Precipitates

Deformed: a person or part of the body) not having the normal or natural shape or form:after listening again to David martin, and 6 hrs of whitney webb of the criminal netwroks and their actors, will all other predicts like the 2025 of Horn and the woman in the starts, a and on, and asking withal what I contribute to this, which is nothing, I think, as said it is hopeless, but in the meantime, whatever the case, since we were led against covid 1, etc, and bitcoin, and have ruth and aunt anne in care, plus whoever will, my contribution is to laugh at the criminals and mock them, and to join others in making fun of them with all this myth stuff of centaurs and bulls.

Ophirim

 Ophirim

 All fallen royalty seeks to magnify itself in architecture, pomp and circumstance. Every ancient city was filled with these maps of the impossible, diagrams to make alembic, directions into interiors, discoveries of totems, passageways in various stages of deconstruction in Jerusalem, London, Zion, Troy, New York, Paris. They still extend beneath us in strata of overbuilt ruin where we think the last different from the first because we live in it, but they are the same. What if the topographies of Troy, Zion, Jerusalem, New York, Paris, London, are meta existences explored with that spelunking team, the fallen imagination. Para-metaphysical existences have long mattered to these states, for when did anybody lose interest in finding gold mythological to the core.

Spelunking the fall is easy. Take a digital assistant out of your pocket if you believe the human is a dirty, googley, stupid, impure creature, attitudes longstanding among platonists, monks, ascetics, physicists who claim to be against the world and the flesh. From these other dimensions  they negate life to affirm their need of the other, primed to be taken over by the powers. Even if they are licentious and libertine they still think they are bad.

 If that were all a fallen angel named apathy did it would be the archangel of this planet.

Planetary systems were the medieval-classical cosmology, but instead of planets we have Hawking, Sagan, Einstein and Von Braun, no less imbued with powers. It agrees with all these systems that while men haven't any powers themselves, "a super intelligence might not take our interests into consideration, just like we don’t take root systems or ant colonies into account when we go to construct a building." (Nick Bostrom, Future of Humanity Institute). Super intelligences have not befriended us. Even if we have no powers, or they have atrophied beyond reach, the greatest of all powers has denied the direct superiors over us, so we try to sort the orpheums or orpheusans, the Ophirim among a whole cast of the orders of gold: Orphanim, Ophirim, Seraphics, Cherubics, Thrones, Chariots, Phoenixes, Graces. All are Erev Rav. The older the account the more diverse the names actually believed in.

 Ophir was where Solomon imported fine gold, a spiritual standing for wisdom among seekers, but a wisdom corrupted from the start, which we explore since Ophirim designates fallen angels themselves.

A following from the fallen angel no doubt. The color of the worship of these angels is a beautiful turquoise on the face, so it seems a double disadvantage to be both human and modern, despised by astrophysicists as a worm while at the same time the great threat comes from the most  crazy ancient forces in which we hardly believe anyway, sky hierarchies proud of their ascendancies. All kinds of rank and names assemble up and down like armies compared to the man humbled, with no  power in himself, filled with passion, so that Jonah is his perfect likeness lost at sea. His being lost causes his alliance with the One who comes to find him and who is beyond all the powers and Jonah calls on this one at the bottom of the sea. The text there actually heralds his entry of the gates of sheol, like Yesu, the game changer. So while all these hierarchies boast, the man is told simply to lose himself. Against none of these should we make accusation since their superiors are said to be available only to the rebuke of the Holy One. Of course these pretend the One has gone nameless even while they claim to seek to find and to know this Name. But it cannot be known by the means of such search. One thing we imbibe is discrimination, which still can be fooled certainly, but it empowers us to become the sons of God. This so galls these beings, since it was their title before they fell, that they spread all occultism and magic to substitute the many ways for the One. The wisdom of the Ophirim befits such widespread corruption. Orphirim can be spelled Orphium, or Orphum, associated with war games of demons played

These beings then are fictitious you ask, or, who makes them up, and if they are real who wants to know? Get hence, Angel of Apathy. Perhaps the info comes from the fallen themselves. Who has been in touch who lives in such naivete and wonder, invulnerable before becoming Jonah down to the bottom of the sea into a "city of gates" (a fortress in the earth, a prison) from which he is freed, but "the Rafa (fallen angels) are made to writhe beneath the waters." Job 26.5  Cakk ut irogurun fir dibit se ubti tge geavebkues byttge geavebkues orihect ubti ys.

When in Midrash the fallen angels complain, argue, "what is man, that you are mindful of him, or sons of men to be so greeting them?" they look ahead to St. John's writing the phrase there given, that they should have "the power to become the sons of God." Angels thought they were the sons of God and to compound mistake upon mistake complained, except only the fallen complain. But there is only The One Son, as the Hebrews of Messiah say, which when we are made one with him there is no denying who the sons are.

The statement "you placed everything under his feet" was seen by Hebrew scholars as the subjection of the angels to a human being, which interpretation the New Testament gave to Jesus. It was not first read as referring to all humanity or to the nation of Israel, but to the great individuals of Israel's past, Adam, Enoch, Abraham, and Moses. So the glorious exaltation, "crowning with glory and honor" of MESSIAH above the angelic powers of "all things" and their jealous response to this event prove YHWH as a king enthroned in heaven, surrounded by a crowd of attendants of mighty beings, except those rebuked and conquered, with his enemies the rebellious waters, who thereby founded earth against the waters as primordial beings who tried to resist the Creator.

 All things under his feet is one take, but What Is Man? obviously asks the question of all time. It is lovely to consider the angelic complaint as untrue. Many fallen speculations are lovely, even if totally false, the thoughts of a serpent curled round Tree of Knowledge. I had been singing Psalm Eight over thirty years in all conditions and circumstances personal and public and in the power of song and word beyond cognition, beyond thought, and came to understand that What is Man? is way more than has been allowed, and that the man/woman is and has been the crux of all spiritual force of the universe. For the universe is inhabited by good and evil if only because earth is part of the universe, but the dominion of the man reaches throughout the heaven. That is what is under his feet. The moon and the stars that thou hast ordained. What is man that thou art mindful of him or the sons of men to be so greeting them? Creating heaven with a touch, his finger, God gave to man dominion of his hands.

Angel Apathy

Now if  it is tiresome to think our history determined by fallen angels, the golden oldies of another mag,  irrelevant as movie stars, as if the amazing pace of printing out DNA by teenagers at home were theirs,  let loose like tropical fish because they no longer want to pet crocodiles, that 's why they call angel Apathy in the midst of all this. you say I don't care, there's nothing I can do about it, but apathy is itself a supernatural thing. There has never been a time in the worst imaginings of half a century where things would go so far as to threaten organic life itself. Somehow this doesn't bother everybody. It is false that you can do nothing, utterly false.

All the breakthroughs of science in such a short time are the result of the tutelage and interference of Orphim of intelligence and capability. Sketches of these in historical writings appear, but why bother arguing about it? The evidence has to be our prima facie distress in all its forms. Staying with the concept of this interference, quisling governors, self interests, its exposition itself isa ridiculous venture, ill formed of omissions and commissions of myth, fact. Literature and religion tell us everything we do want to know. We are not on our own in this post holocaust interaction, extrapolating to the world.

Rason - “Enter thou into thy chambers, and shut thy doors about thee: hide thyself as it were for a little moment, until the indignation be overpast” (Isaiah 26:20).

 If i ask what is it I am doing here I am skilled in practically nothing but that seems adapted to time and place where few are compared to the boat builders, voyagers, farmers explores who preceded ut.  I am not particularly skilled as a scholar even with a degree, not a fastidious research, more of leap from place to place, a dilettante. If there is something of focus it must be to account for life birth, in all the issues of the great thinkers and writers and to make up little vignettes along the way,   place to place, moment to moment, augments on arguments, a word here, an idea there, a patchwork surely but desired to be lyrical, fraught with sound and meaning. whatever emerges from this I don't know except to say it seeks to confront from the top down not the bottom up, to go right in the face of ultimate affronts to our life and se them for what they are. So to start from the beginning of what a child can know, to speculate the coming down into the womb and being born with all the precipitate acts of contradictions encountered and to end up at 80 and beyond with less understanding than before, but to keep going, hold to the plan, go give an account of what we re, all of us together who enter this life. there has never been a plot beyond that which we call accident which is providence and faith. I explore this in ever medium I can, first words, then family and flesh, then work and travel and finally in clay, which is a proper medium of the exchange between the created and the creator who makes the plan and pattern and then releases it slowly into the clay so that it hows, for too sudden a release will cause it to fail. I think many of these sculptures, frescoes, pots ceramic display the Rason the best because often it is  the case that only when the process is done do I have any idea what has been made. Some show this better than others like the taurobolium of the figure of the United States that simply appeared as i worked and as I recognized the form slowly began to provide a setting for it, after the fact. After the face, post cognition has become more and more important in the life of pattern recognition of 80 and on. Compared to all the works encountered on the way, the way a good charcoal is made to let the hand lead the eye to recognition. To add up its significance, all is vanity, there is good only from the point of view of imperfection at the best and at the worst, no hope. So to end up, to hope against knowledge, to hope against history and politics, to hope against the world is the last post cognition and to build faith in that time the true work of importance.

 

The Cherubim Collection
I went down to run the body, sank in the colored maps
of arteries and veins.
I ended on my belly descending a massif of a million
lights, cities, hotbeds, houses, colored streets.
Top-built labyrinths and lightning rods, cones of light
flashed like streets and sky. Scattered about its limbs
were cities, to show the scale no one can see.
The eyes saw ancient quarries, tunnels and caverns
underneath. It was a city of dreams made fertile from
paradise fallen to ruin. Waking existence led down
millenniums written in a century, a year, a day, aware
and unaware of thought before put into words.
You had to slip out through holes to wriggle into
evening, scissoring out dripping red insulation, cutting
black bags out of the wall like stones. I pry the cracks
between concrete, metal and wood. Sometimes mice
droppings fall out at my feet. I push up, rebalance, ease
down another yard, feet sticking out among fans and
chairs with the smell of rot musk and evening.
Thinking to dismantle the image of the word machine,
sighs of breath get me up and the blast feels good.
The Cherubim Collection houses exiles in warehouses,
industrial residences of many descriptions. It is a
dream yard of roofed parking lots, shacks and another
warehouse unsecured, never locked, occupied by
vagrants, migrants, gypsies, tenants, homeless,
squatters, working men, blacksmiths, artists. Passagesunguarded above and below form a colony of
clapboards large and abandoned. They set up tables
under the eaves. With so many people in small spaces
and close quarter shops in this bazaar resistance we
first see the paintings in the apartments below, but tour
the upper stories too, unfinished, rickety, dangerous
with catwalks but traversable. The house has never
been properly finished, just enough so it won’t get too
wet in the rain. I have been up there myself so it is
more or less possible among many more parts and
pieces, like the old Barnes Museum in Merion, where
pieces cram and crock together, crowds mill shoulder
to shoulder to pass on. They can’t do that without
apology. Name tags are also missing. As for
photography, it is a variable cloudy day when we pass
through.
Anyone returning after years of absence will know this place
with their eyes closed. It won’t matter if it’s only
imagined. We feel the beat. People who arrive wonder
how they could not have known. That is always so.
One person in this crowd had loosed a bull that ran the
street without a leash. In this running of the bulls is a
Taurobolium of the knowledge that you could be gored.
Know that when you spend the day chasing the world
in front of you as a tail in the sky, and when you see it
in the air you repeat with Noah, Daniel, Job and the
wise King of Tyre, as if you precede them when you
follow and live in a fall of Jerusalem that leads captive
those who know. They know the thing you sleep beside
is a prophetic topography and a restructuring of moral
geography/geology on the other.

 To forget something that doesn’t officially exist, this
state as an end in itself sent a flow of expatriates to
flee—not quickly, but in achingly slow motion advance
from its camps among wolves. Dark purple blotched
the eyes and rumors were rife as the numbers swelled
as authorities demanded papers of refugees from their
big briefcase. Doors opened and closed to the
possibility of laying hands on the right piece of paper
to enable escape, that salvic lure before the border
closed. Changing the direction of the compass, the
collective to transfigure the human overcame all
relation, escape was uncertain, but it was not by paper.
The Cherubim Collection combines geography,
morality and prophecy into a Taurobolium, a sacrifice of
a bull. The eye and snout are Seattle Amazonia, but
people see different tails. Parts of CA are gone. Some
think Baja is the tail, but it’s gone. Seattle is the head.
Where states and nations represent moral agencies the
question is open as to what it portends. You can look
for where you live in this country and prophesy
yourself, figure out how it’s going to go for you in the
life and afterlife posed. Impose a latitude and longitude
map on top and check your coordinates, aware that the
map is always moving slower than the eye can see.
The Taurobolium continental U.S. nicely contorts as an
west east rectangle figure of a bull. Contrast it to Chile
north and south, figure of a sea horse. These always
emerge from the work at hand. To interpret more
naturalistically not a hundred acres of first prairie exist.
Ten feet of topsoil washed to the sea.Impervious runoff of desert cities might be the white
waste of Houston or Dallas, barren a hundred years.
How much myth is fact? Buffalo is gone, the mountains
behind? Can the Great Lakes drain, the sea, Austin
sink? And what of these myth mountains that
geological physiognomy most distorts, the
Orocopedia blue schist assemblage and the Pelona
schist along the fault, like the piercing point used to
construct the first offset?
In this concept of segmentation the sacrifice of nations
in the Taurobolium is more than just nations, but
continents, world and space. Sometimes it is called
allegory, but the literal facts take a literal reading, even
unbelievable, as if Henry Ford had started his own race
of men. These together form a Taurobolium sacrifice of
cosmos, which entertainment is as real as its plan.
Absolutely denying these ideas is charged with irreality
in the opposition that opposes them. In sacred texts of
beasts coming up from the sea we understand animals
represent nations and nations represent a complex of
states of the mind of evil, not of good. The sacrifice of
nations by the global priests serves the purpose of their
conspiracy. So America is the bull sacrificed for this
world to achieve.
Down and down I followed the years of this descent.
That’s what they called Abel descended from Adam
and Eve and Isaac and Ishmael descended from
Abraham, Jacob and Esau descended in Isaac.
Backtrack forward, up and down the Cherubim, palm
trees and every cherub a two-faced lion and man. The
doors that open from that House have two leaves and
thick planks, three stories and other garments. To walk.

he vision where they put away the carcass of kings the
dream kidneys hide in plain sight look east from the
House and the law of the House to the way of the gate
where the Prince will appear. Rest in peace to measure
the pattern, the difference between the body and
profane. No wine offerings or blood worship here. The
river comes from the east and flows to the sea, rises
first to the ankles then to the loins. Many trees on both
sides fruit according to the months, one each for food
and medicine because the water flows from the House
of Oblation, four square possessing the city and the
name of the city, for Jahu is there.
Jahrusalem! As if commanded, a cup bearer entered
that city with Alexander, toured the walls with Darius
the Persian, Darius Nothus, intermarried with
inhabitants of the land. I have Nennius for consolation
in Britain for talk, but not in words. At port we pass for
the sailors. Images pretext light, reshaping escapes,
fantasy boats and fable captains, visas for the countries
of Atlas and passports for countries that do not exist.
In the last phase of this perigee, captive pilots who
bombed cities, shot down and crashed, were brought to
account for execution. I fall to my knees. My culpability
and others whose dust swirls the wind is cast into sea,
carbon and gas to reassemble. We should tolerate such
a contrary state in the conduct of our lives. Tramped
alive with marching feet, a reconstitution of the world
repeats. Whose grave is this, this one and this? Ask me,
I know them. I know the time where Hierosolyma
precedes my own. Antares that bother and Betelgeuse
were pressing on my head. The solar system, planetsand moons, man, they cannot decide, but every
memory helps. One transcendent, some good dreams,
the list is long. How did Adam sustain his teeth? How
do I weep for the stones in the building? The west wall
of Jerusalem is on my head. The geologic layers, the
Babylonian Talmuds. The Lehmann discontinuit, the
Mohorovičić discontinuity. I am walking on its surface,
walking water in which I sink, which gives some
meaning of Leviathan and Jonah. And Jesus! 45 stone
courses, 28 above and 17 underground.
The vats were huge, thirty, forty feet tall remembrances of
eternity in time. Attracted by the stillness, implicit being and
power, they meant instruction and the compulsion of patterns
mediated through time, held open by belief. Sheets of purified
cellulose steeped in caustic soda, dried, shredded into
crumbs, aged in metal containers. What's going on in and
around the vats in me as it is among the sons of God whose
election was before, but unknown. Poetic repetition seeks the
mediated vision of the fathers, the recovery of origins before,
as though prior instruction. The closer he gets, the further he
is away it seems, but then also, the further he has come.
Viscose fibers are manufactured to create the illusion of the
world. As he stands beside the tanks there is nothing but
being, Dinglichkeit, thingness, materiality alone, which is a
magnificent state, but without cognition. But the vats are
metaphors of the stuff that makes the world, the explosive
gasoline of the world fiber that is made to burn. Ezekiel says
after they gave their jewels, their gold and silver and made
them into images of men, sacrificed their oil and flour and
honey, crowns, earrings, their incense to it, they gave their
children and burned them in oblation to the gods. The vats
are metaphors of the stuff that makes the world, but the

world is false, it is a synthetic not a natural, which is what
the man wears who leads into and sees all these things,
dressed in pure linen.
I am your sign, so that as I have done so shall it be done to
all. But there are wheels within wheels. Kierkegaard asked
for one favor from the gods, chose for himself laughter and
they all began to laugh. That's his telling. The essential thing
posits an opposition between inner and outer that makes its
representation impossible when the effect of every vision is
evident, full of eyes round about. To have laughter on one's
side for this Elijah, native to the setting, was either all joke,
humor of high and middle kinds, or elección. Yet shall he not
see it. We won't know until the vote is in. To laugh seems
hard wired on the foreheads of men that sigh and cry, as if
they looked through a hole in the wall. Never say truth
without a caveat, not Orphic ambiguity, but tease truth a
season. The spirit rats will have a hard time getting their
tails out of that. What rats? For I know the things that come
into your mind, every one of them. Call it humor because the
first thing I read in Either/Or at the end of my own diaspora,
when I picked it up again after 40 years, was Kierkegaard's
paragraph at end of the Diapsalmata about his audience with
the gods in the seventh heaven. Never start at the beginning,
just open at random and begin. Prepare stuff for removing.
Dig through the wall. If you want in on it just laugh along.
Of course I had been jacked out of that Foundry life of oil
rigs and fires and train wrecks among the strip mined hills
and all its social situations they might imply from the age of
five, into an all new circumstance where this Elijah and
ground of being plopped right atop and sank to the marrow.
It had come right down out the sky and settled on my
shoulders before, that I did not ever want to kill. That vision
was the first in the outer world. I did not open my eyes toothers. I saved opening, or was saved until the moment prepared to receive him, for Jesus, the Blessed, the only
eternal man. People shake heads at the idea of the only true
man. They have not felt it. Evangelicals worry they will not
be taken. The fear of not being taken could not compete with
the real horrors I knew before 16 On the Way Out of Sheol.
It's a question of magnitude. What do I care about Rapture
when carnivals, bordellos, bars, seductions, fights, appalling
challenges, and huge literal giants wanted me? It was said
they didn't like the way I walked. You don't think children are
going such places. You don't think the underbelly is hid
everywhere in the societal middle class fat, that these lurk in
your neighbor, leaders, institutions.
My first specific job after the white light was a white collar
job at Merrill Lynch when all transactions were posted by
hand, if you can believe it. That fellow was happily
monitored by superiors in the "cage" so did not ruin too
many trades with his bookkeeping. The chief memory of that
is coming to work in downtown Philadelphia before eight in
the morning, up the train station steps with the commuters
and wandering at lunch around bookstores off Market and
Chestnut streets handling versions of Kierkegaard, what else,
continuing to puzzle whatever it is that puzzled them.

Hierosolyma

 Hierosolyma  is Latin for Jerusalem. A composite of many thoughts of the theme, this contains answer to 2025 before that time enunciated. Written and ascribed to the persona Augusto Todoele, the urgency of time required that it appear in this pseudonym.  To beg forgiveness from those editors who suffer this subterfuge to enter these thoughts into public discourse, that other pseudonyms also used only further this culpability. This editor

 Hierosolyma has no light, exterior immersed, the flude come in full faste. Back from that place of conscious sleep, waking precog answers to prayers ordered before they were prayed, fleetinge to wake, we are led down over topography in labyrinths and lightning rods. Flash cones in eyes, no streets or sky, eyes connected to quarries, vaults, tunnels and caverns beneath, the discontinuit wore its body, amen, sense data not private to itself.  In the words of a place once and in the same place first to the ankles then the loins, a river rises from the east and flows to the desert sea, many trees on both sides, spirit of all trees watered to the fruit. One each for food the medicine water flowed. The name of the city, for Jehu is there to complete the whole house, an oblation square to the west wall, which apocryphy before Darius came down or Nebuchadnezzar marched in, or Alexander built breastworks of Tyre to fill in a peninsula embroidered in all our limbs. Jerusalem.

Now sir, set up your sail and row. Row from the awareness of ships of light darkened between protoplasmic bands across the sun and watch. Very provoking to be called an egg and escape the past. This collective sub aquean felt so strong it built upon. I see this appearance of a body. Each person, the unique text unwritten, hid away, blue prints bailing out over Paris, not this real upstart that can't hear the nose of its own approach. Vapor trails of rockets deny war as reality imposed. Feeling in a hurry I press against something in front of me, grasp the wheel as if I could push or brake carrying as much into the beyond.

As I went over the water the water went over me.  The bottom was inscribed in round figures ascending in different stages Openings on canvas took countless images of  people flying up.. What do they do at the tops of mountains, children lifting pretty heads from pillow beds? If I were where I would be, then would I be where I'm not, that consciousness important only to those who don't have it.

Good gossips, let us draw near.  To belong to the world below, to the city of the submarine and old abandoned beds of rivers forced to change that keep in their walls, the Seine, Euphrates hardly break from substrate when, thesis here, counter thesis there, a river, then a bend, not the Colorado oozing to salt sea, elaborate idyll of ambiguity with Hegel to text. Who belongs the Thames? This window I soon shut and into my chamber am gone. Are you intimate with Monongahela? Susquehanna! Claudius Drusus Germanicus! Alexander, Caesar, Napoleon? At the same time the sixth angel loosed its vial that dried Euphrates for the invasion of Gog, didderum dum, from the north the nations loose space satellites, pa rum pum pum pum.

2. What really hides in these logistics spun out of New Colony is so retro it imagines it  a mystery carp, a giant carp whose giant tongue splits rivers of the Mississippi delt and calls forth from those estuaries derry boats of new gardeners who seek profit from this mulch.

These Afligidos sing, hands raised, arms waving, “El Señor, El Señor” as they read the sign put on I 55 north: Crazy Derrida Leave Earth! You could see them in the unknowing human mind sometime disport while ballooned in space this Leviathan’s carp teeth impaled upon a Bridge. Church bells rang to warn the horror of this fish. But it was not by gas or teeth impaled that it was razed, even if it was that big. It was the shouting, arms waved, hands raised, “El Señor, El Señor, our life is but a vapor.”

3. Whether on a moon or some fictitious Mars-Earth Colonians occupy these settlements of myth, a harbor with mountains even if there is some conscious doubt. They believed they were living in the old Odyssey of Homer. But they could not agree about the carp, called him Majestic George as if he were like a whale hung in midair, a snow hill high as the sea bluffs hung over the  Water Jar. The madness of the sea made their invocation. An influx of pietists occupied who looked like the ghosts of Catterline painters off Prouts Neck. Salt air, storm and wave.

Since it has credentials as a Temple of Neptune too, as well as the port of Noah, be not surprised to include Troy among these pantheons that incorporate the Wet. The horse carp enters the city. Romantic Trojan Priests throw their spear against sea serpents stuck in the side.

 One hardly knows whether to call such geography and politic legit or ill. A Malmsine good and strong evokes flash thoughts to rejoice both heart and tongue. Ships in this water jar overlook the creation of a world, all its mundane disjunctures spectral and estranged. We come up through different physiognomies of crowd to inhabit a river of arteries and veins. 

Those who own earth descending in the lovely with angels defending, with new moon and full tides consume a people of the sun. I search for them who know me not in bush and shrub, who name Sunday for the sun, what they consider the god of heaven, as dear Plotinus said, but the sun is not the Father or the Son and He who made creation. So judgment falls upon the week day gods and the month year gods and time's false gods.  Oker, poker dominoker. We are only talking about ourselves here. Evening and morning make the day. Day at dusk and dawn midday

Some inevitable dream a ring of fantasies in a house of viscose mirrors with little couplets to shield the surface from water rings so the inn keeps clean. What will you mate? Memory wipe straight or witty pranks in riper years? Here are doves, grackles and fowl the audience of heaven to remove. Dreams working late raise eagles. A large eagle lands on the shoulder of a life it must know, and a smaller female in the lap of the carcass gathering. A baby snuggles in its fur as if to suck, the mother preens the while. The father perches with claws next to his neck, looks out as the four together wait. Who is the fourth?

4. The first condition of clandestine wit is shadowgraph and counterfeit.  Then the fertile ground turns gas to light and the history of the underground is marketed about. The second condition is the electric arch of its spread. Every member, foot and hand,  is obliterated by the old. Higher than a horse, higher than a tree, one decade could not be free. Images sprayed down, applied eight hours before dawn. Now it is three PM and the heavy clouds not there at six and hundreds of streaks across the sky as the sprayers sow to forecast ruin in the blueprints of dream, to complain of Jerusalem’s spectral emergence from the lava of paradise. 

Darius, Nebuchadnezzar, Alexander sprawled on top the stones like extinct volcanoes -- lay abandoned flat. There the King of Jerusalem who survived the fall sat. He wrote these kings were counterfeit who wanted to reconstruct Goliath, to slip his body through the holes, and wiggle out after seventy generations. To bridle him and saddle him over centuries and another year, the Dayman came to sail Hierosolyma’s streets in our tongue. Master Humanyte,  most of this came to be between the war and the next decades.

 

Being without bodies, cruets, crocks and fantasies of collective carp, for there are none, farther than imagined in shadows of the herd, you look well to see it's about escaping, thou that may go out, arriving in any state. Salvation in one ounce packs of Himmelskuchlichen, flieg aus exchanged with another. Freedom comes to no one else. It was a gift  to Washington that leviathan spread seriously in the Thames. Jars of pickles exploded all over London. Back to London bridge. All wars against Gorgonment, the war to end them all, the count books with their spanking new covers and flights of monarchs check the progress of the sycamore for carpenter bees to fly the hollows. We resort to echoes of time and place in a land where myth is real.

 

No one kernel went off or not. Standestaat cordons off.  Hark sirs, ye know the policy that superpods digest. Staccato memory relocated to some remote spot is not entirely forgot. Manhood, it goes without saying, would be denied, overridden by the rule continually remade were we not lost meandering. Hanker to causes thou canst imagine. Parts are therefore made of boxcars underground. Wello thay, the rebels consumed with talk. A dove my lute, I will send. Wello thay, how did far they fall? Itser, mitzy, titzy, tool, Ira dira, dominu. Whatever they were they were three footed beasts and creep-made chimeras.

Augusto Anselm Todoele is the name we call our self when we have outlived that knowledge the former soul believed true.