Category Archives: Humor, Obsidian

#2 Quicksilver Quips, Tidbits, Obsidians, Halcyons 091105

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#2 QuQuTiObsHa

 

#2 Quicksilver Quips, Tidbits, Obsidians, Halcyons 09.11.05

 

<^> My friend Rosiland dropped off the first Militant Pacifist teeshirt on the planet as far as I know. Her friend Judy designed it for me. I am so stoked. The Militant is white letters on a red background stripe. The Pacifist is pale blue on a dark blue background stripe and the pair is tipped at about a 30 degree angle. It is completely cool. I plan to wear it 24 hours a day forever.

    Why Militant Pacifist?  Well, I’m sick of people thinking of pacifist as being weak when with two moments of reflection, it is a much stronger and braver position than adolescent flailing in bullying violence. And it’s time to fiercely mean the abolition of war.

    At the Mountain View Art & Wine Festival I was told again by an officious volunteer that, as I was walking quietly with my teach peace sign, I had to “go to the Free Speech Area.” Pfffft. ‘<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />America is a free speech area. Because of the 1980 United States Supreme Pruneyard court decision, I have the right to protest in a place to which the public is generally invited. I don’t have to go to a holding pen. I’ve already been through this with the chief of police.’

    When a volunteer next to her was very rude for no reason, I snapped at him. His girlfriend said simperingly, “I thought you were for teaching peace.”

    Pfffttt. I’m not for teaching nice. (See Put an IcePick in Nice for the full lowdown on this.) I care about the abolition of deliberate death and mutilation, not about hallmark cards, better manners, and norman rockwell. I’m not against manners, but I’m not willing to live in a gutter to defend them.

 

<^> The $200,000 per second spent in Iraq figure is a wonderful meme. Meme ..  (pronounced meem; rhymes with moonbeam.) A meme is the idea equivalent of a gene or virus; it’s an idea (good or offal) that spreads around the world; e.g. “the world is round.” For a long time, the prevailing stench was that the world was flat. Then the meme of the world being round infected the general understanding. I’m not sure it exactly fits in with meme – I never thought about it til this very moment, but that picture of the planet from space had meme qualities; also that horrific picture of the napalmed little girl as if a sane species could drop jellied gasoline on people. ¶ The one concept I want to have be a world-sweeping meme is the idea of 2ThenAdopt. Now the world population is 6,446,038,867. Please every-sparrow-fall recall that one billion is 1000 million. Projected in 45 years about 9 billion bodies breathing &c. It’s absurd, friend, it’s obscene — we can’t take care of all these people.

     Our good will and lessening prejudices and ignorances keep getting tsunamied by a population running amuck. If the notion of 2ThenAdopt could spread, then people could have whatever sized families they wanted or could afford, but we could stop flooding away all the progress by holding the biology at a standstill, behind a dam of good sense until the social systems could catch up. 2ThenAdopt.

   The more people you ask, “Did you know that we are spending $200,000 per minute in Iraq?” – the more people can be disgusted by the waste of human and financial resources in this benighted war. Disgust can lead to action finally. (The real figure is more like $416,000 per minute, but I use the $200,000 per minute as a figure that no one can argue with. See the Math, sources, and more detail.) This way we can spread the $200,000 per minute meme and accelerate the process of Declaring Victory & Coming Home – the true support of our troops – wanting to save their lives from  death or mutilation.

    Beat the drum. Tell one friend or colleague. No one believes it. They shake their heads and say, “Really?”

  

     <^> “No Mardi Gras,” sez the sursurd and vile and vapid Rev. Shanker. ‘It was God’s magnificent mercy that wiped out the City of Sin and Mardi Gras.’

     Me, I say, Mardi Gras? Why not Lundi Gras, Mercredi Gras,  Jeudi Gras, Vendredi Gras , Samedi Gras, Dimanche Gras? Fat Tuesday, Fat Monday, Fat Everyday. All days Yippee & Yummy. God forfend we have fun, I suppose. Pffffttt, I say to these Reapers of Grim.

 

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11 Wind . Ik . Whirlwind . North . tzol 102  09.11.05 sun

ffwofw 736§8769§24d7h47m33s1068§1895

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Rev Shanks sez Destruction Shows God's Mercy

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<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />New Orleans Residents: God's Mercy Evident in Katrina's Wake

By Jody Brown and Allie Martin with pogblog's gloss & apologies
September 2, 2005 & September 8, 2005
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(AgapePress) – Two Christian leaders in New Orleans are testifying to God's mercy [God’s great mercy was clear to me all along too] in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. One suggests that the death toll could have been much higher had it not been for [good ole] God's mercy [He could have arranged for nobody to die hideously, not even the vehicularly challenged, stricken poor, but, well, He didn’t] — and the other that God may have used the hurricane to purge wickedness from the city. [Purging is good. Definite. Terminal. No one wants a God who maybe wishes, maybe washes. Tire-iron between the eyes like Katrina – that’s the kind of Decisiveness we desire in a Deity.]

 


Chuck Kelley is president of New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary, with facilities located near the southern banks of Lake Pontchartrain and in Chalmette, east of the city. Baptist Press reports that Kelley now finds himself homeless and with only a few personal belongings following Hurricane Katrina's devastating blow to the New Orleans area. But the seminary leader says he is able to discern [like those special 3D, Deity-D glasses?] God's hand [maybe the left Hand didn’t know what the right Hand was doing?] in the situation.
 

“Imagine what would have happened if New Orleans had taken a direct hit [instead of Biloxi which God loves less],” he tells BP. “The levee did not break until after the storm was clear and the winds had died down and the rescue workers were able to get out.” Had the levee given way during the hurricane, he says, “untold thousands of people [instead of told thousands of people]” would have been killed. [I may be delusional, — being fond of you is clearly delusional – but I am not DELUSIONAL. The tormented calculations these folks have to do to preserve their DELUSIONS is fascinating if odious.]

“It's a terrible tragedy [perpetrated by merciful God tho?],” Kelley says of the devastation in and around New Orleans, “and we still don't know the scope of it — but the evidences [through sewage darkly, perhaps?] of God's [sewage-strewn] mercy are there. We rejoice [Rejoice? Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Hurricane, He has trampled down the levees and loosed His terrible swift sewage?], in the fact that He has got the whole world in His hands [Wish He’d quit making a Fist], including the city of New Orleans and the seminary.”
 

Kelley's faith, despite his personal situation, remains steadfast. He explains to Baptist Press that he is confident of God's provision. “When we get to the end of this story,” he says, “the last paragraph [What is this ‘waiting thing’ exactly? The good news couldn't come in the second paragraph?] is going to be a testimony to the greatness and glory of our God, who is able to do all things well [especially sewage], and able to provide every [except at the SuperDome & the Convention Center, I guess – Satan musta disguised those up with christianonite] need.”
 

Rev. Bill Shanks, [a Real Piece of Work – no Namby-Pampy Pussy-Footer he], pastor of New Covenant Fellowship of New Orleans, also sees God's mercy [Go, God!] in the aftermath of Katrina — but in a different way. Shanks says the hurricane has wiped out much [Why not all of it? Just asking.] of the rampant sin common to the city. [Being God, He couldn’t have done this with mercifully Less Sewage abounding? Amazing Sewage, how unsweet the stench ..]

 

Rev. Shanks explains that for years [See, they had time to Mend Their Ways, those crafty witches et sin-ridden al – nice God didn’t just spring this on them – they had their chances] that he, Rev Shanks, has warned people that unless Christians in New Orleans took a strong stand against such things as local abortion clinics, the yearly Mardi Gras celebrations, and the annual event known as “Southern Decadence” — an annual six-day “gay pride” [God does not like gay people and this cleansing hurricane proves it. All those dead babies would have grown up to be gay unless they had been mercifully spared that horrible fate by nice God who loves all his flock — minus the gay people] event scheduled to be hosted by the city this week — God's judgment would be felt. [Well, they all got theirs, didn’t they! Well done, God!]

 

“New Orleans now is abortion free. New Orleans now is Mardi Gras free. New Orleans now is free of Southern Decadence and the sodomites, the witchcraft workers, false religion — it's free of all of those things now,” Shanks says. “God simply, I believe, in His mercy purged all of that stuff out of there — and now we're going to start over again.”

 

The New Orleans pastor is adamant. Christians, he says, need to confront sin. “It's time for us to stand up against wickedness so that God won't have to deal with that wickedness,” he says.

Believers, he says, are God's “authorized representatives [franchisees?] on the face of the Earth” and should say they “don't want unrighteous men in office,” for example. In addition, he says Christians should not hesitate to voice their opinions about such things as abortion, prayer, and homosexual marriage. “We don't want a Supreme Court that is going to say it's all right to kill little boys and girls [except in Iraq], … it's all right to take prayer [& I, Rev Shanks, prayed for the slow and horrible deaths of as many sinners as possible and did God answer my prayers or WHAT!? It shows what the Lord Jesus and his Dad, God, can do when They really put Their Minds to it.] out of schools, and it's all right to legalize sodomy, opening the door [or breaching the levees?] for same-sex marriage and all of that.”

 

Shanks heeded warnings to evacuate New Orleans, and is currently staying with friends [Wouldn’t it be fun to have Thanksgiving dinner with all these folks?]  in the Jackson, Mississippi, area.

 

© 2005 AgapePress all rights reserved

[except the freedom from satire to which there is never a right]


[Thank whatever stars amuse you that you don’t have to live inside a brain like these authorized representatives writhe within. No wonder there is only one joke in the bible.]

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for the unvarnished article: 

http://headlines.agapepress.org/archive/9/22005b.asp

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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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copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

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9 Light . Ahau . Flower . South  tzol 100  09.09.05 fri

ffwofw x§8769§24d7h47m33s1066§1895

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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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God shrugs. Satan smirks.

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Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

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God shrugs. Satan smirks.

 

I, 96.66% of the so-called time, have the distinct sensation that I am visiting from the future.

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

One of the clues to me is the very great difficulty I have in translating you all's apparent facility with linear time. I am embedded in an holospheric, photonic spice (space-time) funeszing the galloping or snoozing details and someone will say “When's your birthday?”

 

Innocent question to them. But panic comes over me, “This should be easy. I know they want, they expect an answer. Of course the question is nonsensical in spice, or holo-space-time, hurry hurry, what was the damned answer I gave last time? They expect the same answer every time. I'm ancient in death; an infant in skateboarding. Birthday? Birthday? Dagblast it. Oh my oh my.”

 

So while I dither, an odd look crosses their face because of course they have met me in their dreams many times, that panoply of spices, but they can't quite lay quit of darling K1, the solid reliable Earth masterpiece of density-engineering, and slide into kaleido-time for a splash.

 

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Another clue is the notion I wrote about recently: “the solidarity of the living – the civil right to remain unmaimed.” In the year 3000, we would be somewhere along the emotio-spectrum from agog to appalled at the idea that sentient creatures could deliberately maim each other.

 

   I realized that when I visited you in the summer of 2005, you had some serial murderer, repulsive & loathsome, who had murdered a dozen people. There was huffing and puffing and clucking, “Monster. Remorseless. On & On.” In the exact same days, your remorseless Murderer-in-Chief who had by proxy killed or maimed 100,000 non-combatants was swaggering around being protected by strong and handsome young viriles who had at hand a special Device where MaimerDood could cause the destruction of  millions in one very fell swoop. There was no recoil. No shame. No projectile vomiting of disbelief. It was all considered not only normal, but very fine. Sketches of official portraits were being prepared and a new official chef to fed the Maimer and its family was just hired.

 

   In Y3000, we couldn’t even write a nice cathartic horror tale with a character this grotesque, least of all imagine this servile a populace who sent cabbages to his kitchens for coleslaw. And no one cries out? No one, shuddering, points a finger with a pealing cry of anguish and falls to the earth turned to stone?

 

    One of my fellows from Y3000 searched in our dusty nano-digital archives and found that in Y2002, 425,000 people in the USofA Inc alone died of tobacco-related causes. 3000 people died in the ‘terrorist’ attacks which generated the mobilization of vast armies and shock&awe. Not one battalion was mobilized to attack either R.J.Reynolds or Philip Morris, clearly a huger danger to the public life & lung than some scraggly measly minor league terrorists of Arab descent. Citizens are not losing rights, being patted down in airports, and profiled to see if they are wielding a pack of Winstons.

 

Where in the Hell is Reason? (Note to right-wing imbeciles: Of course the officially designated terrorists suck. No, I do not support ‘terrorists.’ No, I am not against our troops. Yes, I am actually trying to do my damnedest to bring them home alive and unmaimed. And if there are any other idiot and pre-psychotic twistings of what I’m saying that you might be churning up in your febrile brains, don’t. Like with the bible, I mean literally what I’m saying. Unless I’m taking a flyer off into the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Land of Irony, a subject, like jazz – if y’gotta ask &c.)

   So we’re all a tut tut with revulsion at someone who offs 12 people and not only la de dah, but actively hurrah about the mega-mass murderer & minions who have offed enough Iraqi non-combatants to fill 30 World Trade Centers? How is the future to get their minds&hearts around this impossible concept?

    And the people who make timid little demur around the edges, who like little mices squeak out – they are reviled with a vehemence which has to be witnessed to be believed. Satan doesn’t even have to break a sweat to put this planet in His column. God shrugs. Satan smirks. People didn’t even put up a fight. That’s what so damned sad when it gets looked back on from Y3000.

 

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

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copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

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16 Jaguar . Ix . Ocelot . Panther . North . tzol 81

ffsb 732§8769§24d7h47m33s1047ikhoudvanu

..


the pro-peace world begins today with you
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Crocodile Tears from the Lizard-in-Chief

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Crocodile Tears from the Lizard-in-Chief

 

While we're on reptiles (which you'll see below in the definition of riro — reptile in, reptile out), I was thinking of Mr. Bush and his crocodile tears re the returning dead whose forlorn flag-draped coffins even the parents are not allowed to see arrive in Delaware. The pictures of which they are not even allowed to have, though the arrival back on American soil is a huge deal for many a grieving parent.

 

The Lîzard-in-Chief's putative¹ sympathy is belied by the fact that before strutting in pre-full top-gun codpiece mode to Shock & Awe, the Bring-It-On bravado of a pipsqueak, he wouldn't allow another month for the Inspectors to prove that all these dead-cert places the sly sychophant Villain Chalabi, that judas who sold Judy Miller of the NYT & us a bill-of-bads, claimed his Informants “knew” there was WMD, there wasn't, not in one single place. That's what those effete traitors to Being For Us, those brie and non-freedom fries nibbling French were so anguishedly on about — anguishedly rightly as it transpires — the intel was fixed to fit the policy.

 

Remember “Where's the beef?” There are but a handful of iconic phrases that fortune-cookie history. It may be all we remember whatever of a whole decade. Well, the intel was fixed to fit the policy is the iconic ghoulish irony that sums up the horror and stupidity of this benighted Iraq Quagsand Misadventure. It's the key that unlocks the closet of hubris out of which will spill all the Lîzards, and soon. 

 

A logic which baffles me beyond is We must Stay the Farce, whoops I mean Stay the Course [in an idiot atrociously and comletely irresponsibly non-planned Quagsand] so Our Brave Boys will not have died in vain. Hmmm. Let's do that math. Kill more brave boys and tho we'll slink out eventually and vainly, we have more vain deaths to pile up until we reach a critical mass that'll make me (Chief among Lîzards — CLOTUS Chief  Lîzard of the United States ) sign on to the rationale de that jour for Cuttin' n Runnin' without having to say we are.

 

Go figure.

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riro .. reptile in, reptile out . . . cf gigo .. garbage in, garbage out. riro(ree-roh &/or r-i-r-o);

    Sad to say, once you've 'seen' the Lîzardry in Our Leaders, you simply cannot unsee it. I've tried, longing to sleep better. I reckon it's like seeing auras or something, once you can see in that spectrum of light, you're stuck with that new knowledge.

   There was a time about four years ago when I saw a pict in a newspaper of Mr. Bush in profile. I gasped. There it was — the unmistakable resemblance, the reptile profile. Holes in moles, I thought, maybe this rumor about the super-scientists in Atlantis doing dna experiments of reptile-human hybrids isn’t just some gaseous New Age crock. (Now, now, a lot of New Age stuff is rivetting and inspiring; you just have to keep your discernment.) No doubt about it, riro –> reptile in, reptile out. We think Mr. Cheney is the 12ftTall Lîzard-in-human-disguise-in-Chief. He has the greatest lipless lizard look, speaking with flicking forked tongue look, but like a contact high, a lot of the folks in the Administration are evincing a viperesque cast, a contact slither . . .  

 

∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙∞∙∞∙∙∞∙

¹ putative = supposèd;

 

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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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copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

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12 Earth . Caban . Earthquake. Heron . East  tzol 77 08.17.05  

ffsb 385§8769§24d7h47m33sikhoudvanu

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the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Hell, Catharsis, Militarism, Abolition of War

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Hell, Catharsis, Militarism, Abolition of War

 

the abolition of war, the pro-peace world, begins today with you

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If I may unexpectedly speak up for the dumb and tasteless. I have one friend on Earth with whom I have burrowed well-below Hell in our obsidian humor. Nothing has been more cleansing of neurosis, cleansing of the aegean stables of the soul. I never would have guessed, but the really darker and more preposterous we go, the more tender and softer and sweeter of soul we become — because we are lying a lot less.

As a small example, my dearish dead mother had the mildest almost unnoticeable case of german measles when she was pregnant with my older brother Peter. He was born a 100% vegetable. It was always a hushed-tones, look down pensively at your shoes family tragedy. (He lived with no function but breath & bowel in an institution until he died when he was 25.)

When my friend started to beat upon and mock my 'retard' vegetable brother in the crassest terms, I was completely shocked and offended. But this friend is very funny, and he was pitbull and would not over some weeks let it go. Finally, I really laughed and it amazingly released my wegetable brother from this grim prison of miserable memory and I could have the several pretty memories and not have to dwell in memory-hell. It was like bursting a festeringly secret bubo.

I'll admit there are Hells we've, he & me, harrowed that I would not dream of sharing publicly in this present world yet, but I

can say that obsidian humor will be a necessary psychic-medical technique to excise what is mostly prissy and janus-faces & rump-saving about our protections of the immobilized and fossilizedly Sacred Past.

Now of course we are not mean to the naive or unarmed. We are only that pristine and fiend mean to each other, as master teasers must be. But, in truth, I can hardly talk any more to those who can't be teased. EggShellism is so terminally tiresome. I have a very longstanding friend who is from the US MidWest and the slightest tweak gets a Kicked-Puppy look. Our real communication is significantly truncated.

 

I am convinced that art is the eventual primary substitute for war. Let’s posit as a thought experiment that we do get to, as I believe we must, the Abolition of War as we got the Abolition of Slavery. Now some very smart folks thought slavery necessary & inevitable, predicted economic collapse without it, &c. War is now the Inevitable Social Condition, the sine qua non of immutable human nature..

    Pish tush. Balderdash. Piffle. (That’s a hat-trick of disdain.) If we set our minds to the Abolition of War as a grail goal and we make every decision in its light, we will outwit the slouched Beast and spend out Lives, Fortunes, and Sacred Honor on the Pursuit of Happiness through Art and other Ingenuities.

    There are several Golden Keys. Art, about which more anon. But obsidian humor. Now that is what let’s you travel on the dark side of the moon and return intact. Traverse the bardoes from which have arrived these heartshrunk, serious Leaders who betray their humorless humanlessness daily more vividly. Laughter, dark laughter, is in my experience the final strength, the anti-gravity, the lead turned to gold.

      Obsidian humor .. from panther stone; Veriest dark humor; the kind of ironic humor during the magnetoquake of a pole shift: who knows that compass, the angle of refraction or distraction? Obsidian is a densely glassily perfectly opaque black stone (formed by lava hitting water); used by Quetzal Originals to make knife blades and objects of art. Obsidian is a myrth so black, so impossibly preposterous that all subjects are on-limits (not necessarily for all audiences – this may be projectile bile, but not casually flung); all subjects are fodder, grist, silage to feed the devil cows of your delicately diabolique, obliquely hilarious, intricately twisted mind-heart, élan-coeur.

  [Silage is most deliciously mature but still robustly green whole corn (maize), stalk and corn ear including the still soft cob inside the absurdly sweet rows of corn kernels. This is all coarsely chopped (nowadays by a huge bladed machine) and blown in to a silo, that tall cylindrical building on farms. The corn silage compresses and ‘pickles’ and ferments and waits for winter.

   A whole huge corn field can rest plotting in a silo – it is a kind of lumpy moonshine, cornshine, that is forked out from the top by the wide ten-tined silage fork. Cows love silage. Cows can get quite drunk on it. Having been brought up by cows (<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Holsteins; the black & white ones; modern art on the hoofs), I have utter respect for them, but drunk + cow is very droll.]

   Obsidian humor, daring it, delving it, is a love that steep and that deep. It begins beyond the Pale. It begins with the  letter after zed. Few jeopard it. 

 


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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 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 Jaguar . Ix . Ocelot . panther . North . tzol 74 . 08.14.05 sun
ffsb 829§8783§24d8h36m59sikhoudvanu
..
the pro-peace world begins today with you
………….<^>…………….. 
 
 
   
 
 

The Alamo, Dead Children, & Dick Cheney

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The Alamo & Dead Children & Dick Cheney
   part 1
   Sometimes there are <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Alamo moments that gain in icepick-in-the-left-eye piercingness. Other lines-in-the-sand crossed diminish in ferocity of ache, but remain iconic in the steles¹ of your own story.
    Meeting you crescendos into a catastrophe of raw joy and raw terror. Our exquisite, excruciating obsidian humor is the last mystery, the unholiest sweet fact I grab before I plummet, wings on fire, into the Abyss. Our unholy humor is what makes me forgive the Universe for its goddamned Sins.
   That you bastards could call dead, mutilated children collateral damage is a scarlet fact so disgusting, so repugnant to the human of heart that I have crossed into an incandescence of rage.
   I will not accept a world in which the hissing and falsely pious utter the phrase collateral damage. To whom collateral?
    I could, in concept, possibly bear it if you fell blubbering to your knees keening screaming, tearing your over-starched white shirts from your chests in grief. But this mealy-mouthed measured crap. It is cursed.
    I crossed a line from past which there is no return. If you can utter the phrase collateral damage when you mean bomb-shattered – your bombs — dead, mutilated children, you so dishonor the dead that I revile you. You do not get the life you lost; you do not grok the life you lost; you do not drink the tears of the dead. There are no obscure wars. There is no collateral damage.
    In the Alamo, there came a time of decision. William Barret Travis drew a line in the sand with his sword. Step across this line and you offer you life and your sacred honor to a Fate certain to be cruel.
    Unmasking your Big Lies, Collateralizers, and your Vicious Euphemisms is my duty to the Dream from the Land of Nightmare. I will not sleep.
<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> 
part 1 + 1
    Professor Quetzal said, “We’d better enlist our readers in the National Child Mutilator Registry campaign. Child Molestation is self-evidently grotesque. Children should be left to cheerful, raucous abandon without fear of being furtively pawed by some cretinous aging drooler.
    “However, one-to-one in seriously sick from the ethical perspective is the Child Mutilator. Until our Leaders and their Fervent Followers, the Killer 12ftTall Lizards in Human Disguise are mellowed by the de-euphemizing vaccine all the sane are so panickedly trying to develop against this Plague of Addiction to Big Lies, for our own protection we must have a National Child Mutilator Registry.
     “If you have mutilated a child or mafially contracted persons or armies to have a child mutilated on your behalf, we need to know so we can keep our uninfected cheerful clown children from your virulently contagious influences. At least until we develop the vaccine. Sadly, many of your diseases are hot-airborne. We do not want our delightstruck clown children paralyzed and disfigured by the viro-botulisms of your baleful creeds and greeds.
    “Face twisted in a simulacrum of sincerity, you cry, ‘It’s in a good cause, these wars!’ The mutilation of a child can not be in a good cause, ipso facto. Child molestation is supremely disgusting, but if you can go one boschian rung lower on the ladder of ice down into cold Hell, Child Mutilation is one re-eat your-own-vomit degree of more sickening.
    “At least the Child Molester has to be faced with his own disfigured self-loathing in the mirror every morning when he shaves.”
      The Blue interrupted, “Unless he’s a taliban child molester who never shaves.”
    “Goaaal!” said Salma Nella whose hatred of religiopatrio chest-thumping hypocrisies was ivory – 99.666% pure.
    Quetzal smiled that smile to which Myrth was addicted. For the sake of the joke you had to maintain a deadpan, but with the faintest northernlights of extra glow in the aura around his face and an extra burnish of the mischief in his brown eyes, Quetzal nodded the wry nod.
    “The Child Mutilator wants some anodyne layers of denial between him:or:her and the brain-exploding acts they are allowing in their name. The mafia does contract hits so the blood-splatter evidence is on someone else’s cheap suit. But the Mutilated-Children karmic score goes in your column, pilgrim, by not one digit less. A child:mutilation is a child:mutilation is a child:mutilation. You can’t pretty it up unless you’re depraved or insane.
    “If I have to live next door to someone willing to call child-mutilating collateral damage, I want to know.
    “If you in your hometown take a grenade and throw it at a child or mow them down with an M16UziAK47, you go to jail, get battered with outrage and shunning, get wired up in the fry chair and e-lek-tro-cuted. If the mutilated child is exactly the same End, but your Means is a noble son dropping a bomb from 10,000 ft or mowin’ ’em down with the M16UziAK47, you get parades, holidays, and sousa music? You do go to Karmic Jail, and it’s a profound security prison, let me tell you, and that is a faint solace for us.
     “But if you had to touch them as they died; if you had to push their wheel chair; if you had to look over their shoulder into the same mirror as them as they have to see every day that they’ll never be pretty again; if you had to sit with them as they watch unmutilated kids play basketball or soccer. The jury that judges you is dead children, pilgrim, mutilated children. Not the protoplasmic jelly in the womb you so luridly defend, but the once-leaping, once-laughing, once-hopscotching whose hullabaloo and delicious lives you spindled, mutilated, folded, and collateralized.”
 
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¹ stele .. a carved band of scenes from your life; like you would find in your chapter of the akashic record where the universe, helplessly, keeps the record of every thought and heartbeat of your life, benighted, noble, petty, delightful tho they may be.
anodyne .. a drug, a repression, a cotton-candyifying layer of insulation between your conscious mind and the atrocities, large and small, (and never secret to the hapless universe) that you have committed willfully and have tried to hide &/or justify with creeds or legerdelengua, slithering sleights of  the forked tongue.
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8 Cane . Ben . Reed . East  tzol 73 . 08.13.05 sat  
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Become a Militant Pacifist . . Charred by Nagasaki

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Become a Militant Pacifist .. Charred by <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Nagasaki
..

I remember going to the Army Medical Museum adjunct of the Smithsonian in Washington DC as a child long long ago. Trust me, I happened upon this ghoulish place by Total Mistake. I'm sure it's most useful to the medical student, but to the 10-year-old seeing 30-gallon, two-foot-in-diameter glass test tubes with, say, an enormous elephantiasised leg from the knee down frayedly floating in formaldehyde was skincrawling. Row upon row of huge glass-tubed Everything in the place was diseased.

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

But the scorching, the charred memory was all the black & white pictures of Hiroshima and Nagasaki victims. Maybe, though I never thought about it til this exact instant — those pictures were the boschian journey through the darkside of the human blackheart for why I grew up to be a militant pacifist?

 

I have never seen anything else like those pictures since. They were probably so clinical and blunt and close-up because it was the Army Medical Museum and not thought of as for the general public. And presumably they had Army access to photos that reporters wouldn't.

 

The wreckage and the radiation effects and the so-far past Hell monstrous hurt to children and to men and to women and to old people and the visible burned burned pain. It ripped open my young soul to what violence actually is in the violently tortured poor flesh. Having seen it, you could not cause it.

 

Maybe you could bear and repress three such pictures in a magazine or some in a book, but this was walls of them in ruthless medical close-up absent any remnant of artistic composition or recoil. Just 'Let's look at the boiled eye pulped socket and the radiation boiled flesh.'

 

There is something about radiation burns entirely different from fire-burns. It is unnatural in a way I only remember from all that life ago. Fire happens from the outside in as if there were some layer, some human refuge left however tormented. But radiation burn is from the marrow out all at once a fury of the insanely enraged and offended flesh as if it were microwrithingly boiling the flesh right in front of your screaming eyes. 

 

Walls of these pictures and your pity and horror rose until the idea of causing harm or closing your eyes to harm changed your very dna — never. Never will I be party to, excuse, stop speaking, I owe it to these silent ruined people who could have been as shiny and delighted and sunstruck somersaulting as I was.

 

So here I am. Militant pacifist. Never speak to me of collateral damage. Put yourself in the dark fire first. Dare not do this harm to another whose hand you do not hold in the very incineration moment. Dare not stand apart.  

 

pogblog

 

ps. It was that day in Washington DC that I stepped upon another species path. I did not care if I was the only one. I claim nor exalt kin nor kindness with a species that would do that deliberately charred mutilation to its own kind whose photographs I saw upon the walls. Better alone in the universe with no friend nor God than to be one of the glorified, sung and storied DeathDealers or one of their apologists.

 

Militant pacifism. It was and is a reviled view. I cannot recommend this deep a loneliness to you, friend, but if you cannot bear the lies and the slither of rationalization, your own heart will feel light to you and you will have earned the wholehearted right to hear the dawn songs of birds without the static of the screams of the dead that the Killers hear in their own forsaken child’s heart. There was a time before they joined the Legions of DeathDealers, before they chose to walk across the line of blood and justifiy the sword; the machete; the M16UziAK47; the jellied gasoline. Before they surrendered their will to the command of a Dark Purpose which feeds on the blood of the innocent under the guise of glory.

 

There must have been a day when an X became sufficiently distinct from an Y to become a different species. Whatever is in the blood or in the minutely coiled memory of my parents, I too wave farewell across a divide over which I will never return. The death you deal is evil. There is no camouflage for that. I am not one of you.

 

I looked at eternity and I accepted that utter a loneliness rather than drink radioactive human blood again – or have my military priests share that evil sacrament on my behalf. In my chalice is water.

 

My anti-war views have evolved this far now. I would not have described myself with the phrase militant pacifist at once.

 

I remember when I stood in some shocking lightning illuminated moment in the Nixon era and saw that war wasn’t just sad and too bad –ah, the necessary evil – but was insane. That if you put a man on the couch and had him explain his actions with armies and air forces and what he was commanding to be done, you’d call for the strait jacket and ready the RubberRoom. Unless he was your President. It’s clearly clinically mad and just because  so many people believe it doesn’t make it right or so. The earth was never flat no matter through how many generations or with how much God-granted authority it was proclaimed.

 

I recommend you stay with your fellows unless you have the stomach and sinew for a deep and silent dark which none could warn you of how far from human habitation it is, without the reassuring rustle and murmurs of your own kind. A very few will still speak to you and leave a bowl of soup for you to find. But none will hold your hand.

 


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2 Deer . Manik . West . tzol 67  08.07.05 sun 
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Jane, the 3rd Coming .. the blood-drinking was a JOKE

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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.

    “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]).  <?xml:namespace prefix = o />   

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

    “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 they 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 Exclusiveist. 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.”

 

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The Anti-Christ Nation

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The Anti-Christ Nation

appendix J, ToadSpawn, Be Gone!
   

     Where the Rub is – the Unholy Alliance between Golden Calf-ism, that Obscene Creed of GigaGreed, and the Wicked Uber-Patriotic Violence is the Anti-Christ or the Anti-Christ-Equivalent. Like brave, baffled Bill McKibben (Harpers Aug 05¹) and Bill Moyers, moderate Christians must speak out against these fundamentalist and extremist quintessential perversions of their potentially sweet and modest faith. And if in an inflated moment, Jesus said he was the only way, he was mistaken. There are perspectives few 32 yr-old can have, however inspired.

    One tiny revelation, one brave sentence at a time, moderates have got to put the Christ back in Christian – not as a tedious mantra but in acts that Jesus would be proud of.

     The imagination quails – shrinks back, shudders – at the violence of the delusion, the wickedness, the nastiness, the awful arrogance of our present Golden-Calf-ridden Nation. Christ would certainly be turning over in his grave if he were still there. Looking at it from the Anti-Christ angle, one trembles at the audacity of it (By the way, Karlsputin Rove³ was born on December 25, 1950 if you want an Absolut Reba’s Baby³ moment of chilling synchronicity tinct with frostbites of ironies.) Look at the conversion of GeorgeBush, Barbara’s Baby, from alcoholic to christoholic. It’s the same addiction circuits.

       I’m saying that Bill McKibben’s ‘The Christian Paradox¹, How a faithful nation gets Jesus wrong,’ like Martin Luther nailing his 95 theses to the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Wittenberg church door, is one of the most important watershed moral upheavals of our generation. An avowed Christian insider, one of the 85% of American professed-Christians, a conscientious objector, has broken-heartedly spoken out. He has flinched at the glaring, blaring sight, insight of each scene of carnage, the unChristian, the anti-Christian acts and non-acts done in the name of a tortured version of Jesus. McKibben has flinched at the terrible pain, as one must, but leaving distinct footprints of blood with each sentence, he has honorably taken the awful journey to bring his fellow Christians the unspeakable truth of what is and is not being done in their name. He kept Jesus’ radical and fierce sweetness, the uncompromisable kindness as his only compass on this harrowing Hell-journey.

   The radical vision of Jesus was to be tender – that we tend our fellows, tend our earth, our earth is our hearth. Like opening the 3rd eye, Jesus blew open the sealed doors to the heart and left us naked and gentle in the face of each other, each brother, all kin, all kind. Daring to be tender, the power in powerlessness was the gift Jesus gave, the unconditional surrender to being tender. How few jesusians there have ever been through these centuries. The satanic bargain with worldly power slammed shut those gates to the heart. Kindness became slogans not acts.

    As an interesting sidebar, I’m not sure that the word ‘Christian’ has not become too poisoned to associate with anymore? That much carnage, that much hypocrisy, that much burning of other visions and traditions. Too deep in blood. Myself, I would not bear that word. It’s on the scale that if the word ‘Nazi’ had begun benign, it’s too steeped in blood to keep it.

    McKibben’s ‘The Christian Paradox, How a faithful nation gets Jesus wrong,’ opens the heart’s door to moderate Christians to begin humbly talking about acts, as moderate Muslims must do about suicide bombers. Where’s the living wage? Where the spectacular education we owe to each child as a birthright, not a richesright? Where is the splendid health care we owe to our beloved brother and who is not our beloved brother, sister, mother, son, daughter? Acts. Jesus would fly a bomber and drop jellied gasoline on his brother, his sister? No. The madness must be woken from. If it is not tender, if it is not tending your friend, your fragile, frightened friend spinning in the same gigantic dark as you, if it is not the tender choice, don’t dare do it. Don’t Jesus and the Good Samaritan say that every person is your friend? The radical calculus is to figure out how to step aside from revenge. Alchemy. Turn rage to courage. Greed to kindness.

    There is nothing Jesus would recognize in perpetuating the obscene tax cuts for the eye-of-the-needle folk. They sneer, They dwell in contumely – they are swollen up with snarling pride. They do not rush to comfort.

      The Democrats are an ungainly bunch but they are trying to combine mind and heart, to bring the tender to bear on policy. It’s all very awkward because mind matter and heart matter are of different substance and frequency, but that is the path and there is no shirking that mystery in the end. It’s where we go. We might as well get started.  

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tDo subscribe to Harper’s Magazine. 15 bucks a year. Brilliant.
¹Bill McKibben, The Christian Paradox
¹(Just change the word ‘Zeus’ for the word ‘God’ in prayers, commandments, and on the money and see how that hubbub quiets down. Every year a different prayer, commandments, money deity by lot. Fair’s fair. All comics like me ‘n Riffie will go for Beelzebub, the buffoon’s patron. What a droll name. In Beelzebub, we trust. Thou certainly shalt not take the name of Beelzebub in vain.)
³ Reba’s Baby. Reba is Karlsputin mother’s name; cf Rosemary’s Baby. See also Karlsputin in pogblog Glossary.
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9 Alligator . Imix . Turtle . East . tzol 61  08.01.05 mon
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Pavlov's dog & the “New Pearl Harbor”

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    I’m worried that the pavlov’s-doggism — ‘beat the 9/11, “New-Pearl-Harbor” fear-drum’ and we’ll roll over for more narrowing of rights and stupid foreign wars and $14,000 a minute being spent on the fantasy Missile Nonsense — is wearing off in the citizenry. We aren’t drooling on cue and wagging our tails in time to the Star-Spangled Banner. The ied’s red glare and the rocket-propelled grenades bursting in air are smelling a tad too acrid for us to ignore even tho we aren’t allowed to view the star-spangled-banner-draped coffins forever silent of song.
     The “New Pearl Harbor” vaccination of fear is wearing off; I dread they will think we require a booster-dose in the ides of July or of August. Before or after the Supreme Court confirmation fight? What’s your guesstimate?

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“New Pearl Harbor” — see David Ray Griffin, about whom more anon.
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