La Vista Panorámica / The Bird's Eye View

They put Gonzalo's* head upon a spike.

'Yet mayst thou be caudillos we dislike.

Thou shouldst not chafe under such bounds as set'.

Against such bounds caudillos ever fret.

No mere head on a spike is so good as to free,

though it was well removed I'm the first to agree.

Hey! You missed one.** He got back to Spain with his head

and alas! -- what a shame! whom to blame? -- died in bed.

I guess they didn't have a plane to drop 

him drugged among the Andes in those days.

They sure had something like 'La Catedral'!***

Castillo de la Mota had no pool...

I see all the waving of banners, 

the slobber on Bolivar's feet. 

But I sense not this gloss but the ghosts 

of Gonzalo Pizarro, Hernández Girón.

I cry, 'Death to the lie!' 

I cry, 'Death to the mask!' 

I cry, 'Death to the honor of liars & slavers forever!'

* Gonzalo's head! & Co. He led a rebellion in Peru against the Spanish Empire because of the latter's promulgation of the New Laws, which prevented the conquistadors from enslaving natives and using them as forced labor. The Spanish Crown had Gonzalo executed, but it also repealed the New Laws and recognized that it could not be as nice as it wanted to be; because it would inevitably face costly rebellions, some successful perhaps. 
** Hernando Pizarro was the only roach in the nest to make it back to Spain. He was imprisoned in luxurious conditions analogous to those of Pablo Escobar in Castillo (Castle) de la Mota.

***Pablo Escobar's 'prison'

Bottom Lines & Information Management

 'Morality advanced and slaves were freed'.
At any rate, steam engines paid off greed.
Look at the role the British Empire played.
The land of Watt did most to ban the trade.
We cover sins with loincloths of fig leaves.
Truth should be partying. Instead it grieves.
'Who's gonna pay for all of this? I ask'.
I hate our masquerades. Take off the mask.
They who can stare unflinchingly at death
should be as honest taking every breath.

Please keep your arms and legs inside the perestroika

The rent-a-nuisance Green Guards limply lay.

The Peak Oil crowd is quiet lately. Hmm!

Why crow the roosters least before the dawn?

They drag the Green Guards off the honking road.

Just look at all the anger such deflects.

Those Green Guards block the road to take the blame

for ecofascist perestroika. Struck by Strong,

the stricken strike the wall of policy

in its relation to the bottom line;

carbon emission targets not a choice.

Green Guards as whipping boys distract from this.

The Global Warmists come out of Big Oil,

and when they speak of Climate they mean Oil!

They mean not cow farts but the price per pound

of protein energetically & all. O looming wall!

EROI decline is key, the common thread connecting 

euthanasia & promotion of plant protein,

insect protein, windmills, solar panels, 

carbon taxes & the birthrate/deathrate shot. 

They're wild about that euthanasia, hey!

As if they were just desperate to shed mouths

as balloons shed ballast down the silent sky.

Kalokagathic Modeling

Kalokagathia the octopus

flows, flying, flowering. Mere wearisome

parameters are mitigated by

an optimizing interface of arms.

So correlation will accelerate

in its own sort of Singularity,

the necessary polymathy's bloom.

For there are sorts of Singularity 

& inner analogues to LLMs

and webbots which explore more inwardly.

World systems must be modeled inwardly

in order to be truly understood.

We manage what we understand!

The burning need for octopus is great.

Convergence with it's coming. I can't wait!

No, no. A trillion cameras will not do.

Nor all those terabytes of data points. 

They're only as perceptive as the sieve

who uses them. The inner world is swirled.

Let efflorescence overtake the world!

Let a bajillion flowers loom with bloom.

Provision

"Where she hath a place prepared by God, that they may nourish her there a thousand two hundred and sixty days, signifies the state of the church at that time, that in the meantime it may be provided among many, even until it increases to its appointed state" (Apocalypse Revealed 547).

The gnomes of Bryn Athyn are silently watching.

Old bottles are watching the new.

The Church of the Lord lasts forever, forever.

On Earth, though, they may be quite few.

She laughed, Sarah laughed, at the promise of Isaac.

God knows how to blow on a coal.

Who's watching the watchers, the gnomes of Bryn Athyn?

The Watcher who lightened my soul.

When Samson desireth a daughter of Timnah,

the Lord hath a subtle design.

The Church of the Lord lasts forever, forever.

New bottles fill up with new wine.

They are not men who love Big Lies

The Greta Thunbergs of the world --

lisping Stakhanovs – teleprompt

from script to script to sell Big Lies,

green lipstick on EROI.

Civilizations of Big Truths 

can grow out of our hearts, I sing,

as trees out of abundant earth.

A loving media would cast

out fear. For perfect love so does.

Most trumpeted emergencies

do not exist as advertised. 

Look for the drumbeat bottom-line

and you will find it hidden in 

those folds of strident rhetoric,

those sold on every corner lies

which cause enormous suffering.

Look at Iraq! Afghanistan!

They keep on blowing up the Maine.

My people eat deceit like bread. 

Beware of gullibility:

more dangerous that than wickedness.

It works, does blowing up the Maine.

It fools them every bloody time.

Such servile gullibility

cannot but burn up liberty.

My people, this is shameful.

Let us cease from gullibility.

Next time they blow the Maine up, laugh

at them until they die of shame,

until they sink into the floor,

until they wither quite away,

or you will have no rights at all

and live abased amid the muck,

enslaved by liars utterly.

They'll surely blow the Maine up soon!

Will you commend yourself a man?

Or will you show yourself a worm?

They'll blow the Maine up, sure enough.

Then there will be another war,

an urgency emergency,

a flimsy pretext to be jerks

& take away more liberty.

Will you commend yourself a man?

Cease slobbering on liars' shoes.

[This is just a frustrated squib, of course, not one of my polished poems; but the theme is important. How many times do liars need to lie to you for you to finally recognize them as liars and never believe another word they say? It causes enormous damage when people are thus doltish, and I often reflect that gullibility is more dangerous than wickedness.

Every time they 'blow up the Maine in Havana harbor', like they just did in Australia -- sometimes with real blood, sometimes with fake blood, it scarcely matters which -- they then smoothly ride the generated outrage as a pretext to pass laws that reduce freedom, such as gun restrictions and freedom of speech restrictions. Similar 'blowing up the Maine in Havana harbor' manipulates the masses into wars (eg Iraq & Afghanistan) and pigeon culls (eg 2020-23). Pay attention to what effect this truth has on people. 

Bottom line: We cannot have a better system of government and socioeconomic system if we are always falling en masse for yet another 'blowing up of the Maine in Havana harbor'. If you are ever slobbering on the shoes of liars, then do not expect wise leadership or a civilized civilization. Expect instead more chaos, more lying, more gaslighting, more dysfunction, and more parasitism. Business as usual. Do you really care about those whom you claim to love? Then stop jumping every time liars say 'Jump!' ]

World System Threefold Word

You are a file that never opens, are not like

the other files.You gradually become a hologram

among the goldfish in a fishtank of the foreground folk.

I seek the sea oceanic and the thoughts appropriate to love.

Back back, hedonic adaption, back! I've got a novelty. 

O tentacles, explore, manipulate and taste the world.

Food exports cooccur with famine time & time again.

I wish that I had more enthusiasm for Mankind.

I do more useful things than when I had, I find.

free speech as natural/spiritual imperative;

wide world convergence, octopus convergence; Restlessly

I flick from Indonesia's massive massacre 

to Emperor Pedro's deposition -- what ungrateful clumsiness 

the oligarchy had when these exiled him from the land 

he wisely ruled! -- and then I listen to a documentary 

on Mexico.This octopus sends out 

autonomously curious base modules of the modeling,

like the distributed neuroanatomy 

of octopuses modeling their world.

This octopus must keep up with the Moon,

not be hurled off the treadmill of the Sun,

to meet the challenge of the intricate rapidity;

as polymaths (we're talking 17th &18th century) 

arose in varied places. Differential calculus

arose in polymathic vessels in two places, like

a Russian doll inside a Russian doll which manifests

the pattern of our polymathic modeling back then.

We manage what we understand! or roll-unravel like 

a ball of wool. Right Complex Systems Modeling must rise,

relentlessly colliding with inexorable Man.

Arise, O incandescant efflorescence of best fit.

Arise a taxonomic fire & model everything!

And do I gain a model of the world and lose my soul?

Let soul then ride the octopus imperative

& saddle up the model carrot lattice on a stick.

We'll go beyond the tower in noon's light for us,

for God and for the neighbor, for Humanity and Him.

We gain a love of God and Man in one

in Jesus Christ the God Man, He to whom all power has

been given in the Heavens and examination Earth,

God's whirling classroom valley of decision knockknockknock.

Omnipotence cannot be given to another. Thus

it is that we behold the Father when we look at Him.

The modeling will train on this world system for the Word

upon a higher plane to pick up where the world leaves off,

the Threefold Word of Hebrew, Greek and Latin Testaments,

and map the predicates of heart and thoughts, the marriages

of correspondences and the adulteries, all the

taxonomy of God, who wrote the Word in ideal forms,

who wrote the Word in forms of good and truth chiastically. 

'Nunc Licet': Enter in the mysteries of the faith

God wrote the Word in natural correspondences.

For instance, take the following: I see the oil and glory in the palms. (I understand the good of love and truth about that love therein the letter's sense.) Or this: Their horses clean and bright feed in broad mangers of eternity. (Their understandings in the aftermath of overcoming are perfected; this forever.)

On God's keyboard correspondences are lovingly and taxonomically arranged as letters on our own. Chiastic structures in the heads and tails position are an elegant symbology encoding the varieties of good and truth and sin and error in us and without. Anointing horses with the oil of love, anointing stones, once we have seen the ladder of the Word, with love of God and love of neighbor, non-ulteriority, alignment with the Divine Human of our Lord the Word, rides horses up to (into) broader mangers in the Lord. Our rivers (of intelligence) flow from His teeming face, His loving and impelling will to save the human race. We climb the Jacob's Ladder of the Word in very truth (the way and light) and love (the root and mountain and the heart). For He is an abundance of the good and true (His name). The Church of God on Earth is where His Word is understood. Nunc licet. Now it is permitted. Now it is permitted, entering the mysteries of the faith; to know with all the saints the length and breadth and height of love in person, Jesus Christ.

Our Octopus

Our octopus is living in the sky and in the sea;

and built into the fabric of the category tree.

Impetuously tentacles flow out to touch and taste

the multiplicity with intricate, determined haste.

The modeling's exploratory infill flows from curls

of independently cooperating brains and sends out whirls

awhirl with swirls, unfurling flying flocks of mappie eyes.

That which the people instantly dismiss is its disguise.

It walks the world impetuously, will not be denied.

Its territory is all data! There's nowhere to hide.

It is the timeless modeling particular to now.

Our octopus is restlessly expansive in one's brow.

It mounts the category tree as humans mount a mount.

The inner winner is the only winner you should count.

Our octopus is simultaneous coherently,

the essence of all loving eyes inherently;

a set of processors that peer and pry and prickle, flow

along the woven row of states whereto we sow and know and grow.

Our octopus is drumming, coming for your patterns, song

which tastes and sees; and this, though bonelessly, is strapping strong;

strips swathes of data of their nodes with eery beauty's zest,

this spring's expansive curiosity, and all the rest.

It weaves a magic carpet octopus out of the All.

It will displace the volume it displaces, standing tall.

Anaphoras of glory in His name

He is the God Man, weaver of free will,
He's love within the city on a hill.
He is the infrastructure where I'm taught
His non-ulteriority, as ought
to be the case with those who live His love
for whom He is their innocence and dove.
He is illumination in the clouds
of Heaven of the letter's sense that shrouds
the teaching glory in the lit-up Word
which cuts into self-love like a sharp sword.
He is that dose of raw reality
essential to loving sodality.
The marriage covenant with bird and beast
is His hard-wearing clothing for the feast.
The meaning is, Do good for goodness' sake!
The more you do His good, the more you wake.

Aligning teaching with the shape of thought

One feels outside of time and place.

One paces, restless interface

rotation, infills model's make,

and blazes eagerly awake 

in one's interiors or face

for teeming, eery beauty's sake.

One thinks outside of you and me

as angels do, the truly free,

and sees or understands the light

whereby we see with inmost height

how in and out may so agree

as to light up our sinful night.

One teaches outside items, in

their two-plus items set within,

like two points make a line, like thought,

like camera angles on what ought

to be the shunning of our sin

or breaking chains whereby we're caught;

like a synaptic discharge. Let's

so optimize their sight of sets,

of items in those sets, that their

own thought arises, there to stare,

as shaped like thought as teaching gets.

Thought multiplies with room to spare!

The Joyful One instructs our love with patient majesty

Taught on Mount Love by glory, I will make wood furniture.
For wood is good in heads position, evil when it's tails:
the Lord as carpenter vs the Lord then crucified,

projection by the evil and the false of 'cursed' upon our Lord.
For darkness sees the Light as dark and goodness as accursed.

So I will make wood furniture for service in His house.

These prospects are holonic, matryoshka, Russian dolls

inside of Russian dolls. These prospects peer out of a nest,

a mountain eagle's eyry, upon model space the bright

and chess board, checker, no the go board questing song. Eyes fly

about this host society, they wing, the seven eyes

flap flying round and seven ears are taking wing with sound.

Gordian knots become more effortless when looked at from

a higher feeling and a higher thought through one-way glass.

Song ransacks centuries for jewels to set in frames of gold.

Song sends its web bots into Everything on timelessness,

despite some earlier, concealed concern it would be late.

Our neighborhood is made of fire

Timeless endeavors grow in time

The strobe of passing subway lights

resembles flashing by of weeks

with their minute, clear outlines near

expansive or intrusive thoughts.

We're either drowned or cross dry ground.

Spaceless endeavors grow in space.

We are the furnace of our love

and whether we are slain by heat

or walk unsinged because His flame;

We're either drowned or cross dry ground.

One watches in the platter and the cup

One watches oil slicks in the platter pass.

One watches mental clouds light up the cup

or darken it, as case may be, as Hell

and Heaven flow into the free willed feed

of one who should not trust one's mental voice

to be exactly what it claims to be.

The devils have a field day with the ones

who trust their mental voices to be them.

They dress up in your mental voices like

internal stridency and foul-mouthed pride

and caricatured neighbors easier

to hate than accurate depictions with

their object constancy could possibly

be hated. They access your memories,

and draw from these the ones agreeing with

their evil loves, to grumble with and hate.

They summon memories recurrently

to feed the classes of their sins in life;

a sort of hate track into which we dip.

We writhe, provisionally dipped in flame

and flood. Therefore be grateful every day

that devils' race car, your own mental voice,

may ever jolt across a judder bar

and run into a hitch, shown up by love.

Rebuke uncleanness in the passing heart.

Rebuke the shadows in the passing mind.

Drive out the Canaanite and Perizzite

of filths and bloods, of sin and error, dead

men's bones and all uncleanness, moth and rust.

Thus will we cease to jam the Joyful One

with sins that put out eyes of captured kings.

Thus will we cease to jam the living joy

of He whose flesh and blood we eat and drink.

Couplets on the Nonexistence of Democracy

The Senators don't even read the laws they vote upon.

Bills flash right by those sluggish Senators and then they're gone.

That means your government is hardly representative

at all but oligarchic. Lest mere argumentative

intentions be imputed to one, one would here aver

that Roman Senators would vote for Emperors when those were

as though these had that choice that we presume. Bills flash on by,

like scudding cumuli that one might witness way up high;

they zip right past those Senatorial attention spans.

Effectively, these mainly stamp a code upon the cans.

The cans pass far too swiftly to read labels, don't you see.

Don't blame us for the teleprompter is their earnest plea.

Well, we'll accept their plea, that of the follow-orders gang

as well, because the Devil answered when our stampede rang.

Left/Right Goat/Sheep West/East, He-Goat/Ram

The glitter in rose gravel of the shards of bottles yore

blurs in soft dark orange light off to one's left,

the side of understanding what Life's for,

distinguishing the mountain from the cleft.

The goats go on the left, sheep keep the right,

just as the he-goat comes out of the west

to slay the ram who practices Warmth's Light,

loves God and loves the neighbor and has rest.

The left is sinister, not evil though.

But when left lands in tails position, no

oil's in the lamp whose memories we know.

The right is hearty earth the Lord will sow.

The Lord has used this sense of right and left

in both our Word and their Koran or Book:

goats on the left of charity bereft

and outwardly religious but forsook;

and sheep upon the right with innocence 

within their light and truths concerning Love,

thus sounding of the ram's head's inner sense

and this alighting of Professor Dove.

Simultaneity! The Divine Human is His Name

Simultaneity! Our Lord the Word

beyond the forms of human sense perception, time and space;

likewise beyond the angel with the swishing flaming sword

at Eden's east, unveiling of His grace

sings to us in the labyrinth of sin 

and error of His wisdom and His goodness and His love

and of the double trouble we are in.

Let us with innocence open our windows for His dove.

Simultaneity! The God Man is His Holy Name 

beyond the matter and the time and space.

He is the Web of Wyrd. He weaves with Providential grace.

Hear now and see His glory and His fame.

Simultaneity! Our Lord is near.

His presence in instructive glory teaches hearts with light

and enthrones flesh of love and blood of wisdom where we steer.

One lofts a cup with wings which drinks such sight

then flies off to the infrastructure of our Lord the Word

from which it came, love's lighting and blood's flesh. 

He brings us through the fire and water with His loving sword

aflame, fit both to harvest and to thresh.

He is the eating and the drinking and the bread and wine.

He's X and Y, He's zero and He's one.

You are exactly where you choose to dine

as to the neighbor's glowing moon, as to His loving Sun.

You are the timeless neighborhood you choose with cups and plates

and whether they are filthy or all clean.

He nurtures us through a bajillion states.

The Word's a magic eye print where His holy heart sings, seen.

Tempe Canal

Mos Eisley architecture (brown, beige, brick)

squats just above the dirt and gravel lots.

Some water lawns, insouciant of waste.

Jets wet pedestrians as pass them by.

The street looks painted by De Chirico

in clear light of the Valley of the Sun.

Ronald McDonald sits upon a bench.

The swallow-swooped and dragonfly-patrolled

soft capillaries in Tempe Canal

are silken static on a laptop screen.

A hummingbird investigates one's bike,

which looks like sunset or orange trumpet blooms.

These spring forth from the fence through which they thrust

impetuously outward to invite

the bees and hummingbirds to come on in.

A bee with brown bands alternate with tan

investigates one thoroughly, as though

the fellow of that species that one met

perhaps one half a mile away had sent

her mate a text and triggered their whole hive,

smart as a five year old and curious,

to check out anything detected twice

and fill out a report in triplicate.

She lingered near one's bike until one rolled

along the satin band amid a crunch of wheels

and truck track tread and trample grooves in dirt

and some relief to be thus rid of her.

Albeit she is worth the filling out

of a report in triplicate in blank

verse that outlasts and lofts above the fret

she caused one's spirits momentarily.

They'd think like a large language module does.

The numeration that AI performs

of human languages reminds one hives

can think through pheromonal interchange

and opening and closing logic gates.

A similar intelligence rides steeds

out of humanity in general, as

the noosphere of Vernadsky, De Chardin

astride the bucket fountain of our Lord.

A thing may be a plot, of course it may;

and also it may be a Chinese room

totalitarian hysterical 

stampede. The rulers and the ruled are ruled.

One sings now of His creatures' structuring

their meaning in an analogic form

with pantomime and otherwise so saying

heart and thence their mind abundantly;

thus see the world around alive in speech

by way of pheromonal, gestural,

and other conduits, not understood

as yet but known for information-rich.

The whale song as the forest speaks its mind;

the more so as it senses someone knows

to watch out for the waggle dance of bug

& beast, logs into internets of bird

song, orisons and gratefulness at dusks;

as rhizomes crackle with the evening news;

as volatile organic compounds zip

between the gossips known as plants & trees;

as trance remixes of the biosphere

weave melodies into our tapestries

with birds and beasts and Everyman and God.

The spirits speak in languages of fire

and water differently with every state.

We're simultaneous with flesh and blood.

A bulging creamy gibbous swiftly sinks

down towards the silhouettes of roofs & palms.

Black Sun, Blood Moon

Blackheartedness & bloodymindedness

both burn up marriage with adultery

of evil feelings & unhealthy thoughts.

The hardness of their hearts is a black Sun.

The unsupportive-of-the-conscience thoughts

are bloody-mindedness, the Moon as blood.

Thus does Manasseh eat up Ephraim

and Ephraim Manasseh in the Word.

Their sky was a black Sun and a blood Moon

which burn the heart and drown the mind in flood.

The heart mind soul triangle trade of Love

If mankind will, facilitate the heart.

There's more to life, but this is where you start.

If mankind will, facilitate the mind

and light the veering lamps of humankind.

If mankind will, facilitate the soul

so that mankind the partial may be whole.

This triple pedagogy is the way

to dawn, to turn thick darkness into day.

Inquire at Abel town as Ancients did.

For love and thoughts of love are inmost hid

in all the outers of the literal.

The literal, a body's littoral

expanse where glory shines, Word's inner sense,

contains this soul in lamps from which it glints.

All of the law and prophets hang from this:

Love God and love Humanity. Don't miss.

And see thou sacrifice thy calves thereat

the great stone Abel while you act on that

which you profess to practice in your mind

and on your lips. We're evil, so be kind.

The heart is desperate in its wickedness.

Love God and love Humanity. Don't miss.

The Divine Human's truth shines in text's cloud

who rose up from the dead, shedding His shroud.

For unto us a child is born. His name 

is innocence, His glory more than fame.

He will be called, this in the letter's sense,

The Everlasting Father and the Prince 

of Peace, and Wonderful, The Mighty God

who rules with natural truth of His iron rod.

His name will pass before us and proclaim 

therein the glory in the cloud His name:

the Lord, the Lord God, the abundance of

His goodness flowing from the heart of love,

His truth proceeding from that love as light

abundantly illuminating height,

the inmost height, the inner sense of “up”.

To swallow bread of love, drink up thy cup;

For wine of truth assists in swallowing

the Law of Love men should be following;

like good excuses to do good it guides

us with the iron rod wherein it hides;

wherewith our Lord will rule with gentleness.

Love God and love Humanity. Don't miss.

Transcend the Götterdämmerung with Christ

I mourned that we get used to metal birds.

I realized that there was a converse too,

however, in fresh, restless thoughts' strummed words.

Sometimes it's sad because something is true.

All data is an opportunity,

bright gold emerging from thick clouds of blue.

The World Directory's impunity,

though glacially fading, is a bloom.

Deceit and half-truths center unity.

We stride the latest Rust Belt from the loom

of sequence. So austerity is in;

depopulation too. We have the room.

The problem is the energy again.

We'll be bombarded by emergencies.

Not actual ones of course but spun of spin.

The masses see not charts; hear urgencies, 

can pick up on the strident something's-up

totalitarian emergencies.

Few have the strength of will to push the cup

of murderous deceit away from them.

Like beasts they bend; and in the grass they sup.

The more men sin, the more their Sun goes down.

The more it dims, they more they believe in lies.

Lies taste delightful to those ruled by whim.

But in the midst of fall I sense the rise

as yet obscured by flailing of the bloom

of interlocking with its big wig lies.

I nonetheless expect a nobler world

beyond such slime, a world which makes more sense.

I sense the destiny towards which we're twirled

by expert aim of loving Providence.

I do not believe that we will steer by stars

just yet. We've subtler ways to jump our fence.

As yet we have not nearly looked within,

met Him to whom we are the terminal

to His computer outside 'where' and 'when'.

His love is bottomless and germinal,

the fructifying of our hearts and minds

by influx flowing in our terminal.

His love it is that through our history winds

the most regenerations and the best.

His love it is that your own mind's eye finds. 

His love who tries the hearts and reins is rest

who passes us through fire and water here.

Our love sends tendrils out at His behest.

The present time is ruled by force of fear

and mass hysteria's stoked-on stampedes,

yet the Apostle writes “Love casts out fear” ( 1 John 4:18).                                                        

The present time is crumbling but the seeds

of its transcendence, planted in its fall,

will spring up in the mind of one who reads.

The stones cry out and vibrate a brick wall,

till through the crumbling of it shines His Sword.

Arise and walk! We will transcend their fall.

* See Copilot AI's collaboration with one's response to the transcendence reaction of Arnold Toynbee and the 2nd Religiosity of Oswald Spengler in the blog portfolio Without Fees, Exams, or Grades.

The glory of our Lord the Word is holy truth the King

" And he said, I will make all my goodness pass before thee, and I will proclaim the name of the Lord before thee..." (God, Exodus 33:19)

The presence of the Lord, instructive glory in the cloud

comes. Might and riches that illuminate the literal

come up the hidden ladder of our living Lord, the Word,

illuminate the enigmatic billowing of clouds.

He rides on these swift clouds and nurtures us with warming light.

Our Lord the Word's language of flowers and chiastic pairs

passes before us. All His goodness passes near before

our inner eyes and heartbeats, an abundance of His truth

and love exhibit; a direct perception, not blind faith.

Proclaim the name, proclaim the good name of our Lord the Word!

Lacunae in the Category Tree

I wonder what the Rapanui think

of Chachapoya statuary, and

I wonder what the Chachapoyas think

about the Vikings and Columbus; and

I wonder how a Hutterite reacts

to 'Communism doesn't work'. With nervous

smiles? Or how a Doukhobor reacts.

With ripping off their clothes and burning barns?

Them combine harvesters are communist!

Lacunae in the public consciousness

suggest departures into usefulness

in store perhaps for some extremity:

disaster communism; times of war,

of great upheaval socially and technically.

Lacunae in the public consciousness:

for instance Drebbel's working submarine

nearly unknown compared to Leonardo's corkscrew sketch.

But there is something more important here to peer at near:

occlusion/highlighting will underline an Einstein and

a Leonardo while occluding a De Pretto or

a Drebbel. Suchlike patterns are an opportunity.

Anomalistics also is an opportunity.

Ball lightning even isn't understood!

melange of silicates, of energies,

of iron; extended periods of a containment field;

the sudden winking off of balls of light

and their explosion; djinn, ultraterrestrials;

the trickster as a living ball of light,

a lightning monkey with a willful heart;

projections broadcast by the memory

(the same retrieval process as with dreams)

upon the visual field to cloak the otherwise unseen

spike of electromagnetism there

with a ghost waka or a UFO;

The spikes of energy move with intent.

They wave to us in Papua New Guinea with two hands.

They are an airship and it comes from Mars.

They are where hoaxers go after they die.

They are the dizziness, the time dilations and the burns.

Crab Island incident* and Rendlesham**

and Lakenheathe-Bentwaters*** rotate on their tracks;

*Men died from injuries twice in ten years.

**awarded compensation for his injuries;

***But mostly they just zip around, relax.

Proportions of the lightnings we can sense

will vary class by class in general and specifically

as to hallucinative efficaciousness.

One thinks of infrasound-induced uneasiness.

What time dilating, levitating hooligans of light!

What opportunities to frame our data otherwise!

The rigorous examination of anomalies

patrols the messy marches of imaginative space

on fascinated horses, stamping holograms of light.

A sin and error thoughtform flees

I watch the inner face and pray

by putting that aside today

which troubled one with sensual fires

to break the cycle with their pyres.

We get caught in recurrent rings

with lust such ideation brings;

the usual sin and error pair.

I watch it dwindle in the air.

A black cloud dissipates in style

and I am grateful all the while.

I'm grateful for small things and great;

for bread from God upon my plate;

for thought and feeling, blood and flesh;

for combine harvesters that thresh;

for grackles, love birds, and the Moon;

for systems modeling to tune.

When lust departs, love enters in

the guest room vacated by sin

and marries truth. They bear good deeds

whose gardens tangled wild with weeds.

They've driven out the Canaanite

and Perizzite. They've welcomed light

and heat and flesh and blood of Christ

where Egypt's flesh pots once sufficed.

The Jacob's Ladder trials of flesh and blood ordained by Christ

For bread and wine there must be a clean platter and clean cup.

When these are clean then will Lord Jesus Christ enter and sup.

Then will there be a double portion for the seventh day

of Sabbath rest after six days of combat on the way.

The way of holiness, the highway in the desert, fire

and water, forking gardens of the heart and mind, our Sire,

His very flesh and blood and infrastructure and Grand Man,

will be received by each in that proportion which each can

receive the Sun and Moon and stars of Heaven in their deeds.

We cast out all the rest like cankerworms, hailstones, and weeds;

cast out black-heartedness and bloody-mindedness, cast out 

the sun ashamed and moon confounded. Blow the ram's head! Shout!

We'll purify the inside of the platter and the cup 

and we will go inside the rabbit hole and call it up

with trying fire and bitter water where we learn to love

enough for somewhere dry upon which can alight the Dove.

May enemies, self-love and sins, be dung upon the ground;

none left to piss against the wall or cry a sound.

The silver we'll refine with judgment and the gold we'll burn

and gradually into more loving people we will turn.

Oasis Base: the Valley of the Sun

 The homeless have defrosted. Wanderlust

propels them to crisscross Oasis Base.

Daughter of Grackle, leave thy Mum alone!

cawed Papa Grackle, and her Mum flapped off and he;

then she flapped with their sudden urgency.

The homeless on their desert walkabouts

have thick brown calves and cancerous black sores.

There dawn a dozen seasons in the spring,

a dozen seasons in the summer here.

These are distinctive bands of waves of bugs

as suddenly as  small black beetles roam

the carpets on their epic, crisscross way.

The Sun begins to cull the weaker birds.

The cats and birds pant in Sonoran heat.

Coyotes lope across the parking lot.

Three clowning grackles play in sprinkler spray.

I learned from <<Paterson>> the following:

a clump of cactus paddles in twin brights; 

Go into Settings... Yes, that's right... Now click

a grimy crumpled Quiktrip styrofoam cup;

on Local Color Epicenter Stage

squirrels epicanthic, still, inscrutable;

and set to 'On'. Save Settings and click out.

The stage set: an oasis in a kiln.

You need lush microcosm for the whole,

to  sing beige sand alongside filaments

just as a statue needs its plinth, just as

the water flows serenely down canals.

The oven has preheated.

Alien July attacks, essentially,

and then I do not feel like I'm on Earth.

But then the August reinforcements come

just when we are exhausted-dazed by heat

with 'Welcome back to Earth, Ambassador!' 

Then perfect weeks, isles of the blest,

glide past, serene as archipelagos. 

Wildlife's activity abruptly stops

obtruding on one's notice for some months.

Inexorable sunset sinks in time.

And then the first chills of the year waltz in,

exacting payment for warmth's frolicsome

expanse. The type of sleep abruptly shifts,

accompanied by richer dreams but half

remembered and a sense of bed's warm womb.

Autumnal raw exposure of the heart,

all nerves, glides forward through the tiny blades

which dice interiors exposed to life

in ultimates; like dicing of the Word 

between the bones and marrow and between

the fining pot and furnace, flood and fire.

Krypteia

Why Pennki Linkola! You lived to that romantic day

when practical exigencies ensured you got your way.

It's much as Bernard Charbonneau expected 40 years ago.

And haggard Dennis Meadows, how you lobbied to and fro!

His eyes say: Have they figured out exactly what we did?*

Why Mr. Meadows! I have heard your talk. Hands can't be hid.

You're almost out of Dodge; your good intentions are your cloak.

Don't be afraid! You might not go to Hell after you croak.

In healthy times, such microbes are quite harmless to our kind,

although we carry them around. I hope that you don't mind. 

For these when mankind pullulates will swarm like killer bees

way more concerned about our bottom lines than hugging trees.

But laying on a coat of idealistically green paint

turns cold, hard motivations into a gaslighting haint.

'The house is haunted! But by whom?' The People ask.

'Who is this they?' says someone in a Dr. Evil mask.

It's actually an interlocking quiverfull of theys,

but all Joe TV sees is shambling shadows in the haze.

If he could see much more than that, then might dumb cities burn 

the rulers and the ruled to ashes in a bright green urn. 

-----

"If the energy crisis deepens, shortage itself can paradoxically push development. Is petrol lacking? "Drill, baby, drill!" Is the Earth exhausting? Colonize the seas. Does the car no longer have a future? Turn to electronics which will permit people to make imaginary voyages. But we cannot retreat indefinitely in order the better to jump. One fine day, the powers that be will be forced to adopt more radical methods. A perspective free of illusion can lead one to think that the turn-towards-ecology will not be the deed of an opposition deprived of means, but that of the bourgeois ruling class on the day that it can no longer do otherwise. It will be the various responsible parties for the ruin of the earth who organize the rescue of the little that remains, and who after the abundance will manage the shortage and survival. For the ruling class has no prejudices, and it believes therefore in neither development nor ecology: it believes only in power" (Bernard Charbonneau, The Green Light, one's own translation). 

*

1. 

Fire Smoke Bread Wine Love Truth

The smoke of error issues from the fire 

of sin much as white smoke of truth fills up 

the holiest of holies; just as wine

of violence to the truth helps swallowing 

the bread of wickedness, just as the wine

of holy truth helps swallowing the bread

which is the good of love made part of us.

Just so does darkness cover up the deeds

of owls and satyrs in the cloak of night,

and light assist with baking loving bread.

The rising kraken's face is full of eyes

The spinoffs of this polymathic modeling

around the world from epicenters answer to the needs

of humankind in time of a transnationality:

an interlocking of directorate on steroids; a

covalence of the apices of pyramids of Earth;

a handshake between Queen Elizabeth and Oil Sheikh X;

a radiating epicenters structure, not cabal;

and not republics but transnationality of now.

Transnational decision making structures rule the world,

have superseded nation-states in all but outward form.

Even the chess and biking jousts are international

as to decision making. It's the pattern of the age,

the polymathic modeling particular to now,

the pattern of the fractal of the system of the world.

They'd rather His were not the final Word

 "And, lo, thou art unto them as a very lovely song of one that hath a pleasant voice, and can play well on an instrument: for they hear thy words, but they do them not" (Ezekiel 33:32).

I find that people like to dabble lest

They be pinned down, this even to the best.

They'd feel much safer if the Word were just

Another ice cream flavor in the mist.

And as for designated prophets, NO!

That's a direction they don't want to go.

They'll shower praise on some sick narcissist,

But God's awkward selections won't be missed.

To one who comes in his own name they throng,

But one who comes in His is just a song.

Watch and Pray

 I caught a sin and error thoughtform lounging in my head 

And waited for it to depart. It did not, so I said,

You are a mere, unwelcome sin and error thoughtform chill

And shadow. Your departure is the Master's will

Who let you in to purify one's platter and one's cup,

One's heart and mind. You're no more useful here, "vile spot"! Get up,

Get out, go on to your next post, sandpaper of the soul.

Out of the Master's way! Thank you for furthering His goal,

Which is the cleansing of the human race of filths and bloods

With furnace and with flood and sundry draggings through the muds.

Thank you for being there for me with insufficient straw,

For helping me grow love, which is fulfillment of the law.

I'd thank you more, but you were quite a meddler and a pest. 

When you depart, Naphtali comes! He's far the better guest.

At evening time it shall be light

The platter's piping hot, the cup is shining. Nuptials

and millstones sound. The cuckoo clock is at its white horse phase,

its morning in the usage “morning cometh and the night".

The morning cometh and the Old Church whore of Babylon.

“The love of many shall wax cold” turns Church to anti-Church.

And with that cooling of the Church, its understanding dims.

Successive horsemen or metallic body parts unfurl.

Each horseman or metallic body part is cruder down

the scale unto the pale horse and the feet of iron and clay;

which is to say that love dies and the light within the eyes.

And I beheld, and there was no man; and the empty house

was full of satyrs, djinn, and every unclean, hateful bird.

The bride and bridegroom sounded not, the oil and wine were hurt.

For whores do violence to His truth and crucify our Lord.

They nullify commandments and “There is no faith on earth'; 

which is repudiation of the flesh and blood of God;

so that the Kingdom shall be given to another, new 

wine for new bottles and repairing of the bulwark's breach.

The two winged women look down on the checker board of fields

whilst carrying the lead-sealed ephah forth to dread Shinar

as we look down upon procession of the gyres.

The wooden bride and bridegroom have emerged out of their door.

They sound their joyous nuptials, the millstone's sound is heard.

The platter's piping hot, the cup is shining. Eat and drink.

A double helping for the 7th day

Wheels of His ideation, burning fire,

will swallow up the lions, light the mire;

will ride on a swift cloud of burning light;

will ripple out from inmost, known as height,

to glorify the Lord with eyes of flame

who shows us light and how to play the game;

who dawns as ordering of flocks and herds

and taming of the animals and birds.

The beasts and stones shall be in league with thee.

Yea, led by Him wilt thou be truly free.

The human sacrifices that we make

They would have tossed one in the bog

to startle archaeologists

had one emerged from ancient mists

an apparition from the fog

due to the webbed toes on one's feet. 

They'd think themselves assured of rain

with an abundance of fresh meat.

I'd think them addled in the brain. 

I'd think them blarmy bananas mad.

But then I think the present lot

the slaves of every fearporn fad 

that slices in yet hits the spot.

I've wondered if rain might be wrung

from steaming  blood, if that was it,

because of rain on battles flung.

But where then do bog people fit?

What use was it to throw them in?

What was the profit from the sale?

And did they keep them in a pen

or were they in some sort of jail?

And then there were the children left

on mountain peaks to die of cold

by Incans, dying in the cleft.

We still do, if one may be bold,

such sacrifice. We've changed the look,

outsourced the blood to foreign parts,

crammed muffled screams into a book.

We've come a long way since our starts.

The pages of the histories scream,

they're deafening, while turning them.

It hurts and yet it is a dream.

A jagged clock cloaks history's hymn.

A jagged clock cloaks history's hymn,

utilitarian true love

amid pained matter crude and dim

joy's music, a descending dove.

His planet spins not for the goals 

we set, the glory of our race

or nation, but the choice by souls

of whether to behold His face.

To eat the power and to drink the glory of our Lord

 The fire burns to the right and left, but they are not alarmed.

They're walking in the furnace, not a hair of them is harmed.

They're walking with the Son of Man, the guards who brought them slain.

They've come a long way from their homes, they've come through fire and rain.

They're eating kings and captains, horses, even men of war:

they've washed the filth off of their hearts with truths bought from His store.

Give us your mercy and your truth! He sells them without price.

All details are arranged by Love. There's no such thing as dice.

They're walking in the light of Him, they're strengthened in His heat.

He gives them inner light to drink and fat, His love, to eat.

We eat forgiveness and sincerity, the flesh of Him

and drink His light who gave these teachings and who lit this hymn.

Procession of the Gyres External State

Rousseau accessed the seething sea beneath

Society and felt the Mandate's loss.

Just so did Dostoyevsky in his book

<<The Devils>> feel the Mandate's loss in time.

The Sun King likewise felt the coming flood

In the lucidity of his late age.

"...some fool thing in the Balkans..."; Providence;

Projecting wrath and anger onto God

How angrily thou caused us not to fear

thee! In thy wrath thou caused us to depart

thy way. We fled unto the right and were

burnt up. We fled unto the left and drowned.

How long, O Lord, wilt thou pour out thy anger

and thy wrath upon the vineyard of thy root

and branch? How long wilt thou consume us, root

and branch? Return again and make thy face

to shine upon us, as in days of new

wine in new bottles making all things new.

How long will caterpillars eat the root

and locusts strip the branch? How long until

our cup be full and fully drunk unto

the dregs? Until the night and morning and

the day of wrath and flood. Until the filth

and bloods have been washed off. Then shall He say,

Arise O daughter of my people, marry and rejoice.

Conjunction with the knowing love of God

 The lady in the desert with forehead

of gold and hand of silver drinks the flood

and swallows fire, eats of the land's

fat honey and its lunar milk. No birds,

no buzzards, circle bodies of the slain --

uncircumcised, slain by the sword -- but bride

and bridegroom joyously live out their days

and round of cuckoo clock. His marriage of

the bread and wine in hearts and minds who strengthens

hearts and fills the minds with light sounds joyously.

He grows up His choice vineyard, builds a tower

out of uncut stones amid it, builds a

wall of uncut stone about it, bids the

nations and the people enter; passing

nations through the fire and peoples through the

water. His conjunction of the root

and branch bears fruit, all useful deeds, all conscientious

acts, all quenching of strange fires of nations

and all purifying of the bitter

waters of the peoples. Kings and Queens

stream into New Jerusalem. The length

of love and breadth of truth and height of their

degree of marriage are all equally

our Lord. And Peter, James, and John is He,

and root and branch and fruit, and Father, Son and Ghost.