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

Make a Poetry .. MAP ..

elan waking x elan dreaming #1

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     “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.”

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2 Serpent . Chicchan . East . tzol 145  10.24.05 mon 

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Jane the 4th Coming, the BeelzebuB Gospel

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.        

        

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

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   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

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

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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.

 

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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.   

 

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

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

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Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

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

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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The theo-Military Budget & Militant Ridicule

The theo-Military Budget & Militant Ridicule

the Marshmallowists ..

the intergration of lucid waking with lucid dreaming  

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    Purrs Nicety addressed a seminar of clowns about to be deployed into the Dream Scheme to terrorize the Insane Leadership of the USofA Inc with sneak barrages of marshmallows.

     Purrs was a master strategist of guerilla Ridicule. “The RovBuCondRumsChenian Ilk can be howitzerily guarded in the K1, the full kinesthetic, solid-density, daylight plane,” said Purrs with a sly, if not snide, chuckle. Purrs sported the Puss in Boots look, complete with large blue hat with swashbuckling pink feather. Feline-pirate chic. She was, however, a Ridicule Assassin who fought fang and fought claw to embarrass the Putative Mighty.

    “Do you realize,” growled Purrs, “that they steal the happiness of their kittens to build weapons systems?” Her hackles bristled with furry fury. “No one – and I mean no one – dares speak out against the bloated, obscene, insane military budget. Not a chirp, not a squeak, not a bark, nor a howl. Either the hypnotism or the intimidation is complete.

    “Last class I told you all to memorize the Far Looney Bleeding Heart Extremist Agenda. Lobosuave, can you recite it for us?” Lobocake was something of a teacher’s pet, it must be said. Purrs clearly preferred him to any other comrade-in-marshmallows.

    Lobocake gave her his taunting wolfish grin, “That pesky Far Looney Left Extremist Agenda is universal healthcare; a superb, public K-College education for every child; a treasured and revered environment; a robust living wage; and nationwide free wireless internet ultra-broadband. We’re asking those who generally agree to memorize these and blurt them out to friend and foe at every opportunity. Healthcare, Education, Environment, Wages, Ultraband.”

   “Thanks, Lobo,” preened Purrs who was clearly smitten. “Now, these jerkbeciles are talking cutting Medicaid and the prescription drug benefit, closing schools, and gutting American civil rights, and we may not talk about – even mention – the next-generation DDX destroyers or more Trident submarines or more D-5 missiles or F/A22 fighters or V-22 Osprey aircraft or the strangelovian Robust Nuclear Earth Penetrators or any of that fantasy Missile Nonsense aka Star Wars program? Their present destroyers, submarines, aircraft, bombs are going to be challenged by whom?

    “We could put a non-maintenance moratorium on all Weapons of Mass Mutilation development for 5 years. Simply buy out all the workers and companies affected and re-deploy them to build super schools and the infrastructure of the WiFi Nation. We’re spending $820,000 per minute on theoMilitarism, not counting the extra $200,000 per minute on rubbling the rubble in the quagsands of <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Iraq.

     “Fundamentalist Christianity is an anti-jesusian, virulent sidebar. The real 8000 lb gorilla in America is the Church of Militarism. To speak out against it is a burn-at-the-stake heresy-equivalent. They do you with the gatling gun and finish you off with a flamethrower.

    “Dare to suggest that 99% of military spending is a colossal waste of money and in come the bunker-busting bombs, soon to be nuclear for cruds sake.” Purrs derisively settled her bright silver fur with a quick shake.

    “Sir Nickety,” said Lobo with that insolent droll drawl, “Before you outline the Dream Scheme marshmallow raid, Operation Pelt, can you elaborate on the stealth psychology of theoMilitarism in 21st century USofA Inc?”

    Purrs cheshired. The clowns at Clown School InterD were a droll rowdy and raunchy lot. The nice thing about traveling in OtherLand was that you could change your body style as handily as the earthbound could change from a denim workshirt to an Hawaiian shirt. Last night she and Lobo had shapeshifted into human guise for some claw hammer and tongs recreation. Because their passions were medieval, he called her Sir Nickety as a kind of petitchouism.¹ Last night between bouts of smackdown, they’d discussed the sickening dangers of theoMilitarism.

    “ It’s probably easier to use the magic glasses of the view back from Y3000,” said Purrs. “In the Year 3000, we do not mutilate the children of strangers to solve adult disputes. We do not allow overwrought young men to drive suicide cars, the cheaper death, nor suicide tanks, the expensive death. The accumulation of stockpiles of WMM, Weapons of Mass Mutilation is seen as obscene and stupid.

    “The cult of Militarism is a very very virulent disease, and sadly its extirpation takes all of human and cosmic ingenuity to accomplish. It takes a drug cocktail of 3 parts Ridicule, 1 part Kindness, and, for the caretakers, huge doses of Vitamins OH and DD. Vitamins Obsidian Humor and Vitamin Damned Doggèdness.

    “All addicts’ hallucinations hijack the basic bio-survival circuits. Similarly the paranoid is unshakably convinced of the perils because the seamless internally-generated evidence is so intimate. External evidence does not access the theo-romanti-spiritual-sublime circuits where the self-generated molecularly-intimate tinctures are enzymily oozed, igniting a conviction for which people will actually end their existence. When these constellations of hallucination are lemming-amplified by fellow cultists, koolaid will be swilled.

   “Even most of the white-hats in 21st century America are either semi-infested themselves with milder forms of the theoMilitarism disease which are still potent enough to distort vision — or are clear-eyed and justly damned afraid.

    “Luckily, in OtherLand, Marshmallowists can be deployed with Weapons of Mass Ridicule and begin the psychic rehabilitation these hijacked entities, the Ilk, need to begin recovery. Their oneiro-security is negligible. We invade their sleep with our improvised marshmallow devices, our IMDs. Into each doppelsleeper’s gaping and snoring mouth, the Ridicule Counter-Militarism squad leader drops a marshmallow. The rest of the clown troops glide by, and marshmallow by marshmallow bury an Ilk’s dreambody in derisive marshmallows. The caboose or last clown out leaves a small keyring-sized plastic pineapple as a sign that it could have been grenades instead of marshmallows, but the uninfected soul goes for k-suave.

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to be continued .. ..

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quik Glossary .. petitchouism = petit chou is little cabbage in French, an endearment; extirpate = uproot; k-suave (k = K1 or solid earth day-density/suave – soo-ah-vay  = sweet, mild, smooth, gentle, harmless, uninjuring);

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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

6 Vulture . Cib . Owl . South . tzolkin 136  10.15.05  sat

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Judy Miller .. Chalabi's girlie girlie, & Scooter's, & Lou's, &c

This is all pleasantly vicious gossip from the last few days. If you're too fine for that sort of thing, skip this. We'll be back to being high-minded tomorrow. 

 

Judy Wudy Miller .. Chalabi's girlie girlie,

& Scooter's, & Lou's, &c

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I thought this last paragraph of the permission-to-talk-to-the-grand-jury letter to NYT's chief shrill shill for the Iraq war (she gulped down slitherer-in-chief Ahmed Chalabi's koolaid) Judy Miller in jail from vice president UnLiving Dead Chenoid's Chief of Staff Scooter Libby was an urban myth made up by some enterprising blogger, but no, he really wrote it to her. Very very odd.

“You went into jail in the summer. It is fall now. You will have stories to cover — Iraqi elections and suicide bombers, biological threats and the Iranian nuclear program. Out West, where you vacation, the aspens will already be turning. They turn in clusters, because their roots connect them. Come back to work — and life. Until then, you will remain in my thoughts and prayers — With admiration, Scooter Libby.”

All the bloggoagoggosphere is speculating that it's code for “if you don't stay connected (& on connected message), look out, cowgirl.” “Thoughts & prayers” — ???? Sounds a tad hazily gazing over a glass of champagne in low light to me. Not exactly a source to a journalist. Too many trysts under the scowling portrait of Uncle Dick in the outer office after hours? 

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It was EMBARRASSING to see Judy Wudy Miller on Lou Dobbs — she was being so girlie and flirty and submissive and sychophanty, I all but womitted. “Oh Lou,” bat eyelashes (I didn't know real people actually did batting eyelashes — I thought it was only Barbie in some pubescent guy's fevered imagination) bat eyelashes, “oh Lou-ie, your littly whittly calendar counting my days in jail gave me so muchie wuchie hope!!!” — bat eyelashes, sigh, sigh. One could all but see the hearts as 'i' dots. Groan — took woman-kind back at least 2 centuries. I wanted to say Get a Room.

 

It was ghastly.

IF Cheney were indicted, I would spontaneously bust into a bloody confetti of Compleat JOY

 

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Chancelucky wrote a very droll piece on his chancelucky blog about the NeoCon's Poets Society which you'll enjoy. To which I added the following Breaking News.

 

In the interests of Image Warming, ChanceLucky, I too have been hired by an increasingly, if I may say so, frayed Karlsie Rove. Karlsie and I had a little fling once upon a fairy-tale time, oh my, but we're all back on a pretty professional basis now that he took up with that <b>Scooter-leavings slattern Judy Miller</b>. I heart Karlsie, but he's trying to keep her from talking by doing her favors, nudge, wink.

I am negotiating for a new Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream to be called Karl Roves Band: NeoNutCons, 10% of the profits to go to the Scooter-Karlsie Defense FundScoKaDefenFu. It will be a Noble Cause. This delicious vanilla ice cream will contain peanuts, walnuts, almonds, cashews, pistachios — the leitmotif of this wonderful new ice cream is NeoNutCons — Lots o' Nuts!

I am including an excerpt from the super double secret transcript I found on pogblog that gives further info on the Judy A. Miller complex of infatuations. I'm not trying to suggest that she slept her way to the top of the DC Mis-Info Chain — I'm stating it baldly — including my once-squeeze Baldy Karlsie, may he live an eternity of conscious torment!

I think Chalabi just unzipped & she went all girlie & believed him about the non-existent nukes. “Oh Ahmed, you are so strong. Please tell me more.” And kinda like Mata Chalabi, he plied her with fantastical tales.

Next day phone call to NYT, left on private phone message machine — “Miss Judy, I will not see you again and show you my Saddam-sized weapon of mass distruction if you do not print my stories on the front page of the New York Times. Why do you think a flighty birdbrain like you was ever planted on the NYT staff in the first-place? It's pay-up time. This is Ahmed. 555-555-3450.” [The zero where the 'six' should be is a code for 'no sex' according to my college prof talking about 'A Perfect Day for Banana Fish' & the 507 number on the hotel door. Who knew?]

Return call, on machine “Please no, please no, my Chalabi. I must see you so our aspen roots can intertwine. Please be mine. I cannot print your stories on the front page because they do fact checking! Of course, unless I slip some on the side to the fact-checker. Who is a burly brute. Please no, please no, my Chalabi.”
Well, the rest is, as they say they say, history.

There is a subsubsubunder-alles rumorrumorrumor surrumor that the Lurker In Your Dreams, Dr. Lurker could take an indictment in the neck. But I don't think even Fitzgerald The Noble would have the huevos to do that. He wouldn't live through the afternoon. Dr. Lurker would cue Armageddon for sure & go off to the underground Dr. Lurker Haven under that mountain in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Colorado. My fear is that he is already there with his pus-dripping finger poised over the Armageddon Button.


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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:
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5 Eagle . Men . West . tzolkin 135  10.14.05 fri
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Quit Smoking, Quit Religion, How To

Quit Smoking, Quit Religion, How To

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   Christians and other religious Zealots are like smokers and boomboxers, and, sadly, like the poor, they’ll probably always be with us. It’s when the Evangelicals took the fateful turn to Avengelicals in about 1980 that we should have gotten frightened, very frightened. It’s late now – I hope not too late.

     As someone who, in the upstairs bathroom, started smoking Parliament cigarettes pilfered from my Mother when I was twelve (tho I never smoked my Mother’s religion); as someone who smoked a pack a day, often Camel straights, for 30 years; as someone who went cold turkey seven days before my sister’s gala wedding with its parties and wines and champagnes, I’m here to bring you the good news that horrible and deadly addictions can be quit cold cold turkey, and after two weeks, 14 days, a fortnight of vigilance against the Insinuating Voice of the Inner Tempter, you are free and clear and living a more wholesome new life under a kind of cosmic Witness Protection Program. Nicotine and Religion and Heroin are three of the most addictive substances on Earth. They can be quit.

    And society can say, we’ve had enough of that crap. These new virulent Christians are exactly like smokers of yore who used to blow smoke in your face without a thought to your personal ecology. We have to speak out, stand up, and say, “What you do in the privacy of your own room is your own weird business, but I have the right to work and be governed without your, to me, soul-threatening, toxic christiotine tarring up my lungs. If that’s your poison, happy to it, but leave me and mine deeply alone.

    Trust me, I would one mile short of infinity rather be puttering around admiring the origami petals of the begonia – begonia begonia burning bright in the forest of my morning than riding the Steed of Wrath against the tediously ever-present overtly zealous Christians who like the mannersless Picts and Visigoths have invaded and befouled our simple, cheerful lives previously blissfully devoid of their Savior the Lord Jesus Christ, that occasionally insightful whippersnapper.

     There were three vials worth of Wrath that led to the launching of this anti-Crusade, this war against the once-insidious, now braying and blatant Zealotorism.

     Well, the first two were vials of Disbelief. The last turned the water of Incredulity into the wine of Wrath.

    Probably eight years ago – I don’t quantify time well – I was in our local Red Rock café  talking to a very nice middle-aged woman, Amy Turner, a Democrat, a person of deep thought and earned and practiced compassion. I knew she was a sincere Christian whose ‘faith’ informs and enfolds her heart and soul. Far be it from me, a jolly and happy heathen who dances at the Altar of Comedy to begrudge her her comforting and perhaps invigorating hallucinations. It’s all a smorgasbord. You eat squid tentacles. I don’t. You have a weekly slurp of your god’s blood. I don’t. No harm, no foul. So far, so jolly.

    “Amy, I need to ask you a question,” I say. We’re sitting at the big round table in the north corner of the café. Well, I know the likely answer to this question intellectually as you, dear reader, will think you do. But slow your thoughts down and perceive this slower, thicker, like blood or molasses, with heart-thought.

    “Amy, you know that I am generally good, that I actively act upon principle and honor in a daily way, imperfectly but earnestly. I need to know if I, your friend, must go, in your Christian view, to Hell because I will never take Jesus as my savior?”

      It was as horrible a 40 seconds as I’ve spent. Blood rose in her face. Then she went pale. A clammy sweat broke out on her face. She was unable to look at me. She said, “It is the single hardest thing about my Christian faith,” in a voice strangled quiet and of agony.

   “You would watch me, your friend pog, be herded onto the Down Escalator (I could still summon a grim joke)?” She could not speak. She nodded.

     A few years later, there was Ben Davis, a Christian friend who actively studied and practiced local decency, though schizophrenically a convinced capitalist and a high-order of screw-the-peasants Republican. An economic and political pitbull and a personal Golden Retriever. At a point when we knew each other very well, I asked the dreaded Down Escalator Question. “I hate it, but I have to believe it,” he says, also stricken with dismay.

   I thought – oh the open-hearted pagan naiveté – in both cases that a living breathing friend would trump a doctrine. That they would say, ‘I believe and cleave to my Faith and eschew this clearly dumb garbage that would cast a friend who is good into the fiery pits for an eternity of conscious torment.’ That’s what I would have said. I would have ripped from the Book the stupid pages which damned my friend who was good. (Probably even my friend who was bad if nothing but the truth be told.) I still reel when I think of it – the horribleness of a spiritual addiction that would condemn your friend. That’s deeply ugly stuff. This is the nub, the hub, the rub – it is this willingness to choose a spiritual or political belief over a person that leads to all this collateral damage that litters the juggernaut swath of destruction that Christianity has scathed through history. I, real pog, was collateral damage to my two Christian friends, an unfortunate but necessary cost for an Idea. Ask your Christian friend the Fiery Pit/Eternal Conscious Torment Question. The horror the horror.

    I still don’t care if they hold their repugnant ideas in private – between or even among consenting adults, who really cares? How you beat upon your spiritual gonads is your business – just, please, get a room.

    I forgot – there are four tipping points. The first two are the cast-good-ole-pog-into-hellfires friends. Then a few months ago, I surfed upon a program on CNN. There was this poised, lively little seven-year-old girl, articulate, vivid. Her pleasant-looking, apparently un-horned, un-cloven hooved mother was home-schooling this child. The interviewer off-camera asked the little girl something like, “How did religion start in your life?” This marvelous child piped up in her little girl’s voice, “When I was three years old, I took the Lord Jesus Christ as my personal Savior and He saved me from Sin.”

   Sin? Sin? You were three years old. Sin?

    What sane person could poison the mind of a three-year-old child with the idea that they are sinful? What sane person could poison the mind of a three-year-old child with the idea that they are sinful?

    The 4th tipping point for me is Van Orden v. Perry condoning the garish Ten Commandments monument on public ground in the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Texas state capitol. The state should not support Christian granite,¹ nor paper, nor heads-of-pins monuments. It is not a Christian Nation – it’s all of ours, so the idea of democracy says.

     It’s hard to rile a pagan. We never got kicked out of the Inner Garden of Earthly Delights. Basically, we don’t want to be fussed and we don’t want to fuss you. But your Stupid, Belligerent Narrow-minded, Narrow-hearted God is Not the Lord, my God, and I’m sick of it now. How dare you tell gay people they can’t get married? How dare you tell a woman she must bear a child she can’t emotionally or financially cherish? How dare you support the Military Death Machine? The first big act of JC was to kick over the tables of the money changers and you applaud grotesque profits?

    One of the Founding fathers, John Adams suggested to Thomas Jefferson that he take the Christian Bible and a pair of scissors and cut out everything that was stupid, cruel, tribal, and insane. In what is known as the Jefferson Bible, a very few wise pages are left. Which should be embraced in the Eclectic Canon of Merry Good Sense smorgasbord of kind and wry thoughtfulness where we might all be nourished.

    As to the rabid stuff Thomas Jefferson left on the cutting room floor, dear Christians, please take your meds.

    Sweeter honey bee Christians vs the sting-everybody-to-death swarming Killer Bees Christians — consider that to do the right thing, the just thing, you might have to gainsay your very Faith. Which is, of course what Jesus did in his time. It don’t matter what a Book says, your father, your preacher, even if they say Jesus said it – you can’t join in or even stand by while a good person is kicked off the cliff into the Fiery Pits. It ain’t right. (And of course the Stupid Book got it wrong, and your father and the preacher. Horribly, the Universe forgives forever, but that’s another story for another campfire.) It can be a hard and lonely read, conscience, but what are we doing still lauding red-glaring rockets and bursting bombs in our national song? Ain’t right, it’s wrong. Suppose all the Books vanished for a decade (Books and sutras and all of the other fancy dress Clothes stored in the attic or the basement) – and we had to think for ourselves and couldn’t quote any bludgeoning verses?

    If I revere my Lord & Savior Chocolate Ice Cream, am I less saved than you? What universal law requires redemption to be solemn?

    At least if I fight with Ridicule, and believe me, brother, I will, at least you have a chance to tut-tut and berate the frivolous infidel or whatever feeble outcry you noisily raise against the Trumpet of my Ridiculously Righteous Wrath. Against bunkerbusting bombs, none of us rises again on the third day, pilgrim – Jesus neither. Think it through and through. Quit blowin’ your smelly holy smoke in my face; whatever you’re smoking makes you dangerous and cruel and paranoid. If you can’t go cold cold turkey, at least quit smoking on our parade.

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¹ pict of Christian granite monument;

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10 Light . Ahau . Flower . South  tzol 120  09.29.05 thur

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Irony Saves the World from Rove et ilk

for amigosueño 

 

Irony Saves the World

 

Gingko Tree, part 1

 

     The gingko tree is an orphan from the past; I am an orphan from the future. Why did I make the terrible journey from the sunlit sane future back into this brutish and cynical past? It's a good question which I'll answerish for you in pages to come.

     Gingko trees are the last member of their ancient family, the last of their phylum, class, and species. Look at a gingko leaf sometime and you'll notice the ancient fan-shape with its veins radiating up and out from the bottom stem joint toward the upper edge of the leaf. A modern leaf like a maple leaf will have a river-system of veins, a central long river with tributaries branching out into the lobes of the leaf.

     Along with pigeons and squirrels, gingkos are making an ironic comeback in modern Urbia. The gingkos keep me company in my quite vast loneliness. They remind me that even absent all daily company of chronoscient fellow dreamweavers, truth shimmers at dawn and whispers at <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />midnight. (I don't plan to flak you with too many unfamiliar words, but 'chronoscient' harks to 'time sailors' in welsh, the fire poets, the folk who saidsang the past and the future by many fires in many forests. We hear these songstories in our dreams, for few until much later were written down.) 'Ancient' is old time; chronoscient is my time, where I dwelled before I journeyed back back over the seas of time to this time, to your frightening brutish Turtle Island in the Great Eternal Sea. Did I come back so I could see thee here? You dared me then to journey back to the Time of Blood, said that I would not, said that I could not, said that I didn't dig or gig or grok you enough to go back down the telescope to the small end. Promised you would meet me there if I dared. Damn dare. Do I regret it?

     Perhaps I came back on a wind of longing in our unfathomable game which pinballs among times? Perhaps I am actually altruistic and hope to give courage to a few hearts beginning to dream of a more physically harmless and psychologically hazardous-for-grins world, a world which does come after The PearShaped Epoch? They call me Breddwyd  — you would say 'breath-wooed' for the sound, but here most folk say 'Brath-wid' and I answer to it.

     It is quite the feat fantastic to put back on the psychic armor needed in this barbed-wire world. The subsonic hostility here fairly bristles with offensiveness and defensiveness and humorlessness. Your delicious and ferocious mildness is a foreshadow of what will come when we 'humanes' begin again after The PearShaped End. But perhaps upon the subject of you, I am not objective because I know that for the last Really Big Pot, I've got your number and I win. I win so astonishingly much for my psychic coffers, that I can afford to be gracious in these little preliminary games, however galling the pesky and quite numberless present humiliations might be. It is the knowledge that I c.o.m.p.l.e.t.e.l.y snooker you in the end which gives me these acreages of patience.

     Whether my only original impulse was to find and three-up thee — Ha! Ha! See, I made it, amigosueño! — In the christly-long wait for you to appear in whatever guise you devised for this game, this mabolgamp, to divert myself from wondering whether you actually would show up before I expired of terminal boredom and local mindless-game tedium, I did get somewhat interested in the perils of the planetary natives, groaning under the yoke of truly horrible humorless religions and long boring wars. I see the bog and tangled jungle out of which we lemur our way to eventually get to our spangled chronoscient sea where hearts are free from the chains of religion and the pornography of greed. 

    In the age of gigantism, of dinosaurs, the Earth or y Daear (Dy-ear) uprose such vast energies that butterflies were the size of condors and condors blocked out the sun when over they flew. (Don't fuss thee, I'll clean up the chronoscient grammar if I send this to someone else than thee, mokha (welsh for pig as thou wilt recall). I am almost fluent in one of the dominant y Daear tongues, but have relapses when I've had as much cocoa to drink as I have now. I know I promised you I'd cut back on the cocoa before I left the future, but gollywhiz, taking away all my solaces when you were no where to be found yet — you can be a hard man, my porkchop.

     Anyway, in my researches, I found that there were cat-squirrel simian creatures, the lemurs, who, by being small and quick with twitching noses and stereo eyes, outwitted the crescendoing Great Extinction of the lumbering who lived on enormous fronds  The cat-squirrels kept our clever mammalian hopes cunning and alive through the Great Dark. The bio-history of bones has a big record but the psycho-history of hopes and fears and chuckles is quite invisible. The laughing ape. The laughing ape will win beyond the killer ape in the end. That's the thread I'm following through The PearShaped Finale. The ironic inherit the Earth. Y Daear. [“Laugh & the world laughs with you;Weep & you weep alone; For the brave old Earth has to borrow her mirth But has troubles enough of her own.” Wilcox].

     Why do the ironic win? Not because the worlds are just, but because everything else is so damn boring. Only irony remains forever puzzling. We love to do puzzles. And when the stakes are our very (secret) lives, that's interesting. Always interesting.

     There is, however, more irony abuse than any other dreaded abuse you can imagine. Most apes just don't get it. It's eel-slippery. Irony is the ultimate drug, but you can't fake it or take it or inject it or smoke it. You can sure bludgeon it tho. And most people do in these early days. Maxwell's leaden sledgehammer. Sometimes I cry out to the sky for relief — save me from this irony-deficient damn planet now please. But I wake up here again and lurch on. Diogenes spent his life searching for an honest man; I have spent my life looking for an ironic man. I found one. One. And then he just has to be horrible and cruel and pride-infested. Go figure. Everyone else drinks his damn koolaid. “Oh sweet adorable sexy James.” I am not in that way wholly blinded; only wholly irony besotted. Sweet, adorable — Ha! Ha! Ha! He is a monster, and he ebbs and flows like the tide; waxes and wanes like the moon. But when he's on, I am lost — babblingly, happily, drunk. When I'm not so wounded that I hide in the cold shadows of the forests licking my bleeding wounds; but he doesn't need to know about that. He accumulates large and petty triumphs. Until the last legerdesoul of course when he icarusly plummets into the sea of fire, but that secret's too sweet to reveal. He will not see it coming. That is sweet.     

 

//Mirth are us. Clowns rule.  Buffoons Arise. + 

 

ps. gin = silver in Chinese; ko = apricot;             

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gingko tree part 2

    Nobody really knows how the denizens of Y Daear got so irony deprived? You'll have to admit that the system of tiny tiny coiled patterns is ingenious. (Gluck-prints as our scientists call them instead of blueprints, but then we are no longer so publicly prissy and privately vulgar as the ancients. The trick is keeping such dna things damp — or allowing that they re-vivify when wetness re-occurs. They took a ten-thousands of years-old seed from an Earth pyramid and plopped it into some wet ground and presto, papyrus) You try to jam all that rabbit or giraffe or papyrus info into a couple of molecules and pull a rabbit or a giraffe out of that hat. You'd be mighty impressed with yourself, I bet. It is no wonder that the results go awry now and again. Too bad that a whole species became genetically susceptible to a variety of putridly virulent diseases: religiousism; patriotism; greedism; humorlessness.

     Now the question that Digrif, my ironist, and I are asked most in chronoscient times is how we pioneered the possibility of high (or low for that matter) hilarity with sensual adventures? It was not easy tho it was our gift to the future. I tell you these brutes back here are so damn serious so damn much of the time that it makes my brain ache. You try a little riff with these folks and they either go the Full-Kicked-Puppy, how could you be so mean; or they go Pursed Lips with silent but deafening disapproval as if they had smelled something flatulent; or they start ripping your face off with their mis-judgment of joining in the 'fun.' They don't get that there is actually an art to this like shooting an arrow at a target rather than spraying the room with machine-gun fire and laughing over the writhing and dying bodies as if you'd been clever. Even when they don't really intend to hurt, are not biting their lips in sarcastic, flesh-eating rage, they are tone-deaf and don't get that though irony is meant to appear to hurt, it’s supposed to be between more-or-less equals both of whom have tacitly agreed to take it.

     Irony and sexualness are advanced alchemy. Sexualness is in objective fact so grunting and preposterous that people have developed saccharine-blinding or lust-blinding masks to cover their actual lumpy splotched nakedness. The hormones give a blessed ignorance to the occasion in which the inherent appalling embarrassment is cloaked with fervor until satedness averts the eyes from the previous throbbing desiree. The various hormonal hallucinogens on this planet are rampant and recklessly indulged in.

     Digrif means 'funny,' 'comic' in welsh and he is that indeed. Though if I had to nickname him, I'd go for 'Saharo.' If in Earth terms being sentimental (e.g. Hitler loved his dog.) is called by the Brits, an island people near the Welsh, “wet,” my ironist Digrif is Saharan. The Sahara is a sand sea in the grand continent of Africa. Great waves of golden sand break past the horizon. It is an octessence of dry. Now my tactic in advanced irony includes an occasional token of truthful and overt affection, not very wet, I think, but a break in the routine of merry or furious or lazy or imperious insult. Not our Digrif. No chink in his armor. Saharan of merciless dry. I don't mean to suggest that he speaks aloud every pain he might inflict. He doesn't. (As if it isn't writ all neon for anyone with the slightest second sight.) He pulls a punch now and again. One notices. But sweetness? Never. I expect the Sahara to roll around to become a sea with ships and gulls and penguins before he relents and says something soft. One would occasionally like to curl up in his lap and purr for a catnap without having to be perpetually on guard.

      The planet is harsh in a different and hurtful way. Only irony can transform violence into (even brutal) harmlessness. It is how the planet must evolve so we can still use the violent muscles and lash out, without harm. There is no limit to the weapons irony may use and it can hurt like hell actually, but the point between ironists is the almost-harm. A bullseye is a miss; the arrowpoint should be exactly at the edge of the bullseye and the next ring — showing that one could have really ficking hurt, but just didn't. That's how it's supposed to work. Otherwise it's not playing, it's just being a jackass.

     Of course between experienced, beloved ironists, the bullseye gets smaller and the blow is nearer the center of the dreaded pain or truth.

     Murder is nowhere as deadly really as seriousness is. The pompous, the pious, and the patriots are all terrifying in their claims to the one true way and word.

   In the GreatTimeOcean, luckily clowns rule, clownily luck rules, and there are indeed few rules at all except that if by some horror you relapse into serious or religion or patriotism, people pour itching powder all over you and leave you in the stocks over the weekend while they go eat bbq and dance a lot.

 

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com
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9 Rainstorm . Cauac . Redbird. West  tzol  119  09.28.05 wed

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An Outlaw After Midnight .. the pain of pacifism

An Outlaw After <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Midnight

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    I think of the other outlaws after midnight and what we pay and what we owe and how down and dirty is it going to get. Almost all my ties are cut now. I own nothing but rage. I have you, my darling, in my mind like an ember-coal under a dove-grey silt of ash – I have but to blow on the thought of you and the lava of you in my heart is re-revealed. But the rest, like Dante’s 10th circle of Hell, is cold or colder or coldest. Hate is not hot in the end.

    They say love solves everything. I have not noticed that to be so. It is hard to know which is more gigantic in these Present Menaces, their gigantic Greed or their gigantic Stupidity? If you know, please tell me. I long for something known.

   “Why are you an outlaw, Miss,” asked a young journalist named John Plume, who wished he dared to bear that unflinching look into the darkness of their hearts, but wanted to hear the blindness secondhand. I remember the color of strawberries. I remember the celadon color of your eyes struck with a shaft of sun, the color inside the curl of a breaking wave. I see so clearly now that the sight of their other-than-human not placable, not relenting obscene bastard midas meanness drove me blind.

      “I went blind, Mr. Plume,” I said not unkindly because he was so earnest and not bereft of hopes, even high ones – he reminded me of myself once upon a time – “I went blind, Mr. Plume at first only on Mondays and Thursdays, because the ratbreath bastards became so brazen and so gruelingly cruel and my brothers and my sisters were still bamboozled by their skillful gigantic Deceits. One day my right eye just burst into tears of blood from watching their Lies in full color on CNN. A friend of mine said, ‘Ye gods, Belle Z. Babe, your right eye is weeping tears of blood.’ I smeared my hand across my wet cheek and saw that it was so. ‘I’m not so surprised really,’ I said to him. ‘Why is your right eye not weeping tears of blood?’

   “I cannot believe that we just go to sleep at night and let day after day pile up like corpses along side the highway of history while these bastards loot and steal right out from under our noses and we do not whimper, not even like a kicked dog. Where in the hell, Obol, amigo de mi corazón, is our dignity and our sacred honor? Such sheepery and lemminghood disgust me about ourselves. They don’t even have to bestir themselves to defeat us. They must be putting saltpeter in the junk food. Are we tamed by aspartame?”

    Mr. Plume looked at me bemused. This was an hour when my fractured vision, which was like looking through shards of broken glass, had some light not only darkness. I saw him begin to see.

    After midnight us outlaws devise and revise. How do we move the Titanic an inch away from the iceberg that is looming in our sweet comrades’ dark while they don’t or refuse to know? A militant pacifist, I only get keen words in a noisy world. If you begin to see, begin to do small disobedient acts. Stealthy subversions. Our planet should be tended not plundered. I sharpen the guillotine words on our behalves.

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

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Flint . Edznab . Knife . North  tzol 118  09.27.05  tues

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Education & Electric Perception Outwit War

Education & Electric Perception Outwit War

   

    When you look back from Y3000, it’s clear that what saved us from war, from state-sanctioned human sacrifice, was, as it is in Y3000, art and perception, an electric perception. Art-thirst replaces blood-thirst. Seeing art, doing art. And when we let loose all that art on the Planet, it shines pearlescent all the way to the FarStars.

    The following fable, Gwatwareg, is as close as I can get in words to showing you the thinking of & the feeling of the integration of lucid waking with lucid dreaming — the rhapsody, the woven song of day and dream, electric perception. Education and fate, ole sly Fat E, brought me this present, this man made of night.  

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Gwatwareg

 

    Falling heels over head for Gwatwareg was dumb and dangerous. Like taking a shine to plutonium. Too hot and pitilessly radiant for my soul to survive. I knew that coming doom with a Damascus-sword-keen clarity. A knowledge which slowed my plummet not one whit. The splat was going to be inevitable and gut-strewn; one could only hope to prolong the oh-I-understand-why-Leda-submitted freefall.

     By the way, the legendary Damascus-steel alloy contained glass and other now-mystery elements, and it is said that a true <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Damascus sword edge can cut even an evanescent waft of silk cloth in half before it can fall to the ground.

    In the worlds of dark matter, my lucifer, Gwatwareg has invented, displays, inhabits a force après-magnetism — an exotic, erotic field within which I was transfixed. If holomusic were a fountain upon which one magic-carpetily floated, it felt like that, the force of him – symphonically buoyant.

    It’s like in the ocean, all waves are attached to the whole sea, the mighty wave at Mavericks and the ripple in a fjord near the Artic Circle. Gwatwareg’s humor was an ocean like that with many moods and many beaches all at once. Perhaps I didn’t submit so much as I was immersed? Does a fish submit to the sea?

    All the flame in a forest fire, if you were within it, not the pain but the vermilion motion: In a vast forest of maples in the Spring, before the white man poisonously came, the sweet rising of all that sap: Gwatwareg was irresistible. It was more like photosynthesis than like magnetism, his alchemy: there was an exchange of sunlight for apples or buttered corn. He was a devil, the devil, and I denied him nothing. My soul was the least of it; the origami of my soul was the least of it.

    When the most ancient amoeba in an unbroken chain through all those aeons of midnights became me, I gave him all that evolution; that resolution; that luck.

    Under the ocean, in the rivers too there are at least three million, seven hundred & forty-three thousand pearls gleaming snugly in the odd gluck of oysters and all that pearl light is what illuminated the first night we made love after all the centuries of implacable rutting. He wanted a kind of terrible truth from you before you caught a unicorn-glimpse of his actual strange honor.

    He seemed made of darkness, of night, but then he moved and you saw he was a panther. He was feline. The droit de seigneur. The languor, the outright imperial laziness. Obsidian, the color of panthers, his humor never missed the perfect quick attack. Falling heels over head for Gwatwareg was dumb and dangerous, but I never had a choice.

 

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See gwatwareg & Leda & droit de seigneur & après-magnetism below

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com
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13 Earth . Caban . Earthquake. Heron . East  tzol 117 09.26.05 mon 
ffwofw 631§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98gb/1082
o5.27.o5  8 Eagle tzol 255  2:o1:55 am  thurfri
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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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gwatwareg means irony in Welsh;
droit de seigneur means ‘the right of the king’ & refers to the right of the king to have the wedding-night virginity of any vassal’s wife or of any slave girl any night.
après-magnetism means after-magnetism or post-magnetism;
 
In the sentence fragment above,  “…one could only hope to prolong the oh-I-understand-why-Leda-submitted freefall,” Leda was a maiden in Greek story who was ravished by Zeus in the guise of a great swan most memorably immortalized in one of Yeats’ most famous poems, Leda & the Swan: 

A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.

How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?

A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
                                        Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

William Butler Yeats

Jesus & Jesusia

 Jesus & Jesusia

 

   Ja Guar was the renowned Director of Planetary Films. He staged what might be called morality plays on the stages we call continents in earthside lingo. His consort and cohort Gata was the chief script writer for the plays which melded actors and amnesiaized participants.

     On Earth the distilled venom vs honey – Are you poisonous or are you sweet? – melees of consciousness were focused a lot on the hairless biped, where on a more watery planet, the ceffs or cephalopods, the octopi might dominate the soap opera scene.

    When the script writers lost control of the domineering Religion Christianity, Gata was called in to do some re-writes before this Religion of Peace blew every one off the planet. <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Hiroshima and Nagasaki hadn’t made enough of a dent to sate the virulent ebolaesque e christiani, a disease where you made damned sure that your enemies whom you were supposed to love bled from every orifice and from bullets holes if the other orifi weren’t enough. This was the most virulent strain of the Religion Virus that had been developed any where in the Cosmos. And the Galactic Palaver was plenty worried in case the plague became space-borne. Everyone longed for the spread of the Worship of the Gigantic Teapot from Terengganu instead. But that was not to be. To have a really virulent strain of Religion, it has to be absent the humor gene.

        “Well, Ja Guar”, said Gata, “I’m trying to back-burn this puppy. We moved in an half million extras, the finest psychic-stunt beings in the cosmos – beings willing to wear the stifling and constricting fleshsuit and to live in deep cover for from 2-80 years to play this one big scene of devastation on the Gulf Coast of Turtle Island.

    “Each of them is Jesus or Jesusia and the hope is to wake the dormant kindness in the e christiani afflicted by exposure to the real suffering of Jesus and Jesusia. The Afflicted are resistant to norfloxacin, cefotaxime, clavulanic acid, and to reason or evidence. In addition to the drugs, there is evidentiary therapy, but the Afflicted, like those affected by the barley Blight madness in the Middle Dark Ages, are raving mad and it is difficult to interrupt their acute theophrenia.”

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to be continued    

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

………….<^>……………..

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

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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 Serpent . Chicchan . East . tzol 105  09.14.05 wed

ffwofw 369§8941/24d17h28m25s31.98gb/1071

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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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