Kelley Jean White: Sugar Beats

Is maple sugar unusual enough? The real stuff not aunt
Jemima? Who ought to remind us of the Indies, west,
of cane firing the night and charring the limbs of little children
set to stir—white sugar, that a good Quaker would not eat—I’ve forgotten
his name, I, never Quaker enough to cease up sweet confection, —nor the dyeing
of clothing, Woolman, John Woolman, who walked bravely into the 1750
forest primeval to greet in peace First Nations, and walked brave through gates
of plantations to asked his brothers to give up their slaves.

I never know if this is the 20^th or 21^stcentury, was used to getting away
with 1800s, 1700s, 1900s, but twenty hundreds won’t work, but into whatever
this century is I walk, spavine and spigot and spiel—and turn my father’s great drill
again through the thickness of our patient great tree, tap tap, hang
the bucket, tilt this little tin lid against twigs and tiny insects falling
in the sap. My father’s drill holes scar the tree two feet higher
than my dust today. Still oozing sweet tracks in April.

His drill, I’ve left rusty. Hung on a hook in the last stall of the once
was a cow shed. I’ve never climbed to that loft overhead, those hooks and broad
beams suspended, don’t know what has been left all those years above me,
just the rope and the ladder, here and now, swinging, this little town, this piece
of my mind forgetting boiling broiling sweetness. See how we squeeze
the syrup through cheesecloth, how a touch of butter from the wooden spoon takes
away the froth? See me sleeping in the hired man’s room, rising
each hour to pour and stir, add more, pour, stirring at dawn
to bring in the buckets empty into the vats, set again to catch

the drip drip drip speeding up through the warming day. Amber. Light amber. Dark amber, each a different
taste stirring into your coffee, on your tongue. Can you taste the little burn scars on my fingers. Maple.
Cain. Or perhaps beets? See Woolman
sitting down crosslegged on fern and pine boughs. He tastes this on corn
bread. Nods to a companion in buckskin. We dip in our fingers. Sweet.
Sweeter. More sweet.

      Reputed-to-be-oldest maple sugar production site in the world on the Bolduc farm, Gilford NH. Photograph by Kelley Jean White.

AE Reiff: Saved From the End of the World

 I had told them they didn’t need me, that the tapes would do, hundreds of hours rebroadcast from the previous century. But no they said, they wanted contemporary critics! And that they didn’t want the loonies they had created by imitation in the old world in the new UnderGround. All that cloned patterning from 20^thcentury-made zombies. They wanted a century of teaching to preserve the human soul! Surface hideouts of proletarian survival were feared most of all, dog eat dog militia fiefdoms existing before the birth of nations. The whole purpose of the contemporary had been to prevent awareness of the Wipeout by distraction and entertainment patriotism. Paradigms of mindlessness required to dull the senses to misperceive the event had to be replaced with mindfulness and courage in order to come out of the bunkers fit in a hundred years. I was not up for a slate at the Big Dumbo in Denver, the Ivy boys were there.

The UGs were another species of utopian community that popped up in America from the start. America was a small group haven of too many to name. Always a brotherhood was desired but which resulted either in dissolution or the inauguration of a strong leader who had all the power. These communities broke easily. The alternative to the UG was the takeoff. The lesser of the proles took off and left earth entirely, thinking to return after the dust settled. Like doves? The fantastic Kieninger (1927-2002) chosen to lead the Stelle to space said that ships would lift off before catastrophe. Evacuation plans to board the Starseed enterprise were to "simply place your name on the ‘automatic pick-up list,’ and believe that it is so. Should the need arise, you will be instantly beamed aboard a starship to safety without having to step into the blue-white tractor levitation beam." A welcome suspended animation awaited the physical with the mental, but the Directorate feared this in the 1500 cites worldwide below.

Greater travesties pretended no solution beyond these: go UG, hide on the surface or go into space. Our government's plan was the best according to it. Beneath all cities and in vast hideouts of New Mexico and the Rocky Mountains production of untold UG bases stored every means of survival. Linked by mag-lev UG shuttles over thousands of miles, these were held by the greatest minds since WW II as the solution, to ultimately pop up like moles or prairie dogs a hundred years after and restart civilization with a cybernetic graft.

Mag-lev shuttle trains built by workers with missing body parts, hands destroyed by radiation, cavities lined with white plastic type material with various sized zippered doorways, "we opened several of the zippered sections over the solid rock of these hollowed out Norwegian mountains, hydroponic gardens in UG bases, original Native American food crop varieties with more vigor under adverse climate conditions, in case the seabed of the Gulf of Mexico was not covered with scores of salt domes suitable for sub-sea excavation and deep buried sub-sea-floor bases. These had housed the genetic engineering laboratories, and the human clone production facility prison. Also, a highly-secure cocaine warehouse for illegal narcotics in transit, clandestine nuclear weapons stores, a super-secure Presidential command center, a super-secure bunker for corporate executives and directors, an ark populated with a select human population destined to survive apocalypse…multiple clandestine, high-tech facilities buried deep beneath the ocean floor of the Gulf."

2.

I was reading when they came. Do you want to go with us to be saved from the end of the world? They don’t take no for an answer. I’m bound and gagged. My neighbors left behind. I’m to lecture in the program at DUMBpra Underground live, if they can get me to talk when all the species are pulverized by rock, but I’m too numb to go into it. The real question was whether to tell anybody ahead of the event since it was foregone it could do them no good. I go over my notes for the first class. "You’re here because Pop will eat itself, himself, yourself and all. Pop a doddle do." It was one of things that got me off the Red and Blue Lists. "Your first paper is to imagine you’ve been captured and are being held underground, but are intended by your captors to become a free society, completely cut off from all previous societies, families, ancestors and nature. Explain your reactions to this news and begin to design a new society under these conditions."

I had written about these communities, the second reason I got off The Lists: "the corruption and totalitarian nature of these undergrounds cannot be stated." There the colonies underground were compared to the worst gulags and Noah’s ark, but with a difference. Run like academies and military camps, they were set up and planned by such, the operating procedures were containment, thought control:

Imagine there's no silence, music always piped in,

with subliminal messages of control.

Imagine covert tranquilizers and stimulants in the foods,

microchips in every chin.
 

Imagine how much they would not desire literature to provoke thought and rebellion, yet realized that without art and poetry populations would be unable to survive once the gates were opened again. So to prevent the government science plan to survive from simultaneously killing the human spirit by these controls, just about the time I thought I could belong, I realized it was better to oppose the death of 5 billion than to cause it.
 

Vast UG facilities would restart 21^st cent civilization from the ground up, Atlantis reborn. In the star class of such facilities around the world, those guys would be the ones to pop up outside the walls of the New Jerusalem like gophers. All the institutional homes of presidents and vice presidents would belch forth officials in their high speed deep UG. Elevators beneath DC would hum to a lev-mag catch shuttle from Cheyenne mountain.

3.

I had written that "these survivals of humanity or the individual always assume life is worth saving, as defined by themselves. Isn't it better to live a slave?” Take for instance the bears enslaved to milk their glands, caught in "crush cages" on Chinese farms so they can't move and a permanent hole or fistula is made in the bears' abdomen and gall bladder to be milked daily for 'bear bile.' They are often fitted with iron vests to prevent suicide. One mother bear, provoked by the cry of her cub as its stomach was about to perforated, got loose, ran to its cub, strangled it, and drove her head into a wall to kill herself. There are in fact countless examples of such things which show that life or survival is only desirable if and only if...."

That was the assumption of my ancestors, Mennonites who fled a hundred years of oppression, midnight raids, imprisonment, torture. It was their position that life was not the highest good but faith was, and resting in that faith were counseled not to argue with their captors but to embrace their salvation in the blessings of Jesus, that is, embrace their death rather than adopt the beliefs of their captors, much like the apostle Stephen who was stoned, and the thousands cataloged from Hebrews 11 to Foxes Book of Martyrs to The Bloody Theatre. In this scene we had all gathered in the Coliseum, just as we were brought off the street. Caesar stood up and called out whether any were Christians. Now I know that Christian has been utterly defamed by his adversaries and his impostors. I know that Jesus has been diminished and defamed. Nonetheless, with my wife and young children standing with me, I shouted with the loudest voice, "I'm a Christian" and begin toward the podium singing out loud and louder, "Oh Lord our Lord, how excellent is they name in all the earth!" So you see I was not given tenure.

I had been bowling with Hank Hagerty, all night, in the early 60's, which we did more then once. I said, Hank, I think Jesus is going to return in our lifetime. He said, I do too. None of the parties to the survival of their enlightenment took this option, so there was some surprise when captivity got led yet once again. How many survivalists in the New Testament? They were all killed. So while I'm running up there to be beheaded I only do it from inner compulsion. What you going to do, avoid the Coliseum?

What anyway could you do underground? Who would ever stop saying? When is there an end? I'm not trying to write it. I'm writing, better to be out, outside in the event and enjoy it. Raise the hands in wonder and praise, sing Psalm 46. They will put the Psalms on the news. Echoing from every channel minarets of praise. Channel 3 has Psalm 8. Channel 5 has Psalm 91. Psalm 34 is on Channel 10. and all the neighbors will be outside singing, praising, O Lord our Lord, how excellent is they name in all the earth.

Bio: AE Reiff performs at Death of the Imagination.

Tom Hatch: Mistletoe

Turning the corner on a late fall day

The leafless trees were full of it fifty sixty clumps

A head each one so beautiful I could not be missed

To be kissed by the beauties under it's

poisonous bright greenness

Could be death could be love

In bouquets the size and shape of medusa's snaking head

Charmed in reflection of beheading their mass

An unwanted guest from her host cell (the tree)

yet waiting for a little kiss below the parasite

Eventually killing its host as all love does

Mistletoe is so misunderstood a kiss is not love

But if you ate some it kills imitating love all the same

 

 

Séamas Carraher: Famine Grave, Skibereen, West Cork

i am a very different nonperson
these bones and all that
ache and collapse in this
iron-lung without forgiveness.
i am a cold stone and a warming grass
that skims at twilight
through bush and lane like
a bird of prey picking its meat
from the unspeakable.
Here is a prayer at the foot of my head,
a hundred years unturned.
i am Joe or Mick at the mouth
of my own nameless grave,
am flesh and bones for the blasting sun
to burn them all and their silence too
deeper and deeper,
for all those dead eyes in a dying town
to skin this wind with skeletons.

Mother, this listening!
Like a flock of orphans forging a storm.

At the edge of my grave,
at this corner of the world,
my heart unglues its hunger
in crutches and splinters,
this starving heart,
in another nameless war.
The years, the fucking years,
fall away
like light shaved from the landscape.
i have been here before
in our coming without name,
our exile with nothing left behind.
i return again, with this childlike being,
endlessly travelling
like a man beaten in his tracks
by words and language and the lash
of a shuttered window, a ship in port sighing,
and the squealing of pigs:
all the lord's sunshine in corn and
an English law, an English landlord
in some lost place between
fire and sword.

So much like eyes in this black nameless rock.
So much rotting in its ribcages
to fatten the rich!
Only this dead bird in the freezing dark
shapes my journey to an inch of its
life!

Heart, too big that it bulges with these
lies of wood and world and word.

Heart, so small i can hear the stones
still singing here.

Heart deeper in its unvoiced coming
like Christ, another saviour
unmasked among the shadows.

It is all loss and nothing will return them.
Wind whispers its ungodly sound through
the empty rooms of my life.
These bony men, these wretched men,
these women and children
march, march, marching!
We are all journeying into a burning sun,
a sinking world,
into a howling bigger than all
these silent voices.
i join in my returning, a different child,
not man, an elbow
at each treeless corner, to  hold
this world apart,
for all these graves and their rotting dead,
my head and chest and bones and all,
at twilight,
like a small boy breaking in these arms.
That here God's a broken heart, an emptiness
to call our own
no bigger than these broken worlds
like earth collapsing.

Then see, on the horizon, how it comes,
hunger hunger hunger!
Only heartbreak,
unturning.

Three Poems

B. A. Brumfield                        Tom Hatch

There are stars up in the sky 
                                                A day does not go by I pretend 
Flickering promises
                                                Your promises are not a lie
But I can't see through 
                                                Only see within until exhaled cold breath
These raging storms
                                                An umbrella of steel to protect
The haze is thick and weighs 
                                                Of fog and no grace then
weary on me
                                                The steel is hard and thick
And I sink under its weight 
                                                Subterranean shadows move me
into the ocean
                                                Near lost promises in faded gowns 

And now I'm drowning
                                                In soaking wet of you and me

Father father I reach out to you
                                                        A metaphor of savior that is all I have 

Through the haze and waters as they rage

                                                        Coming in waves of I don't care
I reach for the promises and they

                                                        Have stopped pretending promises are real
flicker, they flicker.

                                                        Turning into flames that melt the stars up in the sky

Emma Ambos: From the Sky

Infantry of infinite          mordant marches
martyrs of melodic         turret-
ballgunners with w         ell wet fuzz
motherly they mar         row
and mellow the ye          llow
sun to pink plush a         nd death and
BANG(Damnthos           e commie-rats anyway)

Carol Bales: Mahoney Stops and Smells the Flowers

Neelam Chandra: Laburary Flowers

Andrew Ruzkowski: When I wake, I

Some-
            where in this     dawn
            I will understand the sliding
                                                            shore
makes sleep-tongues swell and
break our throats’ pounding black spasms.

            A
            gull floats and sways
                            like a planet caught mid nova.
            It
                            dips, coughs to me in
                            Januaries, says “remember,
            on-
                   ly   my bones       are
                        hollow and soft enough                           to bend.
                                    Can
                                                you shape a torso,
                                                mimic sweat like want, thread a sea-
son
through a glass eye?”
            I speak sand   again and again.
                                One
                        nail against my throat,
                            against my sinking blank portrait.

                One
                        vocal cord strung
                        between fingers, stitched on knuckles
                        bared
            natural,            normal.
    In this debris                       my hands till clouds,

trace
a stilled palm, a
            lined thing’s lined distance.  This flesh swims
                        on
            bone as a mantle,
            as a globe turning us to

leaves.
            I go beyond
                              something unequivocal like
            flesh
            swimming and sinking,
like a diorama of breath.

Look
at this tragic
figure, something like a clock face.
            It
            reads in sound, an
image like my eyes cut lengthwise.

KJ Hannah Greenberg: Galil

ETIENNE (#24) by Sherry Steiner

Film composition. A mezzo-phrase. A qualifier of elemental narrative arrangements. A shot defined as emotional jabbering. Etienne fasts forward to a time of

silent relief juxtaposing the elsewhere and the could have been moment that stuck to his heart. Oh what a sticky situation. Highly saturated reds, lavender
balance, blurred depth of field. However shallow the latitude he is able to fly through on its vertical axis. Dumbfounded but smiling he points to his own personal 
timbre; a cuckoo clock and a projection of himself as someone else. It was Friday when the sounds of traffic reminded him of Proust, Pierre's alter ego and the 
settling of the house. Footsteps thaw, a train passes by, a mirror falls from the wall. Terrified under the covers Etienne works on his script - lines collide - Ohio
becomes the home of the Empire State building and a cruise ship lands on the moon. Standard structural formatting does not exist here. Fade in and dissolve.
Physical arrestment. Constrictions. He briefly wonders if Pierre is more of a hobby - a patent to a weekend invention where exotic settings are two dimensional.
In 1895 turtles weren't as cautious when crossing the road.

Did Proust know that too?

 

Hostess by Alyssa Nickerson

Spiderweb-shrouded, your looks             betray

mountains.             Aviary limbs twist to

            mirrors and within minutes             you emerge:

            incantation of arcane            Graces.

             Fading                        ever                        closer,   you

are             as you become:             a ringing of

bells             –              like song to taunt             the ears of shipwrecked

sailors             tied to             masts                        lost in

pasts             unknown.             It won’t be long now,

girl,            it won’t be long

            until the gates of Hades

          break their clasps and let

loose the seas, a pulse cool and sweet as

stone , as            Acheron and Lethe,             libations

stolen along              river bank

            encampments             of the dead.

                        I forget - for you            flutter forth, sparrow;

oblivious and obscene, your fragile     beauty

            spills forth across bar and crafted lamp-

light as if you held man’s archetypes in every

            breath. Your music slides through skin

to cool             bone, your image             buried in

            snow,            seared             into soul,    as yet unknown.

My Name Is Chuck by Ed Markowski

And I live on a dead end street and I ain’t no dead beat and I ain’t no alcoholic

in any way shape or form just because I’m the last man out of the White Water

Lounge seven out of every seven days I’m a big league all star up front laying it

all down on the table no excuses all world rum dipped wrong fielder who would

drink Mickey Muscatel Grover Cleveland Brandy Alexander Hack Daniels and the

Sultan Of Schnapps way under the water table if all three of them boys rose up

and out of their graves in the prime of their careers . . .
 

And I always ride with two quarts of Listerine under the front seat just in case

I break down in the eternally dry hell of a Bible Belt panorama . . .

 

And I’ve never laid the blame for my lethal love on the weather or a woman 

or my father or a rough night at the Rouge Plant or at the cloven feet of the

low priest who bought and blessed my first bottle of God at the Stardust Party

Store on the sordid side of mind where every second is rush hour and Abstinence

Avenue flows into The Addiction Expressway . . .

 

And I drink because I love buying pretty glass bottles and I love the Autumn

Amber shade of bourbon and I love the Jamaican Patois of Sea Wind Rum and

I love the sweet nothingness of impure Everclear . . .

And I love the Russian Seduction of Stoly under summer stars and I love to

watch the hell bound ascension of High Life bubbles in my Superman Glass

and I love Queen Angevin’s cheap Chablis more than I love Queen Angevin

in room number none at the Alsace Motel when she laps it off all over me . . .

 

And I love the Zen simplicity of Sake and I love the burn of my sun rise

shot before breakfast as it corrodes and bores more holes through my buckshot

stomach lining and I love the solemn shroud of Scotch that slams the door

that keeps me hidden from lovers fools friends clowns strangers neighbors freaks

pitchmen barkers and myself and I love the romance language and alley etiquette

of my patron saint Amigo Tequila . . .

And I do love each and every Seven Crown Slut Havana Club Whore and Dixie

Belle Doll who shared a bottle in my bed fucked me left at noon and never

came back because they knew they couldn’t hold a swizzle stick to my true

love that nameless bitch who lives in every bottle on every bar from Alaska to

Zaire and from Absinthe to Zinfandel . . .

 
And I have no regrets or amends to make because from my fractured angle if 

a soul ain’t a drunk or dope dog by the time candle number twenty – five 

melts into the Kahlua Cake then that nobody hasn’t lived has it all wrong is

wasting the gift you’ve so tragically given and needs to make an appointment

with your post modern version of a wise man and the Geek God Of Groveling

Doctor Phil . . .

 
And every one says God God’s got a reason for every one and for every season

and it just hit me like a dust mote . . .

 
That I am the Matinee Idol Poster Boy and undeniably the best evidence that

the grand experiment you devised and titled Mankind has failed completely So

Bobby mix the Master here your best ten – billion megaton martini to ease the

burden of his twenty trillion megaton fuck up and put it on my tab. 

 

A Song for the Leaves by Ali Znaidi

“The tree has no leaves and may never have them again.

We must wait till some months hence in the spring to know.”

—Robert Frost

I want to sing a song of those birds which are cooing and standing

carefree on the boughs. I love their mystical rituals of Sufis .I want

to be intoxicated by the delicate perfume of the leaves before they

will be burnt or made into toilet papers. I gaze and gaze, I even ogle

the vividness of the leaves. I am speechless. I hold my breath. I am

agape, as if it is the first time in my life that I see green leaves. And

with all this greenness— a really true green, I can’t help but let out

a big true smile because my innermost is really rapturous—a state of

elatedness that Madonna experienced when her “La Isla Bonita”

topped the Singles Chart. Ogling the leaves gives me that

power to capture that lint of thought that was just a fugitive earlier on;

I’m really rapturous—exquisite emotionality metabolises green in my

veins, and with all the commotion I can’t help but keep ogling, and

reel from the magnitude of the encumbering weariness and the extreme

psychic pain. I find myself with so many leaves, so vivid, like a king

with so many women. I can do nothing but touch whatever leaf that

reaches towards me, inhale its pure oxygen and sink into ecstasy. Even

when I stop touching the leaves I just lie under the foliage listening to

the rustling, whispering and murmuring of the leaves—such a music to

the ear. Leaves have emotions too. They moan with pain when the power

saws are doing the boughs; but once great always great. The tree is always

great despite saws, axes and knives. The tree never genuflects to her

executioners. The leaves are used and abused but they still rustle, dance,

& jive just to enrage the executioners, and make them feel how little they

are in front of their majestic grandeur! Oh, dear Chomsky! I think we cannot

apply PS-rules to the syntax of the leaves because their syntax is so mysterious.

It has its own enigma that is difficult to unravel. How can we apply these rules

to their syntax? Especially when the leaves touch each other .They seem like

exchanging glances, cuddles, hugs, and rolling in the hay, but in a Platonic pure

way. I really feel rapturous. I’m just under the tree considering the lights that

flicker through the leaves. This scene deports me to realms of glee. The foliage

scent stirs something pleasurable inside me. It even eradicates any stench that

dares to come in the presence of the leaves… I can’t help but succumb to this

charm and continue singing my song…

 

leaves of every shapes:

lutes, drums, guitars, and cellos

a sweet dulcet song

Denominations by Ed Markowski

Me and Laurie was watching the Rockford Files and getting ready to watch

Wheel Of Fortune in room number nine at the Pelican Motel down in Biloxi,

Mississippi when we decided we was gonna shack, snack, and suckle legit

in the eyes and shackles of society, our families, and the Invisible Man up

where ? I cut the TV. Laurie blood hounds the Yellow Pages. I shaved. She

shouted, “ I found the place Wild Bill, so slap on some skin bracer, and

strap your ass in the saddle. “

We drives up highway forty – nine and stops at the Paramount Mission

Baptist Church in a no horse dust drop named Wiggins, population seven

hundred and twelve counting me, Laurie, and one on the way any day now

as the grand finale of that night last May when me and she was howling

in the galley of Bee Landry’s shrimp boat down in Happy Jack, Louisiana.

So, Laurie and me sits down with this hard shell Baptist preacher, and we

tells him we’s traveling down the right route these days. We tells him too,

that the right road started in the Yellow Pages and ended at the plywood

door of his church. We tells him that we no doubt is gonna ride that road,

surf that wave, and fly that sky across every cloud and seam of blue, till

we reaches the sanctified shores of that sun lit nation called Holy Matrimony

right here, right now, if you’ll marry us Mister Minister.

The hard sell Baptist looks us over, scribbles something on a desk calendar,

and says, “ Three – hundred dollars, and that includes a bouquet of beautiful

Snapdragons for the bride, and a boutonniere of Tiger Lilies for the groom

fresh from our congregation’s Glory Garden. Our organist’s fifty – five dollar

fee is also included. Fifty – five dollars might sound steep, but one night way

back and long before she was saved, our Miss Sally Duncan played piano at

Spooks Roadhouse in Jackson for the Troubadour from Tupelo when his regular

key man mixed the wrong pills with some sour mash. Well, there aren’t a whole

lot of us walking around who can tell our children, grandchildren, and great

grandchildren that a celebrity who played piano for the King of Kings, played

the organ at our weddings. Now, we must always walk with humility in the eyes

of our Lord, but the fact of the matter is, having Sally play automatically grants

you two at the very least, a lifetime of undeniable bragging rights that will never

be topped. Now, before we go to the Chapel, there’s one question you must

answer. If either of you answer incorrectly, you’ll both be free to continue living

in sin while reserving your eternal seats inside the pit at B. L. Zee bop's Original

Old South Bar-B-Que. “

Then, the hard shell Crabtist aims his long left index between my eyes. “ You

first, “ he says.

“ Deal the cards and pull the trigger Doctor Holliday. “

“ Do you believe in God? “

“ Kinda, Mister Minister. “

“ Kinda? What’s Kinda ? “

“ Kinda’s a type of intelligence that no man or woman can pin down. “

“ Go on.”

“ Educated people calls it an incomprehensible and nonsensical intelligence that

makes, moves, and removes galaxies, planets, mountains, men, mice, and microscopic

beings.”

“ Is that all you have to say about your Divine Father? “

“ Is that all ? I said too much. “

“ Too much ? “

“ I keep family secrets secret, Rev. “

Mister Minister sticks a fresh plug of Kodiak in his mouth. He looks me over again,

then he says, “ You’re on the road to hell son. “ So I says, “ Rev, I’ll be waiting for

you, and when you show Rev, the ale’s on my Anthony, the whiskey’s on my

Washington, and the hooch is on my Hamilton. “

The hard sell Zaptist points a black ink pen at Laurie. “ Are you prepared to marry

a man who you’ll be separated from for eternity ? Do you believe in God young lady,

or are you a member of the Kinda Congregation ? “

Laurie aims a tube of Cherry Burst lip gloss, and her cherry red lips at the Soul Bleacher.

“ I’m a member of the I don’t wanna know congregation, and I’m a member of the I don’t

give a shit congregation. But I’ll promise you this Mister Minister, when I prance into hell

I’ll ride you and Wild Bill for free for ever, and ever, and ever, and ever, forever amen. “

With two new splinters sprouting in his eyes, the Diamond Back Asptist says to us, “ Since

the beginning of time, everyone who shows up at my gate, and I mean everyone, forgets to

add the R in my name. No matter how hard I try, I can’t figure it out. I guess I’m not as all

knowing as everyone thinks I am . . .

So, please do me a small favor. After the ceremony, if you decide to pay the three – hundred
dollar fee with a check, please make it out to G O R D. “

Report of Some Events On the Jersey Turnpike by AE Reiff

I was traveling the Jersey Turnpike late from Montauk when off a sideroad I saw this ad:

Who Wants

A Guillotine for the Rooster

Crowing in my Head.

To think anyone would guillotine themselves was a horror of Madam Tussaud. They listed heads on this website, Sir Thomas More.... 

The Montana outback and the side yards of Idaho were where I first saw.

My luckiest shot,

was finding one

abandoned when it wrecked,

like a great beast

brought down from the sky

except it didn’t fly,

it was a boxcar,

albeit  nasty.

I was able to get right close as that Super 8 movie of kids seeing a train wreck, called a zombie train, but I was coming from the other end, investigation not from fiction or fact but art.

I owned an

image of the thing

I could turn

upside down

to shake out the missing parts. The difference between reality and the train is the train seemed both train and beast, animated from within, its cargo death, prisoners manacled, a guillotine at one end. 

I wonder if the guillotine wasn’t added later as designer embellish, overcome with the genius of concocting liquidation of 15 million people in the hasty dead of night all at once. Rocketing down the tracks, hermetically sealed, no cracks in the floors like the Nazi boxcars, shiploads of Chinese guillotines came to our shores, stored at US army bases to enforce the Noahide laws when the constitution was suspended. There was not then the guillotine use for the home that we would all like.

Who wanted guillotine for rooster crowing in their head, or a closet for that stray rooster crowing in the yard? It’s not as though any of this were new, Pol Pot killed 5 mil, Stalin 30 mil, Franco ….

To think somebody would want him enough to guillotine is an honor. To join Sir Thomas More, even if the head is not on a battlement or be a subject of Madame Tussaud: "Tussaud!" the Musical, was a second installment.

1. Report of Some Events On the Jersey Turnpike

Some of you will think this report of our chief informant, renegade psychiatrist Dr. Edmund Lockerbie, as suspicious because he worked for all the concerned parties in question, but went missing during a disruption by the Falun Gong in several parts of town. That disturbance itself was suspicious. Somehow he threw his captors off and escaped from the compound from which nobody is supposed to emerge. His Report itself concerns both aspects of religion and government so nefarious as to make difficult comprehension. We put it out in the bits and spurts found among his tapes made while on the run.

It’s difficult to understand reports of 40 foot cargo containers with shackles and a guillotine at either end, or to recommend any of it be believed. He says you can see these yourself at the Beech Grove Amtrak death camp, should you be going to Indiana. FEMA camps themselves were prominent in his report, at the top of the list compared with new coliseums of lions roaring, chariots rumbling, people screaming of the usual stripe. Whether they were martyrs who oppose the gods, or martyrs as victims, hence the only ones who lift the veil, it was only for a short time, for martyrs don’t last. They were judged insane by the President and the Psychiatrist, who was also so judged by his captors. You can be judged too if you allow seeing the world briefly as a vast war for citizens in the cheap seats, and not infinite and holy as Blake and Ginsburg said, three second subliminal bursts for gold on TV. Mennonites on the floor were the pity of us all. The books of martyrs were full, which St. Stephen saw in the gods and governments together: "You made gods out of stars, worshiped heavenly bodies, had a portable Moloch for your Saturn to carry the idols you worship." [cp. Amos 5:25f] Hey, that's what Sir Stephen Spender said about Berlin!

Higher Ararata functions of art, electromagnetic field support for airport space ships are beside the point, said Dr. Lockerbie. He had readied transport to that other world through pictures of the Denver Murals  seen inside the FEMA Car, like reading a comic book of the Odyssey. Not many have been in one and survived to tell. In shackles, among Guillotines and coffins, he thought he was sure to join Sir Thomas More, whose head presided those months on London Bridge in 1535, which bridge now stands in Lake Havasu, itself lightly regarding deliverance to inspire the millions’ escape of reason behind the facts. But he did escape. Shades of guillotines, boxcars and coffins, Project Endgame, shackles, boxcars loading and unloading, airports, underground bases, it hardly seems a bridge to the peaceful mind.  Anyway, under those circumstances the Psychiatrist revealed to us the Project:

2. Boxcars, Airports, Spaceships and Other

“I was traveling late on the New Jersey Turnpike when I first saw them. My luckiest shot was finding one abandoned after it wrecked. In a false analogy of a beast fallen from the sky, it didn’t fly, it was a boxcar, a pterodactyl of the rails. I got close by reminding myself of the Super 8 kids seeing that zombie train, but coming from the other end. I was investigating neither fiction nor fact but art. Indeed I saw an image of the thing in the underground vaults, turned it up and shook the disbelieving parts out.

Ararat Art as divination is as risky as the difference between reality and film, as anybody can see in the EU parliament and Breugels, or in the Guggenheim and Denver. The FEMA train and beast, animated from within, now filled with paper, originally carried cargo manacled end to end. I tell you the guillotine was later added by its designers as projection, so overcome they must have been at concocting a means to liquidate 15 million. They must have had a market for blood, rocketing down the night tracks hermetically sealed, no cracks in the floors like Nazi boxcars had. Weissmandel, rabbi of Slovenia, cut with a dull blade through the bottom of that boxcar entering Auschwitz and escaped like our Lockerbie.

The government underground did not see that as reason to forgo the home market of guillotine use. Who would not want a guillotine in the closet, they argued, where, when it is not performing its design, a stray rooster could be dealt with, or for cutting cheese, eggs, bread and meat? Not as if any of this was new to Pol Pot, Stalin, Franco. All who want to join the guillotine throng assume the honor of joining Sir Thomas More, as at the hip, even if his head is not yet on the battlement, or be a subject for Madame Tussaud.

One of the first to market these products, our sales dummies mimicked guillotines, death trains, Denver murals, at home and on the road.  A home is not complete without. Hurl the wolf at the deer if you wish. That is how, dawg, you treat people worse. Already St. Stephen saw them rush: “they rushed him and dragged him out of the city to lay their clothes at the feet of a young man.”  You take off your cloak so it doesn’t get blood, fastidious as Mengele, more the government part.

In religion they found Assuaged Care Incorporate in the shrine of Moloch at hospital beds. Millions and millions of human stem cell donors give up their genes, or expropriated fulfilled the double need of assuaging guilt and fulfilling labs. Animals, humans, plants and earth were sated with the illuminate. Idols in every grocery sang with the Falun Gong, “come buy, come and buy,” while their subtext lay pence upon the staring lidless eye. The idols on TV!

To  say this was the product of the gods disbelieved, contradicts. To say that One rules many contradicts, and illustrates why the machine will never think like us living contradictions, no matter what its power. To be or not to be, our constant companion, doubt, faith, belief, unbelief, peace, war, logic, absurd, it’s not just that we are opposite, but contradictorily so. Anyway, if the machine cannot program itself to program itself not, that is, out of existence, it cannot be us. We presume this is good.

Regard the de Garis transhumain as Cogito ergo sum, I doubt therefore I think, Dubity Do. This is also the way of no gods but One, but that One works in such illogical ways as to perfectly communicate to the essence of contradictory man. Law, break law, teleologic ethic suspend,   but natural law as well. This was  the scandal of science, that truth should break laws, for they gave that right only to themselves. No matter. Remember contradiction well. If none, know you are being machined!

3.  Photographing the FEMA Boxcar

Books of martyrs are full of stuff that  happens in train yards. Stephen Spender saw them in post-Weimar Germany, “after you worship Saturn you make a portable Moloch to carry around its gods.”

Analogy to a beast brought down from the sky seems in order, except it doesn’t fly. I came to it from the other end though, not from fiction or fact, but art. I saw an image of the thing and could not resist turning it down and shaking. When I was able to get close it reminded me of that zombie train.

I saw them traveling late on the Jersey Turnpike. Since trailed to Montana and the side yards of Idaho, my luckiest shot was finding one abandoned when it wrecked. This Saturn seemed both train and beast, animated by its cargo within, prisoners manacled in a death train with a guillotine at one end. It sounds like B. Traven. The guillotine must have been added later by designers overcome with that reckless Boxcar Named Desire. Liquidation rocketing down the tracks by night, hermetically sealed, there were no cracks in the floors like Nazis. No Weissmandel snuck out to save his wife.

 If you want to know how I got hip to the train yard of Chinese guillotines stored at US Bases keep the engine running. I won’t be a minute.

The gods had their counterpart among men and government to show how wonderful when they work combined! Among those expendable containers of population reduction and higher consciousness-gathered levels of information about Fusion Centers,  that wrecked boxcar showed evidence of two hundred million plastic grave liners, when only 50 million were needed.  One could hold at least four.  How’s that for planning? How's that for government waste? How will they die? That’s being prepared, all every martyr from Rome and before could hope for, population reduction being a must, which proves that FEMA camps do not exist on Archuleta Mesa, Greenbrier (VIP only) and a hundred plus sites. Neither is there evidence for the 129 Deep Underground Military Bases (DUMB) Schneider found in Kansas and Nebraska nor the Ten Sectors that house the Underground Cities below the Residential Centers above.  And if there were it would only be to keep you safe. Neither are these fantasy underground cities staffed with alien and international soldiers. A lot of this material generates from  a lecture by Phil Schneider of May 1995, Underground Bases financed by trillions yearly in black budgets.

As to the involvement of Orion, Sirius or aliens in earth, who you gonna believe? Philer says Eisenhower’s Treaty of 1954 allowed experimentation of “implantation techniques” on humans in exchange for all this technology (interview with Schneider’s wife here). Now we know how Steve Jobs got his Apple, important because it wonderfully elaborates the Mandarin conundrum where the gods give power and control in exchange for one human life to torture forever, (code for adrenal glands and get high). Why don’t they just synthesize? The muse is silent on that, but another caveat, courtesy of Schneider, holds true even as our Sky Station Senators stand at the airport, their middle fingers raised in welcome (which we’re not supposed to be saying by the way, even if you’re hoping it’s Denver). Different teams at different times display on alternate Thursdays.

If Schreiber is credited they should not point up but down. He got in the worst trouble of his life at that Archuleta high plateau when rappelling down the cavern. His wife said, “he peed in his hard hat and threw the pee at the aliens which killed some of them. Many years later I would see a fictional program on TV where aliens were highly allergic to ammonia and would die from it” (here).

Ill equipped as we are for space flight it is heartening to learn that we may yet defend the planet at our feet with the time honored Ed Abbey Defense. He, on first sighting the Grand Canyon: “the first thing I did was urinate off the rim onto a little aspen” (One Life at a Time Please, 124). Research has proved that what is welcome to an aspen is noxious to a grey alder. Beyond the power of uric acid and its weaponization, the question whether distance in time and space matter in suffering to a human onlooker is still worth pursuing, to see whether or not one feels implicated in the fate of another. That is, shall the Chinese Mandarin be executed with impunity by the European for some putative good, merely for the exercise of power, or is that repugnant?

Whether this appears to be a nightmare out of Nazi science where there is no end of sacrifice of the foreigner, the alien, the Mandarin, even those of one’s own party if disenfranchised, it is all for the good of the party in power, established controls, so there is no sense of utilitarianism in the choice, no good for the greatest number. There is good for those in power!

Since these boxcars and their adjuncts are to have claimed from 5/6 to 7/8 of the human population by 2029, I’m not sure who’s reading this. That fate is better anyway than the passenger pigeon, which is not to take lightly the 100,000 missing milk carton children or the 550,000 missing children on the FBI report for 2011. As Denver Mural 2 notes, this is insignificant in comparison  with The Greada Treaty which bought all this technology, though never ratified by Congress.

Cosigners of the GREADA TREATY did not keep their word. Proponents in Cosmic Court argued Great White Father didn’t so what’s to say they should? Iksayhearsay, after promising to turn in lists of humans kidnapped and tortured, glands and brain cells, 6 or 7 million turned up missing. Then they turned to illegal aliens. Immigration didn’t exactly make I Like Ike. You’d have thought he knew better being a general of the Milt-Ind Comp. A bromide sold? Ike and his mere paper against the Military Industrial Complex sold the rest of us. Our comfort was the Manacled Railway Cars, which Nazis made proud, but obsolete. US Steel in its place made better seats for the better life designed for them who knew. You’d think some conspiracy afoot. You’d think a vast image out of spiritual mundi covered my sight. At least the Gunderson cars had side vents!

In consideration of all this a silver lining is due. The manufacture of Manacled Railway Cars revived the boxcar industry from near extinction by cargo trains. Big Steel made seats for 15 million to be hauled to a better life, over 100,000 boxcars in all, good for the economy and good for share holders. It can be seen that there is no giant conspiracy in this, and further, the cars had side vents!

I don’t know if you’re still with us in this Report, but you might know that once a Psychiatrist gets going they don’t easily stop. I tried to tell him there was a tomorrow, but he interrupted me with this:

"You conspiracy people need to get a life, count on that. Even if wind socks are blowing inside double stranded barbed wire fences along railroad tracks from Van Horn to Marfa, it makes a very very very fine house, a childrens’ playground with two cats in the yard, but it has no airport! [you are meant to play these songs as you read!] Has Halliburton got to do everything? Denver Airport too?  No wonder Anubis is on guard. Execution orders are executive orders, enemy POW camps are residential centers, biological pandemics give no excuse. I won’t give the House bill numbers in case of civil unrest. With higher consciousness comes higher crime. Ain’t it wonderful when gods and men work together!”

Nor should one quibble when millions and millions have gone before, given a back to the smitters and cheeks to them that pluck hair. Whatever the outcome, whatever justice outcries rise from blood, we run toward it singing. Look at the installation of the thousand melting men, the 2501 Migrantes, the mass nudes, the tortures of The Fixer, Solzhenitsyn, Guernica, Goya, George Pratt, Find Me A Voice, Paul Ruiz and  Stay off the Jersey Turnpike. Now hit the gas!

Brought to you by your Pithy Tract Diffusion Detention Centers

Bio: AE Reiff  addresses Insight Statutes, The War on Neptune, Opiomes: The Domes,  more or less indexed at Encouragements for Planting during business hours.