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.