   

    Her beloved, Sir Cuss BarraCuda was also a super-hero. It was easier, frankly, to fin with someone who grokked the difficulties and addictions of tovenaar rescue. There was much promiscuity among the 27,000 poikilothermic species, but Profounder was a faithful flounder.

    “Admit it, Profounder, it gets you off that he has a title,” said Clod Cod, one of their retinue. Profounder glimmered her dappled hide, the fish-equiv of a blush.

    “Yep, it’s slick. He’s so flagrant of fin.”  She nestled deliciously into the squishy mud.

    In spite of his royal heritage, Sir Cuss BarraCuda was legendary fish-freedom-fighter. “Dolphins, dolphins,” he would say. “Howsa ‘bout the tuna?”

    Side-butting was the octessence of erotic fishy action. Reproduction had zero to do with eros in the carnival of fishes. One laid. One sprayed. It was a function. But side-butting was a conjunction of hilarity and eros that humans had never joined. Side-butting was rather like jousting under the sea. Sir Cuss would coyly present his magnificent side to her. She would swim full-speed into his side, pushing him through the water and tumbling him over. Only in a supporting yet yielding medium like water would this be so violent, so playful, and cupidesque at the same time. One took turns. Part of the leisurely pleasure was the waiting while the slow motion sleersh and tumbling bloomed arabesquely in the quicksilver water and so slowly slowed. ‘You bowled me over’ has more meaning in the sargasso depths.

    The last time Sir Cuss 'Cuda had been home, they’d had a fairly hut discussion about the lot of psychic tovenaars, a kind of wily wizard. Most of their discussions were gehry or calatrava, more baroque and cognac in force and feel, though streamlined. The architecture of their conversations was one of their gifts and treasures.

        “What I’m worried about, Profounder,” said Sir Cuss, “is this epidemic of Nero Flu on Planet Paisley. I'm not sure what us tovenaars are going to do about the Nero Flu?”

     Planet <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Paisley is what we call Planet Earth, but seen in its expanded etheric dimension.  The Nero Flu is an astonishingly contagious and debilitating condition. It got its name from an ancient character in Paisley’s exoteric history, an emperor who was said to have shrugged and plucked his lyre as his great city burned. The catchphrase was ‘Nero fiddled while Rome burned.’ Nero Flu led to chronic defeat. Keep your head down, loot what entertainment and distraction you can on the sly, and hell with heroism. Heroes have to hero; hero moles get whacked. The Nero-afflicted were pre-wounded. They’d seen the ruthless usurpers, the bloated corporate gloaters, and had learned to hide in the shadows or blend with the fog.

    “Well,” said Profounder, “the young on Paisley have watched the middle-aged and old capitulate to gigaGreed, gigaCreed, and methed theoMilitoPatriotism. Who stands up? Who hollers? Silence of the Sheep – Obedient Americans is the longest running reality show they’ve seen. Who needs the SS? Malls, mortgages, football, and petty political bickering on cable tv quell the masses just fine.

    “Everyone who squawks at all is just twiddling around the edges of change. The difference with these young and the hippos is that these ones aren’t dis-illusioned . . .”

     “Hippies,” said Sir Cuss, “I think they called them ‘hippies,'  the ones hopped up on hope. Hippies, not hippos.”

   “All this shapeshifting from planet to planet, from dis-ease to un-ease, from pretty to giddy, from eyes with lids to eyes without lids. Do I have claws this week or fangs or fins? I’ll confess that keeping the lingo pristine irks my spleen,” said Profounder.

      “So, in the next triad of months, the otromundo themes are Ignite hope in the Apathos. Join Myrth, Salma Nella, The Blue, Quetzal, and pogblog in the Militarism to Educationism/Burning Child project. Backlight the Lizards with Ridicule. And do the odd torvenaar psychic rescue gig.”

    “And plot in some delicious squish in the mud time for you,” said Sir Cuss.

    Profounder Flounder fluttered her fins. It was so thoughtful of him to say that. He was a BarraCuda, a Lord of the Ocean, so silver and sleek, the handsomest fish in the sea. Mud was for vassals. But love does stranger things than make us cherish mud-dwellers.

    “You think you got if not a cure, an ameliorative for this Nero plague?” asked Sir Cuss.

   “Yep, sweets. I duz. The Apathos I know are so smart and so ingenious. And they have no interest in wielding blood-violence – violence that actually draws blood. I say we get them to invent a World Game. Like Sim City, except they would have to deal with the actual conditions in actual regions. They would get to run the virtual World. The Rebels would be the Builders. The CreedoGreedos would run things in the beginning. The Game task would be to transform the world from Creed n Greed to Equality & Happiness.

    There would be 3 World Games running simultaneously. You would be assigned to one randomly. There would be running counters of the EHQ, Equality & Happiness Quotient of each model.

    For every certain quantum of gained E & H, you’d get to spend time Through the Looking Screen in virtual Movie Houses where you’d enter sub-games of giga-GTAesque intrigue and violence and lust. We’d get them to design ways of getting credits from actual action in a local community to give you access to Game-in-Game powers.

    “Fuck, if I may say so, nation-building. Nations should be neighborhoods. World-building is the name of the future. As our R.Bucky says, ‘You never change things by fighting the existing reality. To change something, build a new model that makes the existing model obsolete.’”

…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

Frank Gehry architect .. scroll down when you get there.

Santiago Calatrava architect .. clik slide show when you get there.

piscine = fishy.

poikilothermic .. unlike mammal blood, blood temperature changes with environment.

otromundo = OtherLand; lit. other world.

tovenaar = wizard, shaman.

GTA = Grand Theft Auto, a classic video game.

 

…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of pogblogian material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com

………….<^>……………..

It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

8 Monkey . Chuen . Raccoon . West . tzol 151  10.30.05 sun

ffwofw 1002§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1117

..

the pro-peace world begins today with you

………….<^>…………….

“George Bush is a hard little man . . .”

Posted on by
4

<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” />“George Bush is a hard little man . . .” 

 

A few years back there was a famous photographer on Charlie Rose. (Forgive me — I forget his name.) This man had taken iconic shots of everyone of celebrity or infamy from Winston Churchill on. If you've ever been a photographer or a videographer, you know what an intimate process shooting someone is.

 

Every single person interested this photographer. Even the villains. He grokked and savored their uniqueness.

 

This was back in Charlie Rose's era of having swilled the WMD-9/11 terrors koolaid. If not quite a toady for the Bush Administration in that timeframe, he, like Ms. Miller, was a bit of a chalabi. (If I may update quisling.¹)

 

This was a confection show as was appropriate. A lot of stunning portraits. Tabloidism at a caviar level.

 

Friskily with a certain sycophance like a Golden Retriever puppy, Charlie asks Mr. Photo, “You shot a portrait of our (sic) President when he was governor of <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Texas?”

 

All the air went out of the room. The amusing flock of anecdotes all fell out of the sky like dead birds. There was a long silence, ghastly on TV. Mr. Photo's voice lost all its buttery over-&-undertones, and he said with flint, “He's a hard little man.”

 

The president, George W. Bush was the only  figure of the past 54 years that this observant photographer had not either loved, liked, or been interested in. It was that moment, I think when I felt the rising menace of this cold and colorless of soul Administration most starkly.

 

Mr. Photo, pressed for more comment, said, “We were alone in a room in the Governor's mansion and as I was setting up the shots, Governor Bush just watched me warily through slitted eyes. He is a hard little man.”

 

Mr. Photo did not say it except between the lines. But Mr. Bush was right to be wary. As many tribes in less modern lands knew, a photo can show your soul. Awkward if you don't have one.

 

………..<^>………….

 ¹ There are a few notes on this piece, amigoas.

 

Quisling is one of those words that starts as a name and becomes a lower-case generic word like kleenex, xerox, sandwich, and google. Quisling was Norwegian who collaborated with the Germans in WW2 and was firing-squadded. When I’m feeling more than usually betrayed by Digrif, I call him a quisling. Note that in the Land of Euphonies, or delights of sound, quisling is a word that hisses like a snake. The sibilance or hissing underlines the subliminal feeling of treachery. (Not fair really to snakes which just have the misfortune not to be furry and not to blink. We feel odd around the blinkless.) That sound which is resonant of a feeling or thing is called onomatopoetic – and the classic is murmur & the tintinnabulation of the bells bells bells

 

Hear the sledges with the bells-
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells-
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. EA Poe

 …… 

Koolaid. A undrinkable drink. Cloyingly sweet with cheap imitation flavors. Lots of people like it. But as an eponym or word from a name, to drink someone’s koolaid comes from the hideous Jonestown event where all these followers of Mr. Jones, yet another religious charlatan, a tautology if there ever was one, who took all these folks to Guyana in 1978 and they obediently drank the poisoned grape koolaid he passed around and 900 of them died. It was horrible, but in a humor so dark that it’s almost obsidian, the term has become more of a banter. “Yeah, well, she drank your koolaid.” Meaning that she swallowed your silky jive. 

 

Chalabi is the slitherer to whom we owe the Iraq war. He was an exile of such snake-oil persuasion powers that the BushCo Cabal not just hook & line, but sinker too swallowed his fishy bait. He was the koolaid purveyor to Ms. Miller who used the New York Times to give credence to the Chalabi-BushCo fantasies of Sadam making nukes at the bottom of secret wells behind palaces. So I update quisling by using chalabi who is a conman’s conman.

 

sycophant .. ‘an informer against those who stole figs’ – in other words, a rat. Someone the prince can count on to fink slimily. It has gotten generalized to mean a vile flatterer, a smoocher of royal rumps – or in our day, trumps’ rumps. Obsequious – a word oilily worth saying.

 

sic .. sic means thus. It's used literally to say that some misspelling or bad usage was in the original statement — kind of puffed-uppedly noting that cool you noticed that it was wrong because you're not so much of a rube as the original writer. Or as in this case I am highlighting that Charlie, supposedly a journalist, uses 'our' rather than 'the' as an unnecessary fondness. Charlie, by the way, has regained some spine or at least a few vertebrae lately as the war spirals into perpetual hell.

…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of pogblogian material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com

………….<^>……………..

It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

5 Rabbit . Lamat . South . tzol 148  10.27.05 thur 

ffwofw 662§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1114

..

the pro-peace world begins today with you

………….<^>……………

Rosa Parks. Weasel TV. .. from the sublime to the silly

Posted on by
3

Rosa Parks. Weasel TV.

.. from the sublime to the silly

<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> 

I was writing some stuff to some swell folks in the bloggosphere & I realized it was the kernel of stuff I wanted to share with you dear pogblog readers. The way the bloggosphere works is that you may write a Comment about something sublime and then in a few moments about something sublimely silly. That’s why I like it, the O'Sphere. It, like life itself, is fractal. We like to tidy up our memories into faux linearities. These two pieces met at the same dawn while I’m drinking organic <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />darjeeling tea and eating 72% chocolate. That is vie.   

 

I’m still up for dawn; not getting up.

 

 ,,,,,,<^>…………

Rosa Parks Dared.

 

I grew up on a farm on the Eastern Shore of Maryland in the Fifties. There were the water fountains with 'Colored' & 'White.' The only place a traveling 'negro' family might rest their head along the several hundred miles on the Big Highway was down a dusty dirt road with a peeled and faded sign — not even Dew Drop Inn, but only 'Colored.' What most folks not from those places or times cannot begin to imagine was how utterly brave 'just staying seated' was in those years.

 

Some might say Ms. Parks is remembered “solely for refusing to give in to injustice” — there is no “solely” about it. 'Nice' southern white men could be so suddenly vicious, she could well have been followed off the bus and beaten to death or raped. The bitter meanness of many of the white people with whom I grew up is all but untranslatable in our time now. The gracious, mint-julep-sipping southern gentleman would turn into a slavering pitbull if crossed by a 'colored' person. It was jekyll-&-hyde.

 

You can see in the wonderful pictures of Ms. Parks in her youth how grounded she was. There are few enough among us who would possibly have dared to “sit our ass down” in a society like the underbelly of the American South back then. The things I saw 'nice' upper middle-class white people do and heard them say in those years were bloodcurdling. There was no recrimination whatever for perpetrating the vilest of the Shadow upon 'colored' people. It was terrifying and disgusting. (Think Abu Ghraib being done by your neighbors & nobody blinking an eye.)

 

Having done a fair amount of civil disobedience, I can tell you that the hardest thing is to just not move. Where is the three-square-feet of  the United States of America where you will take your stand as you are surrounded by policemen in black exo-skeletons and 2 ft long night sticks? It's the quintessence of non-violent action, not moving, but if you're standing, your knees go to jelly. Those kind of 'authorities' are very used to having intimidation 'work.' It not working is a real big threat to their pipsqueak bully self-grandiosity.

 

What Rosa Parks did was not just thrust upon her. She deeply dared. I will always be inspired by her turning rage into courage. Thank you Rosa Parks.

 

We surely must 'continue the work.'

……..

For Rosa Parks, please see chancelucky & Natalie Davis.

 

 …….<^>………………

Weasel TV

I had a nice flashback to my 5 years of doing televised improv with ordinary people off the street. I was talking to chancelucky's blog about saying that what he called re BushCo as Surreal Life should be SursurReal Life. I haven't quite coined a term for weirderthanDali or morepitchforksinrumpsthanbosch, but we're definitely there with these skincrawling lizards.

 

As for names like Chuzzlewit, Dickens is in a tie with Tobias Smollett (a heck of a name itself) for Name God. Smollett has Roderick Random & Peregrine Pickle. (On my Improv show, Weasel TV, my doppelganger Dame Polly Pickle [pronounced pick-kell] was a tip of the hat to Smollett as well as to Dame Edna & Hyacinth Bucket pronounced Boo-kay. Apropos of nothing, Weasel TV was the first galactic TV channel, as CNN was the first global one. We had time travel facilities and a lot of other cool stuff. We would go back and interview the babysitter of Genghis Khan & so 4th.)

 

One of my favorite planets we visited with Weasel TV facilities was the planet Nedrag (‘garden’ backwards for the anagramically impaired). On the Planet Nedrag, they had Zoos of Humans. We had two humans on and two of their zoo trainers. The Sentients on Nedrag were pretty disgusted by the hairless bipeds, but they enjoyed watching them mate (a la PBS documentaries, all very tasteful and narrated by deep-toned famous people you can’t quite recognize) They also like to watch the humans and eat and lie slothfully around. The Nedraggians would toss them peanuts — and cucumbers for some odd alien planet reason.

 

Dame Polly who uses my body when she visits, but likes hats and lipstick and enormous pink plastic shoes, is richer than TrumpGatesPerotTurner all in one bank account. Her cause celebre was Two, Then Adopt, a meme she promoted for a long time to get around some women’s baby addictions – Raise all you can afford if that’s your gig, but only two flesh + blood kids.   

 

I used to think we on Weasel were outre — but that was before the BushCo Administration came a long as a Category 666 of bizarre. Of course we were never in competition. We had a lock on warm-hearted & pithy outlandish. They have a lock on coldhearted kukluxklan without the sheets.

   

A friend the other day said, “Well, they, [the Bushoids], really haven’t got this oppression thing perfected yet. They don’t have the SS.”

 

I said, “Merde, man, they don’t need the SS. They got malls, football, and Humvees to keep people exhausted and drugged. You don’t need the SS when transmitting the Bread & Circuses directly into the home is so dead-cert easy. Honesty in blogalism, I am a pro-football nut having been a Johnny-Unitas Colts fan and a 49er fan in the glory years. Malls have just never gotten me, but not because I have any virtue, probably more because I don’t have any money.

 

Humvees. Well, the first Humvee is a felony. The 2nd Hummer is death penalty, against which I am in most other circumstances. (People who chew gum are on the cusp death penalty-wise.) Orange Arnold Schwarzenegger (orange from too many years of ManTan) has 8 Humvees, so poor ole Dante has to take a break from Heavenly concourse with Beatrice to invent a new and special circle of Hell for Arnold. What woeful oceanic inadequacy must a man feel who must have the ultimate codpiece vehicle, a Humvee? And eight of them?  Welcome to Planet Asylum where the inmates clearly are running the whole hebang. Duck & cover.

 

ps. Remember, those of us who wield Ridicule do win in the end eventually someday not soon enough but never despair because despair is never a lollipop flavor.

 

…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of pogblogian material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com

………….<^>……………..

It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

4 Deer . Manik . West . tzol 147  10.26.05 wed 

ffwofw 662§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1112

..

the pro-peace world begins today with you

………….<^>…………….     

Clone the 3 Best Schools .. The Burning Child

Posted on by
5

Clone the 3 Best Schools ..

The Burning Child

<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> 

   The Burning Child ..  Shifting from the Military Industrial Complex ($820,000 per minute) to the Education Industrial Complex. That’s how the title began. That’s the idea. I was vexed by the second ‘industrial’ but couldn’t grok something else with the proper cadence. I asked some wordsmith friends. Nada. Time floated by. Waiting for Godot. Waiting for Indictments. Waiting for the Rapture to Lighten the Piety Load on the Beloved Planet.

    Then Dear The Blue, my second best pal after Spiteful Puffy – The Blue and me ain’t Biblical or nothing, we just hang out a lot – Dear The Blue dropped a present into the air just in front of me like a hummingbird hovering, iridescent. “Instructional.” Ah. Aha.

   The Burning Child .. Shifting from the Military Industrial Complex ($820,000 per minute) to the Education Instructional Complex. Sweet. It works.

    Child, child burning bright in the forests of delight. Every child has the civil right to a superb education. We shift the $820,000 per minute over to a Manhattan Project of funding to provide an explosion of education in our nation.

     So, let’s for a few moments leave all the objections to the side and assume as a thought experiment that the ATBs, the Aliens with Tractor Beams are saying, “You Hairless Bipeds have five earth years to provide equally superb education to every single child from the Rio Grande to the Canadian border or we will incinerate your whole lousy belligerent species.” So, we have to do it. How then?

    I imagine a team of  Smart Good Hearts flying over the country in Education Force One looking down at all the schools in the country. We find the 3 Best Schools. We clone them. We buy out the remaining military obligations like veterans health care and so 4th.  We re-write the contracts with the DDX destroyers and A22 fighters and Robust Nuclear Earth Pentrator and Star Wars people so that they re-tool to research and build cheap, mobile, indestructible laptops and the infrastructure for free nationwide wireless ultraband and the best new schools gehryesque architecture can cathedralesquely create.  They do this shift as if their hair was on fire – which it will be if the ATBs get pissed.

   This is our Moon Shot. This is our Manhattan Project. If immediate profit weren’t any object, how cheap and fabulous could these tough thin fastest nifty laptop WolfBooks become? We put the $14,000 per minute we’re spending on the fantasy Missile Nonsense System aka Star Wars into WolfBook research. We have the forbidden socialism for the Military Budget now. We just re-allocate those resources to the Education Instructional Complex. We export education systems rather than weapons systems. If we can have the darned nanopod, thin and sexy (tho not so tough apparently), we can have a cheap fabulous laptop WolfBook for every citizen, child and Granny.

    This is an emergency for our very survival as a viable species. The planet is going to buck us off until we grok it. We do destruction; it does destruction – tho lots better. We do construction and fruitfulness; it will do construction and fruitfulness.

     All this is a national effort like WW2. This is WW3 – except that we fight for the future instead of smashing the present. Bloodshed will be considered Losing.

    Always look back from Y3000. Imagine where we are as our better angels in Y3000. How do we get there? That’s what pogblog wants to challenge and cajole you to think about. Not why we can’t. Because we do. So how do we get to the constructive, fruitful world? The more you bring to the table if even just in your mind and heart & not yet the street, the sooner this more delightful, smart inventive stuff can manifest. You dream about it every night. It just isn't manifested yet. We're the midwife people for the education dream. You can be a raving nutcase militant pacifist epistemologist like me, or you can be milder, cogitating in your living room. The NaySayers do not contribute. They just slow it down. We have to live with them until they shapeshift. Don't let 'em fuss you. Press on, regardless. ///<^>/////

   

…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of pogblogian material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com

………….<^>……………..

It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

3 Death . Cimi . Twins . North . tzol 146  10.25.05 tues

ffwofw 662§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1111

..

the pro-peace world begins today with you

………….<^>……………

Make a Poetry .. MAP .. elan waking x elan dreaming #1

Posted on by
6

Make a Poetry .. MAP ..

elan waking x elan dreaming #1

<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> 

     “Attention is a substance. Attention can travel amongst the intersecting spheres of densities. Monsieur Einstein fussed about his e=mc2 which holds up pretty well in K1, the semi-standard shared steady or fairly predictable and persistent solidity. But attention — the attention point can travel jaguar-like thru the forests of the night and of de-light. A=ec8″.

      Purrs Nickety, the feline assassin specializing in felling hypocrites, had a planet-side putative pal called Spiteful Puffadder. He was cute, sexy, and asked good questions once in a maroon moon, but he knew exactly how to needle her. She knew that when she wrote up the Make a Poetry MAP chapter for the Elan Waking x Elan Dreaming Manual, there would be a flurry of knives that would all impale the bullseye of her tender heart. But, press on regardless was the assassin’s creed even if ridicule and sweet talk were your only weapons in a mean world.

    Purrs said, “Lucid or elan or lively waking (& lucid or elan or lively dreaming, sooth said) is all a matter of deft attention. I put together a whole nice package of pogbloggian angles on deft, deft attention, and deftly intent for you to consult.

       “It’s the awww-kitten theory. When you see a kitten being held by someone, you feel safe. You go , “Aww, how adorrraabble. (Well, I do and many people do. Spiteful Puffyadder would probably like to, but it would de-cool his imagined tuff-guy image (pronounced im-ahhshuh). I use this aww-kitten example because once you get onto the recognition of attention as a thing, as a substance, you can experiment with it, or at the very least observe.

    “Compare also,” said Purrs, “That NLP I think said in some seminar, ‘Notice where you somatisize anger.’  Get over the horrible word somatisize (about which EB White said something like, ‘I’d as soon Simonize my grandmother'). I assumed I knew where I somaticised anger – in other words where in my body did anger concentrate? I assumed my chest, my shoulders, my jaw. But the next time I actually got angry, I realized that I somaticized anger in my forearms. Who knew? So we need a PestPatrol utility scanning our attentions to check out if they’re genuine or have gotten lifeless, juiceless, or just mis-taken.

   “You can send your attention anywhere in time. Or anytime in where.  Now, we like to allow our attention to be manipulated by stories and dance and song and stock tickers I suppose for some. That’s fun and I like it too. It would add to the repertoire of your consciousness though if you began to pay attention to your attention. Not with a furrowed brow tho, nor gritted teeth, but deftly – with no more effort than it takes a butterfly not to crash into the flower upon which it’s landing.

     “Attention that is euphonically and harmoniously deftly formed is often called the zone. Now, a baseball pitcher can be in the zone with his slider but almost slice his thumb off cutting a grapefruit in half. Pitching he can handle his attention brilliantly — tres zone. Halving grapefruits – not-so-zone. I swear that one summer there was a rash of baseball players hacking themselves up trying to halve grapefruits. Anyhow, attention is an undersung substance until you begin to grok it. Have you ever had the phenomenon of learning a new word and then for a week you suddenly hear it being used all over? As you add attentions, it’s like that.

   “Ye owls, now I’m in for it from Spiteful Puffy. But we gotta remind you about the Eskimos and their 25 words for snow. The Eskimos have a refined attention for many more qualities of snow than you and I do because snow is a life or death issue for them. All learning is refining and distilling attentions. And the astonishing thing is that you can have a zillion of them and it’s only more fun.

     “Properly funesed and grokked, attentions are nada but cool. We get tripped up when we lose deft. Deft is the lodestone. There’s a certain effervescence to deft. If we, as we are wont to do but don’t want to do, fall into a leadenness of attention, we are bored or angry or irritated.

   “Obsidian humor may be required to keep the quantum skipping up – when the self-evident stubbornness or stupidity of others seems to be ripping the wings off one’s butterfly of attention on some subject. or other. Obsidian humor is the Advanced Class – harrowing hell is nifty work and if you can’t asbestos up your heart, y’gonna char.

      “But happily and luckily, there’s a lot of attentions honing that all of us can do before we have to throw the lamb chop of our heart to Cerberus. Deft and droll attentions.”

…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of pogblogian material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com

………….<^>……………..

It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

2 Serpent . Chicchan . East . tzol 145  10.24.05 mon 

ffwofw 806§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1111

..

the pro-peace world begins today with you

………….<^>…………….

Deftly intent ? the secret of enlightenment & endarkenment

Posted on by
3

Deftly intent –

the secret of

enlightenment & endarkenment

<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” />  

The gigantic & glorious & terrifying planetary changes of the next six years or so will be a lot more, well, fun for you if you both frantically and serenely gobble down the glamorous and nifty tricks, slick & delicate & brazen, of interweaving lucid waking & lucid dreaming, amigo, amiga.

 

In the juggling integration of lucid waking & lucid dreaming, the octessential leitmotif epistemological or practical trick is being deftly intent. The following tidbits give you a gist of what deft grokkedly means. You can always check with pogblog’s Glossary to see what other coined words or unexpected usages mean.

 

I have linked the essays/stories/articles so you can read the rest of them as you wish. 

…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>…………….. 

from Eclectic .. muy yum

. . . really deftly intense immediate perception. If you want to have gazing at a feather gouge your eyes out and rip out your jugular. Put your fingers into the socket of the universe. All bushes burn. All kingfishers burn. After the Rapture carts off all the really Boring and Judgmental people, the TutTutters, we can have a picnic of perception on our pretty planet.

 …………….<^>……………..

………….<^>…………….. 

from How Much does Your Mind Weigh?

It was ridiculous to take drugs in the Sixties – an invitation to synapse-snafu, but the impulse was completely understandable. People knew immense amounts of experience were being neglected or ignored. With proper training, you can be lucidly awake – deftly intent – all the time and see that the whole world is burning in the forests of the night and of the day. With proper training you can lucidly do alternate experience without crapshooting your faithful synapses – you can learn to shift gears or shift dimensions.

    There are a lot of vaganzas we can have for some practice and if lucky some instruction. (Avoid serious instruction like the plague. Serious instruction must be false. Carpe comedy, however obsidian.)

     Ah, extra vaganzas. Muy yum. Starting with licking everything  as if it were an ice cream cone which is what good poets do and is a good beginning. 

…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

Homo Hilariens .. obsidian humor .. we evolve at last ..

 

Flan flicked her deft to the megaloreligio she had deliberately encountered for study. Like many beings brought up by animals, Flan used her sense of smell in a symphonic spectrum that people brought up by bipeds could never fathom. It was partly why she was so smitten with Digrif who smelled of late summer grasses and salty waves splash and the bittersweet smell of their mating. Gods know that was better to swim in than the sickly sewage stench of the fear-sweat megaloreligios. 

…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

Education , Ultraband & the End of Militarism

 

    Great education is like putting a permanent IV in your arm renewing you with a plasma of fascination, with an ignited enthusiasm. Great education doesn’t teach you anything except how to learn, an earnest deftness of mind and heart which you can apply to the electric present. It’s splendid and lucky to be confidently curious all the time.
…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

Brown Bird of Happiness

 

    Of course. I knew at once the breathtaking truth. Our ideas of happiness are quite rigidly conditioned. We are all searching diligently or frantically for versions of happiness, items of happiness, that are imposed upon us by the subtle tyranny of the past. Birds of happiness are blue, we are quite sure. This tyranny is distinctly insidious. It prevents what’s happening right under our noses from being happiness. Instead we have restless, inchoate longings for happinesses defined, not by our own present deft attention, but by other agents. Parents, friends, movies, books, religions, the patterns of our own past. 

…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

50.5% Crazy

 

    The way that a butterfly (I always thought flutterby was a better name) lands on a flower is the hieroglyph of the word deft. We must become deftly mad. Right now. Swiftly and deftly mad. If you think you prefer the comfort of being a lemming, do remember that the cliff edge is near and will suddenly appear. You are already indirectly participating in horrible acts. Immense tax cuts for the revoltingly rich and we have no universal single-payer health care. This is a not-so-distant evil from your door, pilgrim. We need more squawking. A vote is a squawk. Friends don’t let friends vote Republican. Friends make friends vote. But the key to changing from a ‘good American’ who stands by, who complies with the evil of others, is to begin to feather by feather build your wings of subversion until like a wiser Icarus you can fly from the charnel prison they are slowly making America into.

…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

Hector ..Psychic Assassin & the Abolition of War

 

    He had powerful benefactors, did Hector FerdeLance whose knowledge of subtle neurotoxins became legendary in rumor. He played the stringed zambal, attended the king, was a pretty, winning youth. Who was to know for sure that he wielded death so deftly? He was not employed to snuff the sparks of little lights, there were crude minions enough for that. His use was to outwit the shielding wards, those protecting woven words, that rhapsody of other kings.

…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

Fegg .. Quantum Perception

 

   Fegg. F[aberge]egg. Fegg. Simple, splendid, extravagant, delicious, reverent, jeweled. Fegg. It is seeing and tasting that richness in the little world that is fegg. One of the Earth Decorator's most fegg is, of course, the hummingbird, an outrageous jeweled miniature envied on all planets of all stars. “Ah, Madame Deco,” an offworld Designer would sigh, hardly concealing stark envy, “How did you do it!?” Planet Designers are a good lot on the whole in spite of their universally being riddled with admiration twinned with envy. It's just that when you see something unbearably well done — the concept, the craft, the flash, the diligence, it haunts the heart with gratitude that it has been done–and envy that you didn't think of it first. Gratitude and applause minutely outweigh envy. .. .. The Faberge Imperial eggs (particularly the ones by Perchin) are fabulous, and the notion of fegg derives a portion of its charm from the pleasure that human artisans can be so deft. But the planet's Designer has simply strewn our path with marvels upon marvels, has all but stuffed riches down our throat like fat corn down the foie gras goose's gullet.

…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

the Third Thing .. Photonic Physics

 

    Pal Ace said, “Between us we might be able to make the chariot and the black and the white horses tangible enough that our audience can actually get the lively sensation of the Third Thing. We can explain that all great thought is in stories because people there get images which give force and vitality to ideas. Abstract ideas are about as attractive as plucked chickens.”

   Ri laughed. “I know, abstraction is so false, so tepid, so pallid. The darling universe itself couldn’t stand the emptiness and loneliness of concepts. It poured its lonely heart into the violent and vivid art of the stars and the jewels of foxes and cats. It adores its creation. You can hear it purring on the cosmic subsonics. 

   From the audience Sherrard Gray said, “I watched you and Pal Ace give a Third Thing demonstration. I was astonished at the quick bright deftness of your shared creation. It was as quick and layered as seeing a magic deck of cards shuffled — two halves swiftly, layer after layer, became one thing.

    “I just wanted to know how the interaction felt for each of you subjectively? I wondered if we Earthers could get accustomed to that brisk, maybe brusque exchange — if it might not be too strong for us?.

    Pal Ace answered smiling, “That’s a perfect question. The Third Thing provides protection from personal injury.

    “It’s true that Risma and I know that, often, the stronger we are there in the Globe, the sooner the chaff of our personal thought blows away, and we’re both left with a truer kernel.

    “We are focused on the Third Thing, not ourselves.” Risma smiled at Sherrard Gray, <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />NorthEast Kingdom, Vermont, USA. She said, “The way it feels is that there, between us, is a land ne’er seen, an air pristine, in which we two can now create a new wonder to fascinate our fellows later. This place alive, this Third Thing is our refuge from our only selves.

…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

Church .. deftly intent

 

   Lowering her voice, Bunga continued almost slyly, “You never know what it will be, so you have to stay watchful lest you miss it. Not greedy or demanding or clutching at things, just watchful.

   “‘Urgency’ is too stirred up to maintain all the time, but with a little practice you can be deftly intent all the time. Then you begin to notice each thing’s pulse and gossip. It all chats and chirps and sings and preens.

   “One of the big ‘inside’ church mistakes is imagining that humility is dull or solemn. Obedience is dull and solemn. When you get humble and start attending to your fellow miracles, it is a pleasant, riveting din. The palm frond, the gear shift handle, satin, crayons, they all have a story to tell.


…………….<^>……………..
………….<^>……………..

 the Universe Moved or reality ain’t what you think –

or is ..

How I learned the universe is made of mind-rubber . .

 

    I’d made an agreement with myself when I was 7-years-old to stay alert and pay deft attention to whatever happened. I was studying Jung and Freud and Plato and Aristotle that year, and I took my epistemology and metaphysics with the earnest seriousness of youth.

     You’ll need to stick with the details of this small, but universe-shaking story. What makes it so rocking and shocking is its ordinaryess. How entirely un-woo-woo it is.

     I had been studying dreams with no guidance and studying an expanded reality with a stubborn earnestness. So I wasn’t unaware that the universe is more facetted and layered than presented in your usual school.

….

     If I hadn’t been so not daily but hourly, minutely, universe-in-a-grain-of-sandily trained to stay unpredjudicedly alert, I would have missed it or discounted it. All of my life had led to those two grail seconds. What made them grail was not some even fabulous coalescence of insight — but the nexus, Aristotelian I suppose, of supposedly reliable matter and brain. I’ve had lots of insights which flowed and ebbed. This was an outsight which, like Galadriel’s vial, gave me tangible confidence in all the adventures to follow.

    I’ve always wanted to stay sane as an artist on the FarFar edges. You can glean a lot of interesting stuff as you go mad. But I was and am only interested in durable truth – though often not repeatable. But not just stuff that will strand people in cul-de-sacs of cold and wet madness.     

    I admire the rigor of Science, and the doggedness. But we alchemists who were your fathers and are your children have rigor and doggedness too. We just don’t exclude anything from our deft attention. We’re scientists doing the dishes or doing the Twist as well. One is always the butterfly on the wall, observing, considering, fondly. 

………….

You are being taught stuff every moment as you move through the holo-hieroglyphs of living experience, but the big fish of meaning will strike the hook at any moment. If you’re not always deftly intent, the major & minor magics will pass you by.

…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

Vulture Culture

 

    Lord Ord became, reluctantly at first then ravenously, rapturously interested in the Behind-the-Scenes necessities that support the splendid on-stage Show. When he had invented the vulture, he had felt a deep marrow-tingling pride. There are many quirks in the solid Earth dimension. There were surprises such as the glamorous peacock’s awful cry. Lord Ord’s ugly vulture of ghastly mien could soar so sweetly that all gaped, envied. It was sufficient recompense.

    When the gods wished to soar, they became vultures, effortless, cloudstalkers. Hot sun on the top of the bold broad feathers, the rise of the ebullient air under your wide wings. If you wanted to do enormous, you did elephant, hippo, rhino, whale. If you wanted to soar, you did vulture.

    Some gods were too fastidious, too tepid of imagination to pay the gustatory price. Lord Ord’s sense of humor escaped many. Putting the galaxy’s most fabulous soaring with the galaxy’s most repulsive and rancid cuisine was a mobius twist trick that the prissier gods couldn’t follow.

    Lady Onyx, his brilliant deft partner, had also become intrigued by the design of the Odd. Her tour de force had been spiders. The challenge had been to devise a vertigo-less creature whose webs were art and worked as well.

…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of pogblogian material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com

………….<^>……………..

It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

1 Lizard . Kan . South . tzol 144  10.23.05 sun 

ffwofw 855§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1107

..

the pro-peace world begins today with you

………….<^>…………….

Jane the 4th Coming, the BeelzebuB Gospel

Posted on by
3

Jane, the 4th Coming,

the BeelzebuB Gospel

   

    Ace could not believe that he’d bagged Jane, the 4th Coming herself for another interview for Carpe Comedy, his rowdy and a little raunchy holozine. Jane had told him, “Zebras & warthogs, Ace, I’ll keep coming back until they finally figure out that 'Yep, this is she tho we expected a he.' Just like poor ole Migs Jagger – nice bloke at the bar, a tad tepid in the sack – has to sing Satisfaction over and over. They, the herds, the hordes, the sheep want the same scenario, the same drama. Tho JC and I talk about how if he ever came back himself in a robe and sandals with a gleaming halo and an entourage of angels, they’d freak out.

   It could be a little disconcerting talking to Jane the 2nd, 3rd, & 4th Comings. She was often on the telepaphone, espering away while she was chatting with you and so there was a sense of the music of the spheres surrounding her. Not that she didn’t give you her whole attention. It’s hard to explain. But,thought Ace, that’s what we’re trying to explain multimind.

     “Well,” said Jane, jolly deity, “the first trick to multimind is to unclench your mind. There is no difference between your fist and your useful hand except that you unclenched it. The clenched mind causes no bloody end of harm.

    “Oh but Ace, I wanted to remark on the travails and trawoes of that creep Karl. If you don’t get him, we will. We just slap the Empathy SlashVolter into his brain and turn on the rerun of his life. Aw, it’s great. He feels everything the folks he villainized felt, but just slightly slowed down so the molecular drip of the shame and agony plays its full neuronic amplitude through his sullied synapses. No compartmentalizing here. Karl cannot partition off his lousehood in the full Quark Activation of the Empathy SlashVolter. The villainized get to download all their distilled dismay into his circuits. Fair is fair. He can’t run; he can’t hide. The Truth Dawg has got a perfect nose. And nothin’ is hid from the Record. Every gasp of joy and wonder is recorded on the Akashic Vinyl, and every putrid moment. Ole Karl has to re-eat his own vomit.

    Jane the 2nd, 3rd, & 4th Comings gazes at Ace. Was it worth getting a crush on another mere? The meres. Yeah, they could be daggone cute and a heck of a roll in the straw, but they had the attention spans of fleas and the depth of a puddle. But this one was funny. That mitigated the other merenesses somewhat, maybe. Mere mortals – ho hum, or fa la la – that was the question. Multigonads. Well, they weren’t ready for that yet. That would have to wait for the 8th Coming or later.

    “Multimind. Now we’re pretty much stuck in cerebro izquierdo – the left brain. What we neglect except on more hidden and forbidden occasions is the cerebro divertido, the droll brain, the right brain. The trick is to be niftier hopscotching back and forth. The transitions, the warping and wefting, the gliding and sliding betwixt and amongst are too sluggish for major splash and glee and knife-keen seeing. Integration is elation. We’ll talk about seeing with poetry next time.”

   “Next time?” thought Ace. The challenge with gods, however pan and dionysian, was that the beginnings and endings could be abrupt. They appeared. Then they unappeared. There was a lot of poof and presto and arbadacarba. It was like a secret handshake this prestoing and poofing and arbadacarbaing, and you were supposed to laugh in a most jocular manner. Out of the blue, it occurred to him. Tapas. That was it. He hadn’t remembered to provide a spread of snacks. So instead of accusing him with that piercing emerald gaze, she’d just decided to romp off and have a few tacos al pastor. She liked him tho, he thought. She refused to hang out with the BloodDrinkers. There could be worse things than being a toy boy to a goddess.        

        

……………<^>……………..          

<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> 

Jane, the 3rd Coming .. the blood-drinking was a joke ..

.

   Jane never set out to be the 3nd Coming, anymore than she set out to be fat or a redhead. She chuckled frequently when she told Ace, her chubby chum, that she understood why Buddhaha had laid on the lard – it was the laugh ratio, the ratio of chuff to chaff. You can’t trust thin people to be seriously funny.

    Jane had met Ace when he’d interviewed her for Carpe Comedy, a holozine he started on 02.11.2011, at the height of the planetary turbulence. “Well,” said Jane The Messiah, “ever since they so screwed up the reporting on the 1st Coming and now there's the entirely unnoticed 2nd Coming — so we are never ever doing Coming gigs without holovideo. You gotta actually see my lips move so you can’t lie about what I said.

    “The Nazarene was an OK guy, but without the holovideo, he got seriously tabloided throughout a gore-fest of history that he never had in mind, nor in heart.

   “That whole eat-my-flesh, drink-my-blood thing was an inside joke to get some guffaws around the supper table! Only crazy people would, like, do it. Yuck.

    “The point of the 1st Coming was supposed to be to perk up poor people – to sock it to the stupid greedy who were pointedly un-invited to the stupendous party in heaven.”

    “Mz Messiah – may I call you Jane? – are you going to offer a less distortable delusion to pleasure the masses.” 

      Jane gazed at Ace for the first time. Sexy. Very sexy, she thought idly.

    “A less distortable delusion. That’s our scheme, that’s our dream,” said Jane T. Messiah, laughing like a bowl of strawberry jello. “Not kill is, ah, hmmm, let's see — not kill. Not not kill with codicils. Not Not kill except if you've got on a different colored uniform (Murder by fashion offense?). Not not kill except when I hate your guts you stupid foreign (different [ skin; accent; taste in good cheese; quality of ululation. Check one]).     

     “Thou shalt have much more fun. Thou shalt not interfere with the fun of thy neighbor or of thy enemy. The endlessly tedious & unfun white aka pink splotched christians in the USofA Inc left out the very very funny Gospel According to BeelzebuB, the only non-sycophantish, non-power-serving Gospel that J.C saved for his own scrapbook. The others he turned into confetti — 'Who writes this kind of pious rubbish? They should take their meds,' JC told me before he left soon after the denouement of the 1st Coming for a refreshing galactic gallivant. 

    “One of the white christians' 10 Greatest Sins — the real pornography — is that they are as terminally unfun as they are greedy. Note, Ace, that the ultra-holy Americans don't put the chiselled list of their 10 Greatest Sins of Seriousness on the CourtHouse Lawn.”

   Ace said, “By the way, all I ask is that in even years, we change out the word God for the word Zeus on money, prayers, and in any pledges of allegiance so us good American polytheists get our turn. Fair is Fair.”

    Jane impaled him with a green-eyed look. A nerve, he thought, I've struck a deitific nerve. He quickly said, “I hadn't heard of the Gospel According to BeelzebuB?” hoping to deflect a present but unclear danger.

     “Of course JC was a polytheist, Ace. Not that you could call him a theist really, but he sure was poly. Poly and pan. All of his frisky and cheerful and artist-eye stuff got cut out of everything but BeelzebuB's Gospel. All this monotheism crap was a pure power-grab by the 12ftTalk Lizards in Human Disguise of the day. Had there been the Cuneiform Times back when, the Country Club Set is pretty much the same from millennium to millennium. Especially the simply ghastly nouveau riche like your present Bushes. There's nothing so agonizingly awful than a parvenu. These pipsqueak people have no class, only faux piety and genuine pretension. How one's skin does crawl at the idea that the Bush & ilk are allowed in the front parlour. They are all noise and graceless greed.

    “After a large and fattening lunch, we'll get to what a crock the creed of gigagreed is. But I want to say a bit more about poly and pan before smorgassnacks. Monotheism is as ugly an idea as ever reared its scaly head in the pantheon of Religious Wrong Turns. JC wasn't an Exclusivist. Never. He was genuinely generous and gentle of mind. He knew that a simple holiness was tricky to come by and that everyone had one pretty piece of the Giant Spinning holoKaleidoscope. Nobody has it all. And nobody has none. Ye owls, Ace, I'm hungry. Waffles, eggs, bacon, syrup, himalayan amounts of butter, french toast stuffed with hell, and even an honest omelette to finish. Muy yum.”

 

 

 

weather report from the aleph ocean

Posted on by
3

note: sometimes in life, you get very lucky & you happen upon a unicorn.

<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> 

weather report from the aleph ocean

 

yo swine-swill,

 

   If my fury at you were a wheatfield or the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Aleph Ocean across which the winds strode and showed the fierce or soft flames of the wind on that golden sea of the grain or the indigoes and the amethysts of that molten Aleph Ocean. Thus fury. Zephyrs of fury. Furacaos of fury. It is always fury with us, however hidden or forbidden, limpid or opaque. The storm or the eye of the storm, gored by eros, chaste, the assault, the salt, the insult, the tumult, the stealth of the obsidian sea.

    I am occasionally exempt from your contempt. You do not much reveal how you feel in the Land of Sweet, tho you eclair your whimsical affections in the words of small birds and other jeweled winged things, the visible notes of a melody of mystery, a treasure hunt clued across a maze of times, obsidian & amethyst, cursed & blessed, insane with pain, and memory in the rain, of mirth.

    Some day this times-juggling will be routine, it will be overt, not covert. Still, few enough will be expert at it, have the psychic circus athleticism, the mastery, the danceryness to careen or dervish, pirouette through the portals as they randomly appear. It requires a deft concentration & an hilarity of mind, the new spherical empirical, skidding, skating, scudding, there is rhyme in time, and season, but no reason. Or rather the reason occurs – it is not pre-ordained. You must dance – poorly or surely, times do not stand still.

 

////////

the aleph ocean .. the aleph ocean is where we live when we seemingly sleep or when we dearly & daffily muse or other meanderings of consciousness from the rigider paths of sense and logic . Its leitmotif, its signature feel is a melodic celtic knotting of times and of densities.   

 

…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of pogblogian material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com

………….<^>……………..

It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

11 Alligator . Imix . Turtle . East . tzol 141  10.20.05 thur

ffwofw 326§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1107

..

the pro-peace world begins today with you

………….<^>…………….

Rove, Cheney, and their Slithery Ilk

Posted on by
5

Karl, Dick, & their Slithery Ilk

 

mon cahbahj,

 

    I hate it when you’re out of the country in particularly trying times. It's about <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />2:29 pst & I'm on tenter hooks. Do I dare to go to sleep after eating a peach? Suppose I don't check CNN every hour & Karlsputin gets indicted & I didn't hear it live? I saw Jack Ruby shoot Oswald live after Jack Kennedy was shot down on my 19th birthday.

<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> 

   Flayed as I was then, nothing between then and now prepared me for the brilliant seething cobra-venom menace of the malevolent guy who looks like Santa’s middle-aged nephew. The damage to our sweet future is concussive, crippling.

 

   Every centavo we spend on a weapon’s system is cheating some bright-eyed kid of a gallivanting future of invention and intense intention. There happens just now to be a helicopter flying over our town in the night for who knows what reason. It makes me think that if I were an Iraq or wherever war-torn, I would be hearing it with such breath-holding dread. Is it coming closer? Is it leaving? Will it fire on our village because Ahmed lied about our neighbor Hareth saying he was a terrorist when he’s just a barber. Ahmed hates Hareth because Zahraa married Hareth instead of him. So he lied to the police. Who needed to tell the Americans something. That wasn’t the helicopter of my death. I hear its rotors clearly further away now.  It will come again in an hour or a day even though Hareth and Zahraa have left for the South.

    I reckon there is some solace in the fact that once you see that military spending is not only abzurd, but obscenely counterproductive, you can’t unsee it. So when Karl, Dick the Dick, & their slithery ilk get it, they’ll get it. Grokwise.

   I remember standing in a hemisphere of light when I grokked it the first time. It was in the Nixon era well before Watergate. I was musing about ye owls know what. All of the rest of the landscape disappeared except the ground – so from horizon to horizon I was immersed in an opalescent white shimmer of air. I just remember how alone I was on the vast stretch of earth in every direction. I realized that war wasn’t just bad and too bad, that it was insane. This was an very rare view in those times – and frankly even today even my friends, except you, thank owls, say, ‘Oh oh, how terrible is war, except sometimes you have to . . .’. Pffft, pifflay. People don’t say, ‘Oh oh, psychosis is terrible terrible, except sometimes . . .’. Psychosis sucks period.

      In that moment, Riffie, I imagined Mr. Nixon who was the slitheriest to date — Little did we know what would come – I imagined Mr. Nixon on a couch in a shrink’s office. The shrink sat out of sight behind him. Mr. Nixon was describing designing huge weapons to fracture and mangle; and all the money poured into death and jellied gasoline to pour on little children to burn them to the bone; and bombs which shot out thousand of nails like bullets; and teaching young men to butcher shouting Kill Kill and to veneeredly feel noble about it. I saw the psychiatrist blanch and his knuckles grow white as he clutched the arm of his chair. He was sweating then, hot and cold and shuddering. Mr. Nixon was so matter-of-fact. Millions upon millions of dollars stolen from the schools and the comfort of the grandmothers and the wellbeing of the psyche of the nation. Businessmen drank blood and stored blood in the wineries of their bank blood accounts. The psychiatrist hugged himself to try to calm his convulsive shuddering as he listened to the grandiose malignant psychotic tale. He thought 'How in the world will I get this man safely to a rubber room?'

    Then the man sat abruptly up and turned and introduced him self to Dr. Flagwaver. “I’m Richard Nixon, Commander in Chief, President of the United States of America.”

    The psychiatrist felt limp with relief. The president! “Oh Sir, for just one minute there I thought you were a raving lunatic. But now that I know you really are president, it’s all OK.”

   Nixon smiled cryptically. “Well, son, he said in barely above a whisper, “if you want to get away with murder, you just need to do it on a big enough scale. It takes balls to dare it, but slaughter enough people, son, and you win, get statues, parades, and pages upon pages in the history books with your picture in front of adoring and cheering crowds. Only kill a few and you get your picture on the post office wall.”

      I remember my shock when I had that indelible vision of the psychosis of war. If it weren’t the president, it would be undeniably clinical.

    Anyhow, honeylamb, I wonder what will become of Karl, Dick the Dick, and their slithery ilk who indenture our countrymen to poverty and sign the order for weapons as if their pen didn’t write blood. How do they not hear the screams of the mutilated collateral damage at night?

…………….<^>……………..

………….<^>……………..

If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of pogblogian material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com

………….<^>……………..

It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com 

11 Alligator . Imix . Turtle . East . tzol 141  10.20.05 thur

ffwofw 855§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98g5.1g/1107

..

the pro-peace world begins today with you

………….<^>…………….