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.

On golden plates, in silver cups, by light of sun and moon

Though that strange lady drinks strange wine upon a tower, yet 

will it dissolve beneath her; she shall tumble from her base 

into the black and bitter water, and the cup of gold

containing blood of innocents shall tumble from her hand.

Together they shall sink in waves of fire and flood, the whore 

and cup together; and together they shall sink beneath 

the black and bitter waves. And He shall sweep the filthy plates

and bloody cups from off the table, and shall ring His bell

and call His servants, whom He tells to bring fresh plates and cups. 

And straightaway when brought He fills them up with bread and wine 

on golden plates, in silver cups, by light of sun and moon.

His rungs are ever finer couplings of the good and true

He melts the hard heart and vain elements with fervent heat.

He melts idolatry, will burn the burning of the dawn.

The dawn will lift the land in light, in patient arms, in heat.

The dawn will well up in containers of His will and eye,

will slay the beast of love of self that rises out of Hell,

will dawn within the infrastructure of the universe. 

Continuum! My Lord! Capacity to will and know!

The dawn please grant within one's cup and platter, Lord of life!

Lord Jesus Christ, the infrastructure of the universe

and Jacob's Ladder, underlies all thought-will-work,

all branch-root-fruit, all Peter, James and John, all fruitfulness.

One brain per tentacle plus CPU

 nopales; octopus rotation;

Arizona; knowledge aperture enlargement;

monsoon season; nucleus-imperial divergance;

tunas; alternate fraternity;

the Valley of the Sun; hysterical projectionism; 

Mesa; famine-hoarder panning;

beige walls; interlocking oligarchy;

like Mos Eisley; polymathic modeling; 

drawn drapes; transnationality;

dawn in the desert; every arm a tongue;

Go forth, mine webbots, into everythang!

Our mission is to warm while crumbling down;

for when it rains for days we snipe and frown.

Nuke turbines are not turning à la France.

The shipping is not moving dort am Rhine.

White flashes flicker in the desert clouds.

Let's slurp up the Atlantic with a straw,

pour the Pacific Ocean in our maw.

The farms go up the sky and down the sea

after our complex hydrocarbon spree.

The Valley of the Sun gets pushed, then pulled:

monsoons, restrictions on its water use,

hysterical projectionism, gears

within world system processes and trends,

such as the energy our lifestyle spends... 

The dropping water levels in Lake Mead

and in Lake Powell demonstrate the need

for other sources for Oasis Base,

for xericulture and less watered lawns,

for binning not our water bottles, for

recycling even our wastewater here.

So much now seems to happen in a year!

We're all so ready fit to burst our seams!

Ready or not, we'll watch our rusting dreams

disintegrating like an industry

that we assumed would last forever, like

a twig contracting back into a branch,

or like a branch reversing towards the trunk.

It's all enough to make a man a monk!

These rapids rear, our Hectic Twenties roar

and frequently one wonders if the soar

will be of phoenix wings or buzzard. Years 

careen, supply chains teeter, readjust,

push/pulled by limits/ideology.

This octopus is ready for a romp.

That open road is ready for a tromp.

These eyes look down on nationality.

Though one suspects transnationality

will go the way of nation-states before --

like mansions/opera houses in Detroit 

amid Two Minute Hates and Eat-the-bugs --

yet now it flings its Tetrarchies at time;

would fain switch Growth to Degrowth on a dime.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Transnationality consists in the sum total of interlocking of directorate on steroids and all oligarchies as well as their interrelations, being independent of national boundaries and having supplanted the nation-state in an orderly series of power centralizations and aggregations.  There is no economic feudalism apart from concomitant demographic, political and linguistic feudalism. There is no economic mercantilism without concomitant demographic, political and linguistic mercantilism. There is no economic capitalism without concomitant demographic, political and linguistic capitalism. There is no economic globalism without concomitant demographic, political and linguistic globalism. And there is no economic degrowth without concomitant demographic, political and linguistic degrowth.

Obshchina

In 1941 the Bruderhofs 

in England set up house in Uruguay,

set up a hospital in Uruguay.

What's more and more along the shore,

beyond first hot and then Cold War, 

the Mennonite Central Committee 

assisted the Bruderhof move,

which reminds one of cities and towns

staffed by Hutterite colonies, Bruderhof too

in a patchwork of getting along.

Not utopian, not in the least! Nor

were Doukhobors self-described 'Communists' banned

outright!

(that is, instead of seriously learning

from their practical experience). It 

does to believe in God in communes, if you'd

rather they not bicker and unravel,

just as capitalist godlessness slays 

souls, this in the midst of air-conditioned

whee! The world's a creepy crawly crumbling 

place up close but like stained glass from way high

up.

These stained glass glitter waves red russet fields and green

paint chords of inner music sung by what this eye has seen.

*Obshchina signifies a historical Russian phenomenon in Tsarist times, that of village communism; a successful model which some ideologues tend to forget in their haste to announce that communism does not work, just as they forget the Hutterites, Bruderhof, Doukhobors and sundry. Communism does work, this non-communist declares, and it matters to declare this fact; to explode the inadequate going understandings of communism in practice and to situate these matters in the clear sight of day in art and thought. 

** Of note, the Free Diggers of England proposed a similarly Crown-sponsored village communism, which suggests a clear-sighted view of the possible well worthy of mention.

Once upon a time and space there was a planet

with a geometrically expanding population

and a finite resource base. Instead of telling people

why there were so many and dramatic changes

suddenly, it was decided to REDACTED carbon

credits and abortion, homosexuality REDACTED

mobilising children to demand REDACTED

so that aggregating interlocking

of directorate just said that cow farts

didn't want new airports. Sometimes it's expedient to

say that history was your own idea, preserving

thus a shred of dignity. We got so idealistic,

don't you know. REDACTED. Marshall the influencers! “Wake

up the china!” “Wake up, Neo”. Wake up,

Everyman. Ah, winter. Time to sting the drones.

When we touch starfish they just liquify.

Even sardines have gotten tired of us.

Aha! We know! We'll put us under house

arrest and that will keep her very well.

The Science Is Uh Settled (which it never is of course)

as raggedly totalitarian decline declined

to mention, thus REDACTED silence fell REDACTED

*This is the last poem finished in New Zealand before fleeing to a freer place; and it is an appropriate end to BC AD NJ, a collection including substantial portions of this online blog portfolio but excluding some thought to be constructive but superfluous sketches or otherwise insufficiently worthy pieces; it was composed between 2006 and 2022 in New Zealand prior to fleeing the country and consists of three distinct cycles, as the title suggests.  I intend upon uploading the text of BC AD NJ to the internet archive once it has undergone further polishing. Anyone wishing to see the latest (currently the 10th) draft of the book itself can get one from trent.appleman@gmail.com in the meantime on request. Sharing rights for the book and its drafts are exactly the same: keep the book/draft sharing rights disclaimer and one's name intact and don't make a profit from it, but otherwise feel free to share at will. 

 

The Interlocking of Directorate Is Green

The East is Red

“My gown stays white

from morn till night

upon the road of Anthracite...”

Why do the soldiers have a holiday

but not the miners? Curious! For brave

boys and brave men braved darkness and collapse.

“The clock struck twelve,

the mouse ran down....”

Cheaply extractable petroleum

ran down.We ran down Sunset Boulevard

together from Tomorrowland's RustBelt-

ifying lying,or at best half truth-

ful euphemistic language, taking breaks

from all that dirty hectic resource use

& economic growth, a sort of UBI

or Universal Basic Income but

with added fear, hysteria, and lies,

these rapids of recalibration. “Ring

around the rosie,

pocket full of posies,

Ashes! Ashes!

We all fall down.”

We tried to hold onto increasingly

greased ladders but we all fell down and down.

It came back into fashion to be tough.

“Be not a cancer on the Earth.

Leave room for nature.”

Colony collapse disorder. Massive

drop in bird & insect population.

Yes, “Leave room for nature”; and for freedom.

Yes, “Be not a cancer on the Earth”. Leave

room for liberty. Leave room for liberty.

The ripples of His having come again

Before the 2^nd Coming, it was simpler far

to hide one's inner predilections with a mask,

whereas these sorting outers days we scream out what are,

at least comparatively, new wine in new flask.

The shockwaves of His Comings radiate in waves

that drown the Nephilim, drown also Pharaoh's troops

and raise His New Church morning white horse from their graves,

a head of gold, the faithful city in fresh groups

and fresh considerations, patching not the old.

He came, Friends, like a thief just like He said

He would, just as discretely as He came with gold

wed silver for the inner humans in His head.

He came not to invade the Earth with angel host,

nor with the conquest Jews and Christians thought He would,

but with the fiery teaching of the Holy Ghost,

which maketh all things new like truthfulness and good.

These truths and goods, these rungs on Jacob's ladder should

be married, which is their conjunction with the Lord,

and not adulterous. Choose your forever 'hood

with care along the way and grow to love the Word.

For when adulterous then truth and good

are bread of wickedness and wine of violence, thus

the evil and the false, the harlot's neighborhood.

Hence the commandments taught by God Himself to us.

We're going to need far more tentacles than this!

If Centre abnegation Overton

contraction led to Hard Right, Hard Left or

Hard Centre (being Far's successful fruiting), one would hope

for such a leader as the noble Salazar.

For Abnegation of the Centre leads to Overton

contraction → Polarised society → Disequilibrium.

Hard Left – Hard Centre – and Hard Right vie with the abnegation caste;

whence Stalin, Salazar, and Strident Mustache, not at Yalta but

as though. Before the silence falls, now know:

The abnegation of the Centre muffles language as

speech muddies, renders it mob-hashtag rule

instead of English, plants mines in precisely truth,

kills cities. Crumbling infrastructure – Debt –

The terrorising of selectorates and courts --

Fearporn-imbued, totalitarian Move! Move it! Move along!

hysteria – Steered automation idle people bomb –

The situation's far too complex and

dynamic for the present leadership

to even grasp! Sock puppets do not rule

but file the paperwork of tidal waves

with Globalism's Moolah (1) and its State (2),

which both not just the first will aggregate

in interlocking of directorate.

Unlike 'Reptilians', this one boasts proof!

Those stuffed shirts simply are not bright enough

or brisk enough to keep with the Earth

they 'rule' supposedly in Parliaments

and boardrooms, think tanks and foundations, but

don't actually; they're more like surfers on

our wave, and then our wave is over. They're

relieved not to be dangling from a post

who now and then might implement the Moon

and lash The People with mere urgency.

Scrawled doodle on exam room desk

We saw an Empire crash and burn.

most humans cycle more than learn,

She paints her wrath with Cynthia and Steve..

This came as no surprise. We praised

its sunset with our lips but dazed

(we had to after all, because

of the hysterical totalitarian stampede)

among the liars in our heads

He paints his envy with the face of Tom.

which suckle on our empty dreads

we see a dream we choose of love

or hate as light by shadow, dove

by owl we crumble in the room

where Jesus sword cuts through

our foreheads and our hands with flood and fire,

where we are choices in His loom.

She never ceased to paint her wrath with Cynthia and Steve,:

uncircumcised, slain by the sword.

We reap the whirlwind that we sow

be this a lifetime of mere self

a grape skin empty bottle

lightbulb's filament, a mote of dust

or prospering our neighbour's health.

Our automation phase shift looms

Watch out for hating people you don't hate!

in offices and living rooms

as mass society stampedes.

They paint their issues with your face!

True warnings happen. No one heeds,

or few. The technocratic mob

howls. Someone guiltless has no job.

He never ceased to paint his envy with the face of Tom:

uncircumcised, slain by the sword.

Elegy for the Victims of Hysterical Totalitarianism

 FEAR The humans are stampeding on the veldt,

Hey citizens! The wonderful experimental drug

FEARPORN stampeding down the interstate,

is ready, it's on special, wow! Let's do this!

FEEDBACK LOOPS in a blind panic

Look, they're lining up, celebrities

and all! There's Midwin Charles! Oh wait there's not.

Or was one hell of a coincidence!

SUBLIMINALS whilst wild calliopes galumph.

1. Unplug electric cobra. 2 Change the world.

Death to TV! Death! Death! Death! Only Death!

Men trust their Project Fear feed far too much,

endangering their liberty and mine

with mass hysterias of feedback loops,

should be detached from ever believing in

such strident 'news'. You want to make the world

a better place? Get rid of it, don't let

the vilest human devils on this Earth

not only wind you up with fear but make

a profit in the bargain! You should not

allow this evil curse to rule your house,

to lie to your own spouse and your own kids.

The marks of sin and error in the hand and in the head

 Hysterical totalitarian

humongous “Long Emergency” Peak Oil

Peak Everything Peak Population Eek!

Despite totalitarian features in these creepy crawly men

I would be more concerned about our error and our sin.

Seek Him and worry not about the mark

in hand which is the same old sin or mark

in head that is the same old error, not

some technocratic fearporn zombie film

catastrophism worry lest one damn

oneself by getting barcode, feeding kids!

It winds them up with burning fear, it rends their hearts.

May all such fearporn on this Earth be broken down for parts.

There's too much boogabooga, Brave New World...

Like smog, it can't be healthy for the young

or old or "man unkind". Fear is itself

totalitarian, but never believe

a Big Lie if you can avoid mere faith

in governments and corporations to

be affable sincere upfront and not

have interests, some inimical, perhaps,

to citizens who have a conscience left.

You have enough to keep you up at night,

need oil and wine poured in your wounds, and light!

Let's flee their clutches to our nearby calm

tranquility alertness diligence

renewing spirituality! May dawn

of timelessness within the flesh of time,

the fountain of His timelessness in us,

instruct you, bloom in you, convey you forth

in safety, well up in your conscience like

a lamp! Let not this world dishearten you.

Let not this treacherous ochlocracy's

canned cancelation cancel you for good.

Let not this stampede with a million eyes

surveilling all with not cabal but mob

suspicion, roving revolution, Rome,

stamp over you with hooves of cesium

and technocratic sacking of Bastilles,

and anarchic surveilled swiveling eyes!

O Lord, open their eyes that they might see

the nurturance and light you showed to me.

Lest gentle bread and subtle wine die out,

degenerating into eating bread with care

by measure, drinking water (wine too) with

astonishment, may God blow on the coal

of His Church in the wilderness of here

and now; that gentleness may prosper here

as in the Heavens not the bread of night

and wickedness and mourning; and that wine

and not the wine of violence of the lie /

the error / the distortion may light up

this labyrinth with glory, inmost breadth.

He rides the horse of understanding in the Word

beyond the flicking surface angel's flaming sword.

Field Notes on the Living God

Jesus Grew Up + From Everlasting

from wilderness unto Gethsemane

from His 1^st Flood unto the victory on

the Cross which glorified, fully fulfilled

Isaiah 9, verse 6, His wandering

in Sinai fiery furnace fiery trial

unto the tears of blood among the blooms

among which He proceeded towards night's cross,

His victory overcoming cornerstone,

the cornerstone of best fit of all lines.

The God Man, Divine Human Jesus Christ,

addresses us in verses of best fit,

aims for the most regenerations,

(a maximum utilitarian approach

exactly in accordance with the love

of liberty) and blooms within us at

exactly when we can be kept in love,

a love that gradually gets purified.

A pure relational event transpires,

and following this brush with joyous dawn

you no more need the proof of which they speak

than need to prove your partner has a mind.

Regeneration sucks the poison from

our wounds, our wound up fantasising lusts

for anything, not just arousal in

the narrow sense, but anything at all.

It's Jesus who instructs how to love,

who flows into our stockpiled divine truths

as wine into a vessel, brightly shines

from Mt Paran, blooms-rises in the heart

the hunted hare has, gentleness upon

it, has it, cups it carefully, so much

more carefully than we cup ants (but great

by far than we above the ants, His love

sustaining us from plunging into Hell!).

Beyond our thoughts in secret passageways

outside of training forms like time and space,

belief becomes instruction in the art

of love instead of bitterness, first stir

of mutual love, the pearl of great price known

as charity, the charity on which

the law and prophets hang, the cuckoo clock

of prophecy, the passion play of fall

in charity in course of quarters, love

consociating us where we most belong.

He knows that many simply will not believe

so gives us many leaves for healing lands,

domesticates hereditary sin,

the tendencies thereto which we all have.

He does not need one's testimony but

our everlasting Father Jesus Christ,

that inexpressible and holy joy

who calibrated what is holiness

was clearly intertwined with all

conception and all creativity –

“without whom there is nothing done that's done” --

and outside ordinary time and space.

Joy taught one thereby how to overcome

past bitterness, establishing excuse

upon excuse for other people, how

to notice one's wound up severity.

This is not dogma! these are field notes here,

this happens as your partner happens, as

a migraine happens, as the radio

will bongo, as we drain a dram of dream.

These then are field notes on the living God

relational event dawn Jesus Christ

one can't express! such intricate and vast

expansive silent organ music! How

dawn helped one get up in the morning! How

His love instructed one in noticing

the other human beings, loving them

(1^st Thessalonians 4:9, I believe),

the mutual love of Jesus in our hearts

that swallows up the flood the dragon spews.

Our Father Jesus, Saviour of the World

He is the light and heat. We are the dust.

That image causing jealousy? Our lust.

He is the love and truth, the joyous sound

of bride and bridegroom wherewith we abound;

abound that is with mutuality

sincerity, with sown sodality,

oil/charity with everyone within.

Our Saviour from hereditary sin

is that same highway in the desert fools

can even travel as their lava cools.

He is the testing opportunity

to live forever and in unity.

He melts the biggest ice chips in our hearts.

Thereafter, even if by fits and starts,

the littler ice chips cannot bear His heat.

(His is the truth we drink, the good we eat);

these ice chips being lesser grudges, chips

on shoulders, feuds involving snarly quips,

and suchlike baggage in the cargo bay

which we resist such that it flees away,

attenuating to a shadow here

so that a true conjunction can cohere;

that is, conjunction with the God Man by

conjuncting good and truth with the Most High.

The Divine Human is Almighty Lord

and God and everlasting Father's Word;

and even people who don't know His name

can still conjunct, still play Love's hidden game.

For name is like to have a good name is;

so those who do His deeds are truly His;

not Nicolaitans, for a reward!

but even out of sight of one accord,

with all who live this way, conjuncting well

with Heaven as opposed to with some Hell.

Be not surprised that Jesus sometimes lets

the sand into your oyster shells and then,

(once we've become aware of law thus sin),

the rain temptation waterblasts your house

with vile insinuations like a mouse

or many mice perhaps, annoying as

a nagging voice some man or woman has.

It nags all night as accusation piles

on accusation, fantasising wiles

succeed each other, resist our control.

So far as we oppose them, so far whole,

so far abundant, liberated from

enslavement, beating to a different drum,

the mutual love of Heaven in our hearts.

This is the unity He makes of parts

and why we woke up in a ticking bomb

that starts out dancing, then falls in the tomb,

same belly Lazarus lay in 3 days.

This is life's meaning beyond all the haze

of battle, nags within and nags without,

the frenemies, the hypocrites, the shout

and bustle of metropoli, hired mobs'

two-way conduction and whatever robs

the people of their dearly purchased dough.

And those same people reap as they did sow.

We'd best sow good thoughts and good deeds or else!

The reprobate in fiery shadows dwells.

They share our heads to fructify our souls.

They hate us, even what we love, our goals.

Such is the flame of testing in our hearts,

becoming Moses: humble, skilled in arts

of the Egyptians, sure the Lord is light

that lights our bulbs, a truth that dispels pride,

and that gives envy no place to abide.

The pouring of the oil and wine from dawn(1) till eventide(3)

Your propium, your ego, fallen flesh,

yon heart of stone that nearly fills your jar

is doomed! unless the Saviour fills that jar

with holy living water from the New

Jerusalem out of a boundless sea

of oil and wine, like Zeno's paradox

flipped right-side up, perfecting without end,

infinitesimal Ezekiel's feet

no longer able to touch ground. But if

you dare to touch that oil and wine, you kill

two witnesses, you crucify two thieves,

which is the night, the feet of iron and clay,

which is the fourth phase pale horse, death and hell,

when voice of of bride and bridegroom sound no more.

Dead night is when the priest and Levite pass;

they pour not oil and wine into those wounds

inflicted on one robbed and left for dead.

Temptations Great Flood Swollen Jordan Fire

 We wake up in a body with a mind

a long time before learning to be kind,

infested by the tapeworms of the soul,

the ones whose present was a lump of coal

who spark up flames within you feed/enjoy

or don't, flames they enjoy and which destroy,

flames which destroyed them when they walked the Earth,

though in externals they displayed their worth.

We wake amid the shambling bodies here,

the waking personalities we near

with language and with action, knowing not

if in between their ears they are a bot

or not. So much depends on watching minds

for enemy behaviours of all kinds,

on seeing from more inwardly with love,

the charity of conscience from above.

The flood of infestations bridle men

who know not they've been taken for a spin.

The flood of evil thoughts whose wily wang

competeth not with joy; its oily tang

distinguished from our good thoughts, actions, goals.

Beneath Good's bridge lurk shadows, shambling trolls,

ships shipwrecked far from cozy hearths, firm shores.

No organ of our bodies, these are sores,

these piercing thoughts of deadened reprobates –

the nagging emphasis on one it hates --

known as intrusive thoughts to people now.

You're never quite alone behind your brow.

The thoughts of reprobates that flood your head,

perhaps distressed insomniac in bed,

perhaps amid torn turmoil of bright day

in shadowy recesses on the way

comprise the fiery trial which tempts your soul,

the great flood and what time the Jordan's swole,

the 40 days and nights of Jesus' fast,

the 40 years the Church of Sinai passed,

the Red Sea that destroyed all Pharaoh's host

through which the Israelites from coast to coast

proceeded like the house built on the rock

through fiery flood which purifies the flock.