Salvific Lure

Moved to backward

At least four people died by lightning strikes when all that they have to offer is a screen to cover retreat from the colony...travel arrangements made, they blow the place up behind them. Offer a body forever. For this they sold out the unborn, a Garden of Delight, fake immortality. It's pretty much beyond words so we make up non words, add faces and places and clothes and sea and any manner of likeness. We explore the world and get then forget ourselves and give it  away. It is all thrown back on us and the outer world, the gifts of life...what is left, not the party lines, we can go our way without.  A man returning after years of absence would know the place with his eyes closed by the rhythm of movement. It wouldn't matter even if he only imagined  he could hear the one great rhythmic beat. People here are left to wonder how they could not know. Life among the culpable, sorry to admit, always blames another because it blames itself. Freedom, freedom, mock and throw bullet bombs. The culpable fasts and the inculpable lays naked. One person in the crowd is loosed, runs in the street. How could you know when you spend every day chasing the thing you sleep beside and see in the world in front a tail in the sky, ad smell in the air, that heart feeling that controls? Twice, Noah, Daniel, Job, the wise King of Tyre, symbol of that star. It's like you precede them when you follow and live in a fall of Jerusalem that leads captive those who know. They know....To speak of the first to doubt this astonishing thing, the verbal texture, the language of deportation, some editor, as if he were an author, stood among three hundred jars of post exilic oil to pretend to write of these different worlds,. Ruins from the new song and dance, the tabrets and pipes of those who walk among stones of fire. Blue clothes and embroidered promises of the abundance of azure pure spirituality, so conceived. Merchants of all sorts, blue as the ships of Tarshish, dressed love in blue. They delivered their gorgeous lustful horses to bruise her teats, then took away her nose and ears. truly epigonous.   These redactions of text, not to speak of incorporated Maccabean notes, were preludes to cut-up theology reassembling its layers. Of course redactors always reduplicate with dyed attire on the head and with uneasy transitions.

 

I was enumerating sleep hours, kidneys hiding in plain sight under a wonderfully made city of dreams. The solar system weighs me down, the planets and moons. Antares is a bother and Betelgeuse. I feel the weight pressing on my head. Man they cannot decide when all was made. In Cancer Laniakea, Virgo Rosh Hoshana, Capricorn Rome and Pagan Aries Every memory, yet not all weight, one transcendent, some good dreams, present helps, but I am like Adam, the list is long. How did he sustain his teeth, less decay in the world? I am like Noah I do not hope. He felt the weight press down. I like Jonah, the wanting evangelist who suffers national repentance. No problem with the circumcision of their texts, their lives, like Ezekiel, Jeremiah most close, to witness the dissolution, make the long walk from Babylon to Rome to Britain to America, but here I am. Here I am is what Isaiah said, here I am Jahweh, send me. But just sober, with no knowledge of vocation, mantle. Finally a sober mind! following dreams and trails of the mountain history pressed down. Down down and down. I found out 300 years of this descent. That's what they call I can, and Abel descended from Adam and Eve. I Issac and Ishmael descended down Abraham. I Jacob and Esau descended in Issac. Backtrack forward. Down and up, up and down, down that sober. Cherubim and palm trees and every cherub two faced man and young lion. The doors had two leaves and thick planks, three stories and other garments to walk the vision I did not see, where they put away the carcasses of kings. Looking east from a house and a law of the house, to measure the pattern, the way of the gate where the prince shall enter, linen so as not to sweat, rest in peace spirit, no wine, difference between the holy and profane.

  Jerusalem! Architecture of gold beyond history. How do I not weep for the stones in the building? As if commanded, a cupbearer entered the city with Alexander, toured the walls with Darius the Persian, Darius Nothus, and intermarried with the inhabitants of the land. I have Nennius for consolation in Britain and Neemias in Jerusalem. The concept of "restore" or "return" in the Hebrew  is the verb שׁוּב (shuwb/shuv),^[8] as used in Malachi 4:6, the only use of the verb form of apocatastasis in the Septuagint. This is used in the "restoring" of the fortunes of Job, and is also used in the sense of rescue or return of captives, and in the restoration of Jerusalem.This is similar to the concept of tikkun olam in Hasidic Judaism.^[9]

 Darius, Nebuchadnezzar, Alexander were sprawled on top the rocks with those too superficial to be called out, Also abandoned flat at the apex sat the King of Jerusalem, a deceased ecclesiast who survived the fall, who wrote as if these kings were appealing, not counterfeits who compared the treatment of Goliath's head with the disposal of his body.  Rag picker history surrounded by ruin, collectible data, blueprint of dream city, this Jerusalem spectral and estranged and sprawled. So I haven't lived my life for nothing.

I had to buy the British Nova Express for the red cover with the train on it and the phrase on the cover in Spanish, Spanish express, French boxcar

I come to the wake, last apogee of pilots who bomb cities and crash, to account the execution. The walls rip their edges. Bones in embryo come to birth. I fall to my knees in destruction, swirl the wind, immolated, cast into sea. Where have remains not penetrated?  Every element in its chemical resembled a festival shrouded by day, loosed at night. Survived dilettantes of warehouses inhabit these huge posters of spiritual resistance. The warehouses never improve. Industrial residences with many stories and passages of exiles, unguarded ingress and egress above and below main stories. The first was a huge clapboard house in the colony, many times larger and mostly abandoned for these visits,  people crammed in small spaces with real problems and close quarter conflicts. Latest in this was a dream yard of roofed parking lots, shacks, another huge warehouse I owned, unsecured, never improved or locked, occupied by vagrants, migrants, gypsies, tenants, homeless, squatters, working men, blacksmiths, artists who had set up tables under the eaves The shops turned into a bazaar. Rumors were rife as the numbers swelled; various authorities demanded more and more. Papers of these refugees from the big black briefcase, doors opened and closed, and then closed for good. Escape was uncertain, indexed to the possibility of laying hands on the right piece of paper to enable exit, discern that figural presence of a.

salvific lure. Changing directions of this compass transfigures relations in industrial earth. So I went down yesterday to see and smell and ended up on my belly and side cutting bags and black bags of wall, scissoring out the dripping red insulation of the Wailing, prying out the cracks between concrete, metal and wood. Sometimes mice droppings would fall out of the wall after the smell, mouse or rot musk, as I push up, get balanced, ease down another yard, feet sticking out among chairs and fans. Sighs of breath get me up like a blast off which leaves me feeling pretty good, not thinking at least to dismantle the word and imagery machine. It was raining a little and that was when the lightning struck and killed them. In that area every year there  are dead from the rays and people know it is so. An average of deaths per year when the fatalities are added, hit by lightning so they could no longer do anything. A 21-year-old died and a man of 58 had to be hospitalized Sunday in that province,--altogether 55 and 60 million people died, rising to more than 70 million.Truth, elevating the person of commodity through entertainment, whistles in dark.

Images explained away, reconstructed under pretense of light, reshaping attempted escapes, fantasy boats and fable captains, visas for the countries of Atlas and passports for countries that don't exist. At port we pass for one of the sailors.  If you want to forget something that doesn't officially exist, empire  a terror in which the state as an end in itself grows a flow of stateless persons, expatriots flee to the West—not quickly, but in achingly slow advance from camps among wolves with dark blotches under the eyes.

A myth of space and time Hierosolyma. We should not tolerate the conduct of our lives in such a contrary state. Tramped alive with marching feet, a mythic reconstitution of the world asks, whose grave is this, this one and this? Search beyond comprehension in the predawn Alexander-built breastworks of Tyre that fill in time and make a peninsula.  Before Darius came down, and Nebuchadnezzar marched captives from Jerusalem, embroidered in all our limbs. 

Offerings, blood worship, river rising, first to the ankles then loins, many trees on both sides. It comes from the east and flows to the desert and sea, spiritu things, waters where all trees fruit according to months, one each for food and medicine because the water flows out from the house, the house a holy oblation four square for possession of the city and the name of the city Jerusalem, for Jahu is there, to complete the restoration. The west wall of Jerusalem is on my head. The geologic layers, the Babylonian Talmud are on my head. The Lehmann discontinuit, the Mohorovičić discontinuity, Hadean,  Archean, Proterozoic, Paleozoic, Mesozoic,  Cenozoic are over me, but in fact I am walking on their surface, as if walking on water, in which I sink, which gives some meaning of Leviathan and Jonah. And Jesus! 45 stone courses, 28 above and 17 under ground. Streets, cities, houses underground had fallen to ruin, a beauty of extinct volcanoes fertile from the lava that grows paradise orchards. To slip through the holes to turn, to wind, wriggle a way out of the evening you wanted to survive, streets and recesses overwrote history, millenniums over centuries, a year ran this dayman sunk in a network of arteries and veins. This land was once fashionable as a masif hotbed in a million colored lights. Like colored maps run the body, one extreme in another, expressed before put in words, waking existence led down, over topography, in labyrinths and lightning rods. Flash cones in eyes no longer of streets or sky, but eyes that connect ancient quarries and vaults, tunnels and caverns beneath. Artist talk, but not in words.

2.

Old Stevens joked in his hospital bed, "what a ghastly situation it would be if the world of the dead was actually different from the world of the living. . . to say farewell to our generation and to look forward to a continuation in a Jerusalem of pure surrealism would account for the taste for oblivion" (76-77). New Stevens knows better. It is Zion.

Different methods juice and oil. Cider press, putting apples to boil in cheesecloth and after all the drippings end, wringing the cloth to get the last squeezings. That 's what it feels  to get this now until the juice escapes. Thou watchest the last oozings.

We have to tread lightly. If we say minor prophets it is not just their names we spurn. Micah, Amos, Joel, Hosea. None are Jonah either, lamenting the gourd with a sense of fun, swallowed here, puking there. It's what they say makes intolerable, not just in your face, but in your ear. Pray they do not get in your mind and turn you to Nineveh. There are many ways to offend.Therefore I will wail and come to America. I will go stripped and naked, for her wound is incurable.  Roll in the dust you who plan evil at night and practice in the morning. All the graven images beaten to pieces, the high places of Judah - Jerusalem. Search out the mysteries of violence against brothers. Make you bald at the very Top of Esau. They see Yah before the altar digging sheol. From Mount Carmel to the bottom of the sea, righteousness turns to hemlock for those who carry the Moloch. The top of Carmel withering. Taken on their backs with pruning hooks. Sell and buy the poor. A famine where fats overflow the mind.

It is time to consider the inevitable rupture and collapse of the last empire. Some branch of physics must explain alternative states in the branching universe, possible selves in the billions. Results from all the choices made and not made lead to the not not made in the trillions; computer chips stored in the heel of the genome back to the stone. You thought it was the head, but it is the heel. Immigration status, financial records, inconsequential bios are head bound are the problem of the known. Alternative histories speculate. Only majority and minority views make the unchanging absolute. The physics is a hopeless fabrication of the endless universe wheelbarrow beside red chickens. It is history Alice phantastes majority protocol too. Science does believe in the absolute, the majority view. All histories are not simultaneously true for the majority. This explains America's unnatural war being lost along side the optimistic view that we can still win the war we lost. Majority history is the best of all possible worlds, censored for national security. These platitudes deny the horror of its heart. History is this Trojan horse built to hide the greatest conspiracy at the hands of the unknown cause. Oh do not ask what it takes us for a visit. Meanwhile eat Wheaties. I heard on Radio Zen rule # eight, appreciate diversity, but Whitehead and Russell, Albert North and Bertrand, said that DIVERSITY IS THE NEGATION OF IDENTITY (Principia Mathematica, 216), so I went to the antique mall and walked naked among dealers, shoppers, fakers, and honest folk. Can you tell apart alternative histories, all true, but not all good? Like the cheek teeth of a lion (Joel) the prophet says what comes of the blessed Jerusalem and of the Chosen is its unnatural history. Our Jerusalem, a blessed American hope of the ages, of Whitman not Dario, America of Roosevelt, anti-politic, America of war on dogs, where governments tingle at the sound of money to walk miles at night in the desert past the blooming white cactus, caching water.  Maybelline and Jack want to get high, race to the pueblos to take the oath. But compassion lies in the ditch with the wretched, upside down, fingers moving. Who knows but the words come out of the ground from some spring of Erebus, bitter water or clean, so clean it makes us see?

One thing  to admire in the midst where we all of us are dead, like Johan flailing up on the beach, Jonah, but I think he is Johan with a second breath, the two halves of Isaiah coming together in the resurrection, three boys dancing in a furnace, on and on. Among the prophet axeheads that float and angels that breathe in the face of Sennacherib, I cannot tell if I am waiting for someone to kill me or waiting for someone to turn on the lights. Bribed to say these things, to laud the unlaud, the details, dust, people, story, the escritoires, each idol crushed, all you need to be a prophet is the truth. Truth, inherently prophetic, shattering, because Ephraim made altars to sin, altars shall be his sin. Is there iniquity in Gilead? they sacrifice bullocks in Gilgal. The sacrificers of men who made idols of their own understanding kiss the calves.

How to tell the minor prophets from the major, the body of work, the lyricism, the suffering. At the end of the rainbow the emollients, dilutions of our six minds reach up to the point where we believe we are no longer valuable or even that we are what we are. Like rockets.  If you're a major prophet they divide you in thirds. There is no deutero Amos. Isaiah was sawed in two. It remains to saw in two the minor. "I now think that things are occurring so far beneath the daily patter of our civilization that we can both feel the tremors and at the same time ignore them. I think we are dying, and what we are dying from is from what we are". If you can't see it yourself, the culture of death, now look for a miracle."

Prophecy isn't in words it's in tropes, mystery plays and silent allegories, examples of being. He is a prophet in this sense, not a saint. He bears in his own body and mind the marks of our depravity and defeat at forces bigger than ourselves, not just sex and commercialism but greed and fear, those two most bestial nodes. "I believe in the instant we forget we commit a sin" (110) He is a prophet like Hosea who marries a whore to mirror the unfaithful, like Ezekiel who ate dung, like Elecuria who says the poor are all prophets who mirror our poverty for us so no wonder we hate them and mistreat them. He is a prophet the way woman abused is prophetic of the earth abused everywhere. It is useful to know these people are even on the planet. "In that day one shall take up a parable against you with a doleful lamentation and say We be utterly spoiled." Micah

Orchidaceae

That's why we lost the war. Get over it!  Orchid America blooms and its ways all consuming old and young, narcotic unresisted, but maybe the hundred year drunk, our high, is the only way the old ways can survive unassimilated. They were too drunk for the world and rejected all efforts to acclimatize their language, failed-because they were drunk. They say the orchids cannot be removed, they say we have grown dependent upon them. For centuries people faced the orchids, saw strange clouds, felt something seize their bodies they did not understand, died painful and surprising deaths. Felt the heel on their necks. And not given in or up. So by the metaphor you know the survival of humanity is a drug-drunk necessity while the machines take over. Would they had mastered the anesthetic, not blindly welcome H+. We had to kill the thing we love [ourselves, Humanity] to prove our love...We had to sacrifice our women to prove our love—so many one-breasted ones now ambling around as testimony to our adoration. Kill the thing we love. That is our central legend. The mutilation of earth, the mutilation of woman, the mutilation of health, nobody can say why fish have sores in the gulf, autism rockets Rocket is our favority epithet of all rockets, everything but the GNP that fell to earth, I knew not where so I made a list here, called Pray It Not Strange, often links, back links, vids, arts, potheads among the gold. We have achieved our Historical Absolute like good Doktor Hegel promised us so long ago. We have made our entire nation into a reservation.

I have the only full grown momma tortoise on at least the block, so bring him in, and he has lived so since, not in her arms when the small rain down Would rain, but near her den. Today he is following her, bobbing up and down and there is funny business of the 20 and the 70. This is to say if you don't like Bowdeen you must be too serious a sinner and should lighten up, for "we were too happy with the raw liver smeared against our lips to worry about the vanishing hoof prints" (5)

THE BLOOD ORCHID IS THE ATOMIC BOMB, the greed, the labor of thousands in its making, the belief in government, the killing of the buffalo by the ten millions until the orchids turn from fibrous roots into cables of our being "the roots getting thicker by the year, the first fine lines like lace on the bark of our lives...then coarsening as more and more wealth and power and energy surges through [a living gasoline explosion-Dario] and at first the roots begin to look like snakes, then like cables and later like giant aqueducts, the hidden heart pounding to the beat of explosives." (8) But in its truest essence the blood orchid is a metaphor of the post-human, which in short is the replacement of humanity by artificial intelligence. Granted, when "biological" this hardly seems artificial, but it is the ultimately conscienceless pretense even while it assumes the moral high ground of its own self arrogation. So whether we speak of social networks or hybrid life forms all are ultimate goods to benefit the human, understanding that as the post-human. How does it feel to be one of the beautiful people? As Leonard Cohen says, all the important mass murderers listened to the Beatles. These destructions and extinctions Bowdeen witnesses are but tangled weaves and counter weaves of DARPA, to call it by just one arm of its tentacles.