Like a psychotic docent in the wilderness,
I will not speak in perfect Ciceronian cadences.
I draw my voice from a much deeper cistern,
Preferring the jittery synaptic archive,
So sublimely unfiltered, random and profane.
And though I am sequestered now,
Confined within the walls of a gated, golf-coursed,
Over-55 lunatic asylum (for Active Seniors I am told),
I remain oddly puerile,
Remarkably refreshed and unfettered.  
My institutionalization self-imposed,
Purposed for my own serenity, and also the safety of others.
Yet I abide, surprisingly emancipated and frisky.
I may not have found the peace I seek,
But the quiet has mercifully come at last.

The nexus of inner and outer space is context for my story.
I was born either in Brooklyn, New York or Shungopavi, Arizona,
More of intervention divine than census data.
Shungopavi: a designated place for tribal statistical purposes.
Shungopavi: an ovine abbatoir and shaman’s cloister.
The Hopi: my mother’s people, a state of mind and grace,
Deftly landlocked, so cunningly circumscribed,
By both interior and outer Navajo boundaries.
The Navajo: a coyote trickster people; a nation of sheep thieves,
Hornswoggled and landlocked themselves,
Subsumed within three of the so-called Four Corners:
A 3/4ths compromise and covenant,
Pickled in firewater, swaddled in fine print,
A veritable swindle concocted back when the USA
Had Manifest Destiny & mayhem on its mind.

The United States: once a pubescent synthesis of blood and thunder,
A bold caboodle of trooper spit and polish, unwashed brawlers, Scouts and      
Pathfinders, mountain men, numb-nut ne'er-do-wells,
Buffalo Bills & big-balled individualists, infected, insane with greed.
According to the Gospel of His Holiness Saint Zinn,
A People’s’ History of the United States: essentially state-sponsored terrorism,
A LAND RUSH grabocracy, orchestrated, blessed and anointed,
By a succession of Potomac sharks, Great White Fascist Fathers,
Far-Away-on-the Bay, the Bay we call The Chesapeake.
All demented national patriarchs craving lebensraum for God and country.
The USA: a 50-state Leviathan today, a nation jury-rigged,
Out of railroad ties, steel rails and baling wire,
Forged by a litany of lies, rapaciousness and ******,
And jaw-torn chunks of terra firma,
Bites both large and small out of our well-****** Native American ***.

Or culo, as in va’a fare in culo (literally "go do it in the ***")
Which Italian Americans pronounce as fongool.
The language center of my brain,
My sub-cortical Broca’s region,
So fraught with such semantic misfires,
And autonomic linguistic seizures,
Compel acknowledgement of a father’s contribution,
To both the gene pool and the genocide.
Columbus Day:  a conspicuously absent holiday out here in Indian Country.
No festivals or Fifth Avenue parades.
No excuse for ethnic hoopla. No guinea feast. No cannoli. No tarantella.
No excuse to not get drunk and not **** your sister-in-law.
Emphatically a day for prayer and contemplation,
A day of infamy like Pearl Harbor and 9/11,
October 12, 1492: not a discovery; an invasion.

Growing up in Brooklyn, things were always different for me,
Different in some sort of redskin/****/****--
Choose Your Favorite Ethnic Slur-sort of way.
The American Way: dehumanization for fun and profit.
Melting *** anonymity and denial of complicity with evil.
But this is no time to bring up America’s sordid past,
Or, a personal pet peeve: Indian Sovereignty.
For Uncle Sam and his minions, an ever-widening, conveniently flexible concept,
Not a commandment or law,
Not really a treaty or a compact,
Or even a business deal.  Let’s get real:
It was not even much in the way of a guideline.
Just some kind of an advisory, a bulletin or newsletter,
Could it merely have been a free-floating suggestion?
Yes, that’s it exactly: a suggestion.

Over and under halcyon American skies,
Over and around those majestic purple mountain peaks,
Those trapped in poetic amber waves of wheat and oats,
Corn and barley, wheat shredded and puffed,
Corn flaked and milled, Wheat Chex and Wheaties, oats that are little Os;
Kix and Trix, Fiber One, and Kashi-Go-Lean, Lucky Charms and matso *****,
Kreplach and kishka,
Polenta and risotto.
Our cantaloupe and squash patch,
Our fruited prairie plain, our delicate ecological Eden,
In balance and harmony with nature, as Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce instructs:
“These white devils are not going to,
Stop ****** and killing, cheating and eating us,
Until they have the whole ******* enchilada.
I’m talking about ‘from sea to shining sea.’”

“I fight no more forever,” Babaloo.
So I must steer this clunky keelboat of discovery,
Back to the main channel of my sad and starry demented river.
My warpath is personal but not historical.
It is my brain’s own convoluted cognitive process I cannot saavy.
Whatever biochemical or—as I suspect more each day—
Whatever bio-mechanical protocols govern my identity,
My weltanschauung: my world-view, as sprechen by proto-Nazis;
Putz philosophers of the 17th, 18th & 19th century.
The German intelligentsia: what a cavalcade of maniacal *******!
Why is this Jew unsurprised these Zarathustra-fueled Übermenschen . . .
Be it the Kaiser--Caesar in Deutsch--Bismarck, ******, or,
Even that Euro-*****,  Angela Merkel . . . Why am I not surprised these Huns,
Get global grab-*** on the sauerbraten cabeza every few generations?
To be, or not to be the ***** bullgoose loony: GOTT.

Biomechanical protocols govern my identity and are implanted while I sleep.
My brain--my weak and weary CPU--is replenished, my discs defragmented.
A suite of magnetic and optical white rooms, cleansed free of contaminants,
Gun mounts & lifeboat stations manned and ready,
Standing at attention and saluting British snap-style,
Snap-to and heel click, ramrod straight and cheerful: “Ready for duty, Sir.”
My mind is ravenous, lusting for something, anything to process.
Any memory or image, lyric or construct,
Be they short-term dailies or deeply imprinted.
Fixations archived one and all in deep storage time and space.
Memories, some subconscious, most vaporous;
Others--the scary ones—eidetic: frighteningly detailed and extraordinarily vivid.
Precise cognitive transcripts; recollected so richly rife and fresh.
Visual, auditory, tactile, gustatory, and olfactory reloads:
Queued up and increasingly re-experienced.

The bio-data of six decades: it’s all there.
People, countless, places and things cataloged.
Every event, joy and trauma enveloped from within or,
Accessed externally from biomechanical storage devices.
The random access memory of a lifetime,
Read and recollected from cerebral repositories and vaults,
All the while the entire greedy process overseen,
Over-driven by that all-subservient British bat-man,
Rummaging through the data in batches small and large,
Internal and external drives working in seamless syncopation,
Self-referential, at times paradoxical or infinitely looped.
“Cogito ergo sum."
Descartes stripped it down to the basics but there’s more to the story:
Thinking about thinking.
A curse and minefield for the cerebral:  metacognition.

No, it is not the fact that thought exists,
Or even the thoughts themselves.
But the information technology of thought that baffles me,
As adaptive and profound as any evolution posited by Darwin,
Beyond the wetware in my skull, an entirely new operating system.
My mental and cultural landscape are becoming one.
Machines are connecting the two.
It’s what I am and what I am becoming.
Once more for emphasis:
It is the information technology of who I am.
It is the operating system of my mental and cultural landscape.
It is the machinery connecting the two.
This is the central point of this narrative:
Metacognition--your superego’s yenta Cassandra,
Screaming, screaming in your psychic ear, your good ear:

“LISTEN:  The machines are taking over, taking you over.
Your identity and train of thought are repeatedly hijacked,
Switched off the main line onto spurs and tangents,
Only marginally connected or not at all.
(Incoming TEXT from my editor: “Lighten Up, Giuseppi!”)
Reminding me again that most in my audience,
Rarely get past the comic page. All righty then: think Calvin & Hobbes.
John Calvin, a precocious and adventurous six-year old boy,
Subject to flights of 16th Century French theological fancy.
Thomas Hobbes, a sardonic anthropomorphic tiger from 17th Century England,
Mumbling about life being “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short.”
Taken together--their antics and shenanigans--their relationship to each other,
Remind us of our dual nature; explore for us broad issues like public education;
The economy, environmentalism & the Global ****** Thermometer;
Not to mention the numerous flaws of opinion polls.



And again my editor TEXTS me, reminds me again: “LIGHTEN UP!”
Consoling me:  “Even Shakespeare had to play to the groundlings.”
The groundlings, AKA: The Rabble.
Yes. Even the ******* Bard, even Willie the Shake,
Had to contend with a decidedly lowbrow copse of carrion.
Oh yes, the groundlings, a carrion herd, a flying flock of carrion seagulls,
Carrion crow, carrion-feeders one and all,
And let’s throw Sheryl Crow into the mix while we’re at it:
“Hit it! This ain't no disco. And it ain't no country club either, this is L.A.”  

                  Send "All I Wanna Do" Ringtone to your Cell              

Once more, I digress.
The Rabble:  an amorphous, gelatinous Jabba the Hutt of commonality.
The Rabble: drunk, debauched & lawless.
Too *****-delicious to stop Bill & Hilary from thinking about tomorrow;
Too Paul McCartney My Love Does it Good to think twice.

The Roman Saturnalia: a weeklong **** fest.
The Saturnalia: originally a pagan kink-fest in honor of the deity Saturn.
Dovetailing nicely with the advent of the Christian era,
With a project started by Il Capo di Tutti Capi,
One of the early popes, co-opting the Roman calendar between 17 and 25 December,
Putting the finishing touches on the Jesus myth.
For Brooklyn Hopi-***-Jew baby boomers like me,
Saturnalia manifested itself as Disco Fever,
Unpleasant years of electrolysis, scrunched ***** in tight polyester
For Roman plebeians, for the great unwashed citizenry of Rome,
Saturnalia was just a great big Italian wedding:
A true family blowout and once-in-a-lifetime ego-trip for Dad,
The father of the bride, Vito Corleone, Don for A Day:
“Some think the world is made for fun and frolic,
And so do I! Funicula, Funiculi!”

America: love it or leave it; my country right or wrong.
Sure, we were citizens of Rome,
But any Joe Josephus spending the night under a Tiber bridge,
Or sleeping off a three day drunk some afternoon,
Up in the Coliseum bleachers, the cheap seats, out beyond the monuments,
The original three monuments in the old stadium,
Standing out in fair territory out in center field,
Those three stone slabs honoring Gehrig, Huggins, and Babe.
Yes, in the house that Ruth built--Home of the Bronx Bombers--***?
Any Joe Josephus knows:  Roman citizenship doesn’t do too much for you,
Except get you paxed, taxed & drafted into the Legion.
For us the Roman lifestyle was HIND-*** humble.
We plebeians drew our grandeur by association with Empire.
Very few Romans and certainly only those of the patrician class lived high,
High on the hog, enjoying a worldly extravaganza, like—whom do we both know?

Okay, let’s say Laurence Olivier as Crassus in Spartacus.
Come on, you saw Spartacus fifteen ******* times.
Remember Crassus?
Crassus: that ***** twisted **** trying to get his freak on with,
Tony Curtis in a sunken marble tub?
We plebes led lives of quiet *****-scratching desperation,
A bunch of would-be legionnaires, diseased half the time,
Paid in salt tablets or baccala, salted codfish soaked yellow in olive oil.
Stiffs we used to call them on New Year’s Eve in Brooklyn.
Let’s face it: we were hyenas eating someone else’s ****,
Stage-door jackals, Juvenal-come-late-lies, a mob of moronic mook boneheads
Bought off with bread & circuses and Reality TV.
Each night, dished up a wide variety of lowbrow Elizabethan-era entertainments.  
We contemplate an evening on the town, downtown—
(cue Petula Clark/Send "Downtown" Ringtone to your Cell)

On any given London night, to wit:  mummers, jugglers, bear & bull baiters.
How about dog & **** fighters, quoits & skittles, alehouses & brothels?
In short, somewhere, anywhere else,
Anywhere other than down along the Thames,
At Bankside in Southwark, down in the Globe Theater mosh pit,
Slugging it out with the groundlings whose only interest,
In the performance is the choreography of swordplay and stale ****** puns.
Meanwhile, Hugh Fennyman--probably a fellow Jew,
An English Renaissance Bugsy Siegel or Mickey Cohen—
Meanwhile Fennyman, the local mob boss is getting his ya-yas,
Roasting the feet of my text-messaging editor, Philip Henslowe.
Poor and pathetic Henslowe, works on commission, always scrounging,
But a true patron of my craft, a gentleman of infinite jest and patience,
Spiritual subsistence, and every now and then a good meal at some,
Sawdust joint with oyster shells, and a Prufrockian silk purse of T.S. Eliot gold.

Poor, pathetic Henslowe, trussed up by Fennyman,
His editorial feet in what looks like a Japanese hibachi.
Henslowe’s feet to the fire--feet to the fire—get it?
A catchy phrase whose derivation conjures up,
A grotesque yet vivid image of torture,
An exquisite insight into how such phrases ingress the idiom,
Not to mention a scene once witnessed at a secret Romanian CIA prison,
I’d been ordered to Bucharest not long after 9/11,
Handling the rendition and torture of Habib Ghazzawy,

An entirely innocent falafel maker from Steinway Street, Astoria, Queens.
Shock the Monkey: it’s what we do. GOTO:
Peter Gabriel - Shock the Monkey/
(HQ music video) - YouTube//
www.youtube.com/
Poor, pathetic, ******-on Henslowe.


Fennyman :  (his avarice is whet by something Philly screams out about a new script)  "A play takes time. Find actors; Rehearsals. Let's say open in three weeks. That's--what--five hundred groundlings at tuppence each, in addition four hundred groundlings tuppence each, in addition four hundred backsides at three pence--a penny extra for a cushion, call it two hundred cushions, say two performances for safety how much is that Mr. Frees?"
Jacobean Tweet, John (1580-1684) Webster:  “I saw him kissing her bubbies.”

It’s Geoffrey Rush, channeling Henslowe again,
My editor, a singed smoking madman now,
Feet in an ice bucket, instructing me once more:
“Lighten things up, you know . . .
Comedy, love and a bit with a dog.”
I digress again and return to Hopi Land, back to my shaman-monastic abattoir,
That Zen Center in downtown Shungopavi.
At the Tribal Enrolment Office I make my case for a Certificate of Indian Blood,
Called a CIB by the Natives and the U.S. Bureau of Indian Affairs.
The BIA:  representing gold & uranium miners, cattle and sheep ranchers,
Sodbusters & homesteaders; railroaders and dam builders since 1824.
Just in time for Andrew Jackson, another false friend of Native America,
Just before Old Hickory, one of many Democratic Party hypocrites and scoundrels,
Gives the FONGOOL, up the CULO go ahead.
Hey Andy, I’ve got your Jacksonian democracy: Hanging!
The Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) mission is to:   "… enhance the quality of life, to promote economic opportunity, and to carry out the responsibility to protect and improve the trust assets of American Indians, Indian tribes, and Alaska Natives. What’s that in the fine print?  Uncle Sammy holds “the trust assets of American Indians.”

Here’s a ******* tip, Geronimo: if he trusted you,
It would ALL belong to you.
To you and The People.
But it’s all fork-tongued white *******.
If true, Indian sovereignty would cease to be a sick one-liner,
Cease to be a blunt force punch line, more of,
King Leopold’s 19th Century stand-up comedy schtick,
Leo Presents: The **** of the Congo.
La Belgique mission civilisatrice—
That’s what French speakers called Uncle Leo’s imperial public policy,
Bringing the gift of civilization to central Africa.
Like Manifest Destiny in America, it had a nice colonial ring to it.
“Our manifest destiny [is] to overspread the continent,
Allotted by Providence for the free development,
Of our yearly multiplying millions.”  John L. O'Sullivan, 1845

Our civilizing mission or manifest destiny:
Either/or, a catchy turn of phrase;
Not unlike another ironic euphemism and semantic subterfuge:
The Pacification of the West; Pacification?
Hardly: decidedly not too peaceful for Cochise & Tonto.
Meanwhile, Madonna is cash rich but disrespected Evita poor,
To wit: A ****** on the Rocks (throwing in a byte or 2 of Da Vinci Code).
Meanwhile, Miss Ciccone denied her golden totem *****.
They snubbed that little guinea ****, didn’t they?
Snubbed her, robbed her rotten.
Evita, her magnum opus, right up there with . . .
Her SNL Wayne’s World skit:
“Get a load of the unit on that guy.”
Or, that infamous MTV Music Video Awards stunt,
That classic ***** Lip-Lock with Britney Spears.

How could I not see that Oscar snubola as prime evidence?
It was just another stunning case of American anti-Italian racial animus.
Anyone familiar with Noam Chomsky would see it,
Must view it in the same context as the Sacco & Vanzetti case,
Or, that arbitrary lynching of 9 Italian-Americans in New Orleans in 1891,
To cite just two instances of anti-Italian judicial reach & mob violence,
Much like what happened to my cousin Dominic,
Gang-***** by the Harlem Globetrotters, in their locker room during halftime,
While he working for Abe Saperstein back in 1952.
Dom was doing advance for Abe, supporting creation of The Washington Generals:
A permanent stable of hoop dream patsies and foils,
Named for the ever freewheeling, glad-handing, backslapping,
Supreme Commander Allied Expeditionary Force (SCAEF), himself,
Namely General Dwight D. Eisenhower, the man they liked,
And called IKE: quite possibly a crypto Jew from Abilene.

Of course, Harry Truman was my first Great White Fascist Father,
Back in 1946, when I first opened my eyes, hung up there,
High above, looking down from the adobe wall.
Surveying the entire circular kiva,
I had the best seat in the house.
Don’t let it be said my Spider Grandmother or Hopi Corn Mother,
Did not want me looking around at things,
Discovering what made me special.
Didn’t divine intervention play a significant part of my creation?
Knowing Mamma Mia and Nonna were Deities,
Gave me an edge later on the streets of Brooklyn.
The Cradleboard: was there ever a more divinely inspired gift to human curiosity? The Cradleboard: a perfect vantage point, an infant’s early grasp,
Of life harmonious, suspended between Mother Earth and Father Sky.
Simply put: the Hopi should be running our ******* public schools.

But it was IKE with whom I first associated,
Associated with the concept 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
I liked IKE. Who didn’t?
What was not to like?
He won the ******* war, didn’t he?
And he wasn’t one of those crazy **** John Birchers,
Way out there, on the far right lunatic Republican fringe,
Was he? (It seems odd and nearly impossible to believe in 2013,
That there was once a time in our Boomer lives,
When the extreme right wing of the Republican Party
Was viewed by the FBI as an actual threat to American democracy.)
Understand: it was at a time when The FBI,
Had little ideological baggage,
But a great appetite for secrets,
The insuppressible Jay Edgar doing his thang.

IKE: of whom we grew so, oh-so Fifties fond.
Good old reliable, Nathan Shaking IKE:
He’d been fixed, hadn’t he? Had had the psychic snip.
Snipped as a West Point cadet & parade ground martinet.
Which made IKE a good man to have in a pinch,
Especially when crucial policy direction was way above his pay grade.
Cousin Dom was Saperstein’s bagman, bribing out the opposition,
Which came mainly from religious and patriotic organizations,
Viewing the bogus white sports franchise as obscene.
The Washington Generals, Saperstein’s new team would have but one opponent,
And one sole mission: to serve as the **** of endless jokes and sight gags for—
Negroes.  To play the chronic fools of--
Negroes.  To be chronically humiliated and insulted by—
Negroes.  To run up and down the boards all night, being outran by—
Negroes.  Not to mention having to wear baggy silk shorts.



Meadowlark Lemon:  “Yeah, Charlie, we ***** that grease-ball Dominic; we shagged his guinea mouth and culo rotten.”  

(interviewed in his Scottsdale, AZ winter residence in 2003 by former ESPN commentator Charlie Steiner, Malverne High School, Class of ’67.)
                                                        
  ­                                                                 ­                 
IKE, briefed on the issue by higher-ups, quickly got behind the idea.
The Harlem Globetrotters were to exist, and continue to exist,
Are sustained financially by Illuminati sponsors,
For one reason and one reason only:
To serve elite interests that the ***** be kept down and subservient,
That the minstrel show be perpetuated,
A policy surviving the elaborate window dressing of the civil rights movement, Affirmative action, and our first Uncle Tom president.
Case in point:  Charles Barkley, Dennis Rodman & Metta World Peace Artest.
Cha-cha-cha changing again:  I am Robert Allen Zimmermann,
A whiny, skinny Jew, ****** and rolling in from Minnesota,
Arrested, obviously a vagrant, caught strolling around his tony Jersey enclave,
Having moved on up the list, the A-list, a special invitation-only,
Yom Kippur Passover Seder:  Next Year in Jerusalem, Babaloo!

I take ownership of all my autonomic and conditioned reflexes;
Each personal neural arc and pathway,
All shenanigans & shellackings,
Or blunt force cognitive traumas.
It’s all percolating nicely now, thank you,
In kitchen counter earthen crockery:
Random access memory: a slow-cook crockpot,
Bubbling through my psychic sieve.
My memories seem only remotely familiar,
Distant and vague, at times unreal:
An alien hybrid databank accessed accidently on purpose;
Flaky science sustains and monitors my nervous system.
And leads us to an overwhelming question:
Is it true that John Dillinger’s ******* is in the Smithsonian Museum?
Enquiring minds want to know, Kemosabe!

“Any last words, *******?” TWEETS Adam Smith.
Postmortem cyber-graffiti, an epitaph carved in space;
Last words, so singular and simple,
Across the universal great divide,
Frisbee-d, like a Pleistocene Kubrick bone,
Tossed randomly into space,
Morphing into a gyroscopic space station.
Mr. Smith, a calypso capitalist, and me,
Me, the Poet Laureate of the United States and Adam;
Who, I didn’t know from Adam.
But we tripped the light fantastic,
We boogied the Protestant Work Ethic,
To the tune of that old Scotch-Presbyterian favorite,
Variations of a 5-point Calvinist theme: Total Depravity; Election; Particular Redemption; Irresistible Grace; & Perseverance of the Saints.

Mr. Smith, the author of An Inquiry into the Nature
& Causes of the Wealth of Nations (1776),
One of the best-known, intellectual rationales for:
Free trade, capitalism, and libertarianism,
The latter term a euphemism for Social Darwinism.
Prior to 1764, Calvinists in France were called Huguenots,
A persecuted religious majority . . . is that possible?
A persecuted majority of Edict of Nantes repute.
Adam Smith, likely of French Huguenot Jewish ancestry himself,
Reminds me that it is my principal plus interest giving me my daily gluten.
And don’t think the irony escapes me now,
A realization that it has taken me nearly all my life to see again,
What I once saw so vividly as a child, way back when.
Before I put away childish things, including the following sentiment:
“All I need is the air that I breathe.”

  Send "The Air That I Breathe" Ringtone to your Cell  

The Hippies were right, of course.
The Hollies had it all figured out.
With the answer, as usual, right there in the lyrics.
But you were lucky if you were listening.
There was a time before I embraced,
The other “legendary” economists:
The inexorable Marx,
The savage society of Veblen,
The heresies we know so well of Keynes.
I was a child.
And when I was a child, I spake as a child—
Grazie mille, King James—
I understood as a child; I thought as a child.
But when I became a man I jumped on the bus with the band,
Hopped on the irresistible bandwagon of Adam Smith.

Smith:  “Any last words, *******?”
Okay, you were right: man is rationally self-interested.
Grazie tanto, Scotch Enlightenment,
An intellectual movement driven by,
An alliance of Calvinists and Illuminati,
Freemasons and Johnny Walker Black.
Talk about an irresistible bandwagon:
Smith, the gloomy Malthus, and David Ricardo,
Another Jew boy born in London, England,
Third of 17 children of a Sephardic family of Portuguese origin,
Who had recently relocated from the Dutch Republic.
******* Jews!
Like everything shrewd, sane and practical in this world,
WE also invented the concept:  FOLLOW THE MONEY.

The lyrics: if you were really listening, you’d get it:
Respiration keeps one sufficiently busy,
Just breathing free can be a full-time job,
Especially when--borrowing a phrase from British cricketers—,
One contemplates the sorry state of the wicket.
Now that I am gainfully superannuated,
Pensioned off the employment radar screen.
Oft I go there into the wild ebon yonder,
Wandering the brain cloud at will.
My journey indulges curiosity, creativity and deceit.
I free range the sticky wicket,
I have no particular place to go.
Snagging some random fact or factoid,
A stop & go rural postal route,
Jumping on and off the brain cloud.

Just sampling really,
But every now and then, gorging myself,
At some information super smorgasbord,
At a Good Samaritan Rest Stop,
I ponder my own frazzled neurology,
When I was a child—
Before I learned the grim economic facts of life and Judaism,
Before I learned Hebrew,
Before my laissez-faire Bar Mitzvah lessons,
Under the rabbinical tutelage of Rebbe Kahane--
I knew what every clever child knows about life:
The surfing itself is the destination.
Accessing RAM--random access memory—
On a strictly need to know basis.
RAM:  a pretty good name for consciousness these days.

If I were an Asimov or Sir Arthur (Sri Lankabhimanya) Clarke,
I’d get freaky now, riffing on Terminators, Time Travel and Cyborgs.
But this is truth not science fiction.
Nevertheless, someone had better,
Come up with another name for cyborg.
Some other name for a critter,
Composed of both biological and artificial parts?
Parts-is-parts--be they electronic, mechanical or robotic.
But after a lifetime of science fiction media,
After a steady media diet, rife with dystopian technology nightmares,
Is anyone likely to admit to being a cyborg?
Since I always give credit where credit is due,
I acknowledge that cyborg was a term coined in 1960,
By Manfred Clynes & Nathan S. Kline and,
Used to identify a self-regulating human-machine system in outer space.

Five years later D. S. Halacy's: Cyborg: Evolution of the Superman,
Featured an introduction, which spoke of:  “… a new frontier, that was not,
Merely space, but more profoundly, the relationship between inner space,
And outer space; a bridge, i.e., between mind and matter.”
So, by definition, a cyborg defined is an organism with,
Technology-enhanced abilities: an antenna array,
Replacing what was once sentient and human.
My glands, once in control of metabolism and emotions,
Have been replaced by several servomechanisms.
I am biomechanical and gluttonous.
Soaking up and breathing out the atmosphere,
My Baby Boom experience of six decades,
Homogenized and homespun, feedback looped,
Endlessly networked through predigested mass media,
Culture as demographically targeted content.

This must have something to do with my own metamorphosis.
I think of Gregor Samsa, a Kafkaesque character if there ever was one.
And though we share common traits,
My evolutionary progress surpasses and transcends his.
Samsa--Phylum and Class--was, after all, an insect.
Nonetheless, I remain a changeling.
Have I not seen many stages of growth?
Each a painful metamorphic cycle,
From exquisite first egg,
Through caterpillar’s appetite & squirm.
To phlegmatic bliss and pupa quietude,
I unfold my wings in a rush of Van Gogh palette,
Color, texture, movement and grace, lift off, flapping in flight.
My eyes have witnessed wondrous transformations,
My experience, nouveau riche and distinctly self-referential;
For the most part unspecific & longitudinally pedestrian.

Yes, something has happened to me along the way.
I am no longer certain of my identity as a human being.
Time and technology has altered my basic wiring diagram.
I suspect the sophisticated gadgets and tools,
I’ve been using to shape & make sense of my environment,
Have reared up and turned around on me.
My tools have reshaped my brain & central nervous system.
Remaking me as something simultaneously more and less human.
The electronic toys and tools I once so lovingly embraced,
Have turned unpredictable and rabid,
Their bite penetrating my skin and septic now, a cluster of implanted sensors,
Content: currency made increasingly more valuable as time passes,
Served up by and serving the interests of a pervasively predatory 1%.
And the rest of us: the so-called 99%?
No longer human; simply put by both Howards--Beale & Zinn--

Humanoid.

.  i really don't islam right now, as far as current archeological unearthing goes, circa mid 20th century, islam should look back onto its schism - and debate itself... whether or not Ali was, or wasn't given Muhammad's word as the just inheritor of the religion... since Muhammad broke, or rather, never kept his honor / promise to his son in law... mind you: the new testament could only have, and indeed did, only benefit the Byzantines (i love the variant of punctuation... bi-zan-tyne vs. bee-zan-teen)... and who do we know of, to be a respectable of both history, and the collective memory, from the Byzantine empire? not one... even by my standards: that's ******* harsh... the new testament was like a second Trojan war, against Virgil's aeneid... because why would the new testament even become beneficial to the western Empire? had it not disintegrated into protestantism, and subsequently secularism... the existence of the new testament has a time, and a space of supreme utility... the second counter of the Greeks against the Trojans... in the mythology of the Romans being the exiled Trojans... and, at its pinnacle, within the Byzantine empire... of course... but outside of it? like a **** inside a tornado... now if i were to rewrite the divine comedy... who would i take as accomplice? Horace? or Milton?

             if you ever read the footnotes...

  oh no, ******, you're not getting

away with this...

why is the mainstream media
concerned with the dead sea scrolls?

they're an extension of
the Hebrew tradition -
   they invite a debate concerning
the prophet Isaiah...

   the dead sea scrolls are an extension
of the old testament...

but the nag hammadi library -
which, "miraculously" emerged
within a coincidence of the
dead sea scrolls: simultaneously -
at the end of the second world...

right...
     the nag hammadi library is
no an extension of the new testament:
it's an... implosion...

     crucially: st. thomas' gospel...
which is contained in the library's oeuvre...
yet the mainstream media
thinks it's necessary to bother itself
commenting on the dead sea scrolls:
if you ain't a Hebrew,
the dead sea scrolls are,
seriously of no interest to you...

but the nag hammadi library?
    sure as **** it is...
              the whole investment in
myth, the Seth project -
              st. peter's apocrypha...
mainstream can go and **** itself
wondering why,
the dead sea scrolls were not
released for the public for 30 odd years...
mention the nag hammadi
library, and the ******* are twice
as clueless...

then you read the footnotes...
ah...
           the historical account
of josephus bin matthias -
   about the first jewish-roman war...
in the time of Nero...
      when the book of revelations
was written... as no precursor -
               by some obscure Greek...

as having inherited Christianity -
but not having moved in
the bureaucratic hierarchy -
   allowing myself
    the rite of confirmation:
baptism?
     oh yeah... ga ga goo doll
chant of a protesting toddler -

                there's this fine book,
by a german author,
concerning the gnostic cults...
can't remember the author's name...

evidently if i were hebrew -
i'd occupy myself with the dead sea scrolls...
but since i inherited some sort
of christianity:
                  i can tell you -
you need to look at the nag hammadi
library...
     concerning christianity -
the dead sea scroll fascination
   is probably on par with
the rejection of the old testament...
what the mainstream media
isn't telling you,
   is concerning the nag hammadi
library... unearthed in Egypt,
by some shepherd,
      incubated for, circa, 2000 years,
in some urns,
   in what appears
            to be Osama bin-Laden
                                  style caves...

what josephus bin matthias
wrote... and this archeological find?

thereupon felix -
               'a greater blow...
   was inflicted on the Jews by the Egyptian
false prophet. arriving in the country
this man, a fraud who posed as a seer,
collected about 30,000 dupes,
led them round from the desert (john
the baptist scenario) to the mount of olives
(the transfiguration scene),
and from there was ready to force an
entry into Jerusalem...
   the Egyptian fled with a handful of
men (the 12 disciples)'...

   because wasn't Jesus raised in
Egypt?
              and the archeological evidence...
where was the Christian apocrypha
found, in 1946 by a shepherd?
         Egypt.

dot dot dot...
      why would i even care about
the dead sea scrolls?
     the dead sea scrolls, last time i heard,
concern the wrongly executed prophet /
courtesan, Isaiah -
  who was cut at the abdomen
                        in an execution...

the crucifixion of Hey-Zeus is not
some cherry on top of the calamity that
befell Jude(a)...
            in its liquidation,
in what became the liquidation of
                    the Roman Empire...

but... i am curious about the nag hammadi
library -
            honestly:
   if the Vatican didn't have its head
rammed up the ******* cardinals' ***...
it could have escaped under hush-hush
closure...
   and the orthodox texts would be
left intact...
             but... given they have been
so ******* lazy about covering
this up?
    
    what happened to the Library of
Alexandria when Christianity
took the populist route?
                   em...
                         whatever "secrets"
are bound to the Vatican library...
   when a naked truth is staring you
in the face?
              does it really matter,
at this point?

                       not really...
     apart from retaining a catholic poetic
elasticity to the faith,
i.e. allowing metaphorical cannibalism -
i see... no point to be an Atlas
for the church...
   rather... a Samson -
            lodged between the pillars -
pulling it apart.

i can be a sadomasochist with myself sometimes,
given the videos i watch on the internet -
but then i'm again bound to being perched on
a windowsill, married to a dialogue with
the moon... and to tide bound,
sometimes the graciouis words comes my way,
sometimes the ingratitude... but then clouds at night
are never so by day.... and i feel blessed...
for they contort in such a way that i see
all paths toward pandemonium
leading, how they contort without
Mickiewicz toward no hope of castles or swans
being conjured - but hollowed out eyes of death
with a jester's smile of awaiting Tripoli -
are thus bound and exhausted
in exceeding their time there...
once monotheism conquered
the gods of both norden bound
and classics... it should be faced with a new
barbarism, and bygone strides
       against the demigods...
with a demi-**** that's Muhammad
of semi-applause allowed the gratification
of being literate, but as all good myths
abide by: unable to write out
δ ι κ τ α, plus minus 1 + 1 be the = dicta...
clouds in the night...
breathing magnimonity -
         as merely: cloud in the night,
Ilsidore...
had i been given the confirmation name,
now i can think of a name, i'd would like...
izydor...
             this is this last precision of magic...
had i been confirmed by a church,
and the bishop of some obscure essex country,
only being aged 30 i'd like the name to
be Isidore...
                     a bit late, i know...
  but i am an apostate, and i want
to drink from the font of baptism...
but you give me no water for my scythed lips...
for death scythes no bones...
had my confirmation be, it would have been
Isidore... the 16 year old me would have taken
to the name Michael... give it time
and it would have matured into Isidore...
Izydor of Seville...
but i am an apostate... and i don't believe this
egypt crap of the nag hammadi library...
i can't argue with a muslim,
i am given the archeology of the library,
and given the death of the prophet Isaiah...
it's too real to have these two prophets burried...
and in script re-awoken...
           that the new testament and the koran
make no sense... archeology sort of dislodges their
heart's intent to kneel and make macabre at the mosque...
it's impossible to convert... because you just can't convert...
   Isaiah was cut in half and Jesus was crucified...
i can't believe in the son of god...
                           both were burried...
       but the catholic bureucracy remains,
and if my confirmation name goes as anything,
i would now be called Isidore...
                                and if i'm mad for doing so:
then i have prince purple as my sparring partner...
                       nag hammadi & the dead sea scrolls...
no wonder the koran is so agitated...
      it has lost its profound origin...
it has lost its profound cool because it was lost...
the current muslim affairs are due to the fact that
the nag hammadi library and the dead seal scrolls emerged...
there's no simpler explanation,
   it's hard to testify irrational emotional
                                    coagulations when something is spoken
in archeological testimony...
    thank god the new testament speaks of jo and ma
moving to egypt, where the nag hammadi library was found...
and we know the prophet isaiah was a courtesan,
which is why we find his book in israel...
but the koran brotherhood is *******...
   i think the new testament wrecked more havoc
on northern europeans than the koran ever could
on the Indonesians... to be honest.
but because the two archeological findings were found,
the koran crew is *******... they're simply saying:
we prayed five times a a day, and for what?!
you ask me, i was expecting falafel and baklava.
                i can't expect them not being angry
when the koran has been undermined...
and it has...
                       when they hid the gospel of thomas
in egypt and sold the truth: by jew for jews alone...
no one thought it would backfire...
     st. paul can sorta forget mass circumcision as benefit
with these women...
  it's a question of: you have to re-learn
the benefits, to see what you lost.
              and you have lost what you couldn't appreciate.
so in america: anti-religious circumcision,
or secular circumcision and ***** paved the way for
what we have: rather happy masturbators with foreskins
and women with circumcised male partners,
and neither masturbators nor secularists want to
start families... d'uh.
             the koran is ******* because of what emerged
in 1945 and was guarded by the logic of archeo...
                                    you can't stop
because they know they're simply wrong...
we know from those adhering to st. thomas' gospel
as promoting trans-gender bulletproofing
that poetry can only be stretched so far...
   you can't tell demons to be methapors
   and tell transgender bi-genital creatures that they're
figments of our imagination...
you tell me a demons doens't exist: i tell you a transgender
person doesn't exist... this is the glorious
anarchy of st. thomas' gospel implemented without
the authority of the church...
the mystery of lawlessness? archeology:
hide it long enough, even the koran will crumble...
and lo and behold! i'm drinking! why?
because i'm celebrating this glorious whirlwind of
insisting anarchy!
         and why do i not feel rebellious?
that might be a good question...
                 but it's not...
              i don't have a proto-koran to begin with...
i have the old and new testament,
  and the emergence of
                      a 2000 year old hidden
mingling of the two, beginning with the prophets
Jesus and Isaiah...
                               one was a Jew that lived as a courtesan
and was cut-in-half...
the other was a Jew that became militant and later
made sure that Muhammad was also a militant
prophet starting off from a non-militant position
of mere merchant... according to the historian Josephus...
the compendium of the profanity of
tetragrammaton came with the historian Josephus
at the rule of Nero... hence the quickened
book of revelation being written...
                       once "the" beast reigned...
       it's no wonder that the two books are so unknown
in christianity...
            the fact is that the simultaneousness of
the emergence of nag hammadi and the dead sea scrolls
being simultaneous meant that the two old devils
of christianity and judaism would firmly diverge,
make divorce... and make secularism married to islam's
antagonism as the last blind-man fondling the elephant...
   i can't be jew because i'm not circumcised,
but i can't be christian in my liberalism to accept
the anarachy steering away from church,
   and family... or nation and federalism...
and i know, that's obscure; i just can't see
trans-gender ******* as a priority for humanity...
i can understand wearing a mismatching pair of socks...
but genitelia? that can't be jewish...
that has to be egyptian...
that has to be egyptian in terms of undermining
a jewish psyche...
                worthy of a crucifix... meaning that jo and m
really did travel to egypt and escaped herod...
               but je suis was cought up in the egyptians
taking rule and i bet one ******* duck-quack
that je suis was robbed from being capable of
conjuring up a dream... i bet je suis
couldn't dream... all the icons point toward that
crusade analogy.
                 it's still no excuse for the koran plebs
getting so frustrated that they have no archeological
involvemnt in the matters of today,
which is why they turned to brute and bully...
because they have been excluded from the archeological
findings, they can only do the meanest thing imaginable
and stage a violent insurection into the dialogue...
but since they're not really welcome,
and because they're actually talking *******
they can only resort to terrorism...
   it's a harsh reality to be met against...
    i'm not surprised they resort to terrorism,
given that they have no archeological grounding to
introduce themselves...
               into a civilised conversation...
          i'll probably bemoan this fact for
about 10 seconds... and then laugh for the next 10 minutes.

has anyone said anything to the LGBT movement that,
ahem, it is also a pronoun? i can't believe people are
getting dragged into:
                a. not only being taught
a secondary vocabulary that's "political", well, let's just
say democratically fascist - but that
b. a theological argument
based solely in the pronoun category is pointless -
i know point b. isn't really big,
or relevant, and to think
that St. Thomas' gospel once rejected
by the Church came back and
reigned in so much havoc that
it could have sparked the Syrian
civil war, and in general:
well... better edit Jesus from the bible...
at first it was the imitation of
the Kippah and the Tonsure -
in between the peacock and the pig,
religion resides - how you juggle
that field is up to you...
i tend you approach it as: well, whatever.
but this is really the best to be alive,
you can laugh in the night like you'd
never imagine laughing before -
i mean - who the hell would think
it wise to attack someone who sees
grammar use and wonders: but that's
also a pronoun, the changed Freudian
that (scalpel probing utility), later
popularised as it - or the complete
objectification of unit, aliases involve:
thought, self, personality, character, etc. -
well it's catching on like a ******* virus,
this unearthed grail of the Egyptian
desert - yes, they did travel to Egypt,
and look what came back...
perfectly fits Josephus' account of things,
which is literally two sentences
including the words: Mt. of Olives insurrection
deposit - i'm literally showing the easier
way out... most people took it too literally...
the existence of demons turned allegorical
altogether, but the existence of the words
inscribed as: make the outer the inner,
and the male the female: just shows you a lack
of both grammatical knowledge, and
poetic knowledge - the literal approach throws
you into the maggot pit of bullock -
and that's how it's going to say...
people took it too literally, that's the first
wave... taken as a sign of guilt from
a colonial past - they call the Visegrad
the new goose-stepping surgeons of thought,
this idea of a free and open society
has no boots on the ground in Anglophile
society - they fake being arrogant by
being courteous - being courteous is a sublime
version of feeling one owns a moral
superiority, which one doesn't...
and can you actually imagine yourself
being dragged through the filth of a discussion
concern pronouns? learn to build up a
subconscious of pure grammar association...
the unconscious, who Jung discovered
to be a hive you can't control,
i once suggested the idea that the collective
unconscious would resemble a society
where plumbers didn't know they were plumbers,
and no one knew what they were doing,
but incorporating the individual i see
the point of finally rationalising the individual
via the collective toward the unconscious -
the great free ***** debate -
primarily though, the particular use of language
will never reach a universal use of language
that isn't fragmented into a pseudo-arithmetic
of grammar - but it would do you a greater
good to endorse and implant grammar spectacle
to see past the fluidity of casual language use,
i.e. spot the ****** debate and say: hyphen!
down the middle! it! after all, we were children
once, and we played the game: you're it!
and ensure there's laconic appropriation while
people become forceful addicts of the flesh
to provide the weight to the categorised words
due to their change, and you're all airy fairy
with just the worded explanation,
still with the required genitalia and 2 billion Chinese;
but it's true though, look how horrified
the church is... the old geezers are not getting it,
they left the Egyptian shepherd unleash hell
on both Christianity and Islam...
the revision of the kippah was the monkish
tonsure - but this bit about ***-changes?
once again, blow-bubbles-through-your-lips
by motorising them and move your index finger
up and down... hey presto! a mongolian harmonica -
i can't believe so much intelligence was wasted,
and so much incorporated, and so much lost,
over a piece of skin that wasn't even categorised
as cartilage - it's a joke, right?
well, if it ain't, why the **** am i laughing?
if you learn grammatical categorisation of words,
you learn the insulating method of using language,
if whatever is offensive, becomes inoffensive,
someone will spend a whole life arguing the
transition from she                   into                 he,
with the haircuts and other adjustments,
while you'll be there, calling it neither he or she
(the end and the original result), but call
the individual accepting the transition by
the act of transition - incorporating the past
and the future via the transition period,
it! that's the laws of grammar, grammar in
psychological terms is the subconscious:
Freud tapped into the unconscious with dreams,
i managed to censor dreaming and sleep,
hence i tapped into the subconscious by
exposing grammar as, well, yeah: subverted language:
or language submerged by universal laws -
               in context you can understand
everything i write, in content? probably not -
again the boiling point is not 100°C - it's
universals and particulars - that's the 100°C of language -
via the thesaurus you get similar d.n.a. strands
(i just hallucinated a smiling face, but not too vivid) -
i.e. via synonyms and worded cleansing of antonyms
   off the respective suggestion as zenith-conundrum
                                                                               of Socrates:
       if something is universal it's evolved or translated
   into context - the context? using the alphabet and
words... (time references to coordination aren't necessary,
   well, something has to be unanimously expressed
  even if via dyslexia) -
                    what's particular is what's rigid in terms
of evolutionary adaptation - verbiage, i know!
   inescapable! what should i do? gauge my eyes out?!
again, dittoed paraphrase, shortened self-plagiarism:
     if something is particular it's independent or non-reciprocatory
  within boundaries of context-out-of-context: content,
   which means a b c d e f g... but arranged to a self-proclaimed
deviation (let's call prefixing the self- to a word provides
    the whole mechanism of deviating non-universal
automation, mildly put: eccentricity) -
                  in summary, you ever wonder what's
related between the list of phobias such as arachnophobia
and xenophobia? apparently the term Islamophobia
was translated into Greek as: god is one, and Muhammad
is his test subject... the sum of all little fears -
         oddly enough phobias are spontaneous and are
rarely instilled, they're lightning strikes...
i see a big spider, i recoil - it's not a permanent setting -
i stand on a ladder 3 metres off the ground, sure:
acrophobia -                    i sit in a crowded tube train,
yet again: claustrophobia - but these phobias are
a sort of antidote to the maxim: the thing to fear is
fear itself... phobias are reflex reactions to being conscious,
how people managed to translate them into reflections
is beyond me... i happen to come across phobias
all the time... but in a reflexive way: a ****, a spontaneity
surrounding them... there's nothing to be reflective about...
it's not even a phobia when i tell you a similar
reaction: suburban street at night, beer, cigarette,
walking, eyes not concentrating on anything...
~suddenly two women sitting on a low cement fence
in front of their houses startles me... the immediate
reaction is a nervous shock... who the **** would
think of that as being a phobia worthy a category?
no one. which is why i don't understand
the concept of Islamophobia... it's weird...
i don't get the same nervous sudden **** of seeing
something that isn't supposed to be there
when i walk down Oxford street and see a Burqa-clad
woman... whoever invented this word,
had a really ****** time at school and transcended
all laws of etymological construction:
i.e. on basis of really claustrophobic syllable constructs,
Islam is way beyond syllables, it's a noun,
as if the suffix / affix phobia - or little fear,
no, not sigma fear, fractional fear.

i only started collecting a library, because, would you believe it, my local library was a pauper in rags and tatters; apologies for omitting necessary diacritic marks, the whiskey was ******* on icecubes to a shrivel.*

ernest hemingway, e.m. forster, mary shelley,
aesop, r. l. stevenson, jean-paul sartre,
jack kerouac, sylvia plath, evelyn waugh,
chekhov, cortazar, freud, virginia woolf,
philip k. ****, dostoyevsky, aleksandr solzhenitsyn,
oscar wilde, malcolm x, kafka, nabokov,
bukowski, sacher-masoch, thomas a kempis,
yevgeny zamyatin, alexandre dumas,
will self, j. r. r. tolkien, richard b. bentall,
james joyce, william burroughs, truman capote,
herman hesse, thomas mann, j. d. salinger,
nikos kazantzakis, george orwell,
philip roth, joseph roth, bulgakov, huxley,
marquis de sade, john milton, samuel beckett,
huysmans, michel de montaigne, walter benjamin,
sienkiewicz, rilke, lipton, harold norse,
alfred jarry, miguel de cervantes, von krafft-ebing,
kierkegaard, julian jaynes, bynum porter & shephred,
r. d. laing, c. g. jung, spinoza, hegel, kant, artistotle,
plato, josephus, korner, la rochefoucauld, stendhal,
nietzsche, bertrand russell, irwin edman,
faucault, anwicenna, descartes, voltaire, rousseau,
popper,  heidegger, tatarkiewicz, kolakowski,
seneca, cycero, milan kundera, g. j. warnock,
stefan zweig, the pre-socratics, julian tuwim,
ezra pound, gregory corso, ted hughes,
guiseppe gioacchino belli, dante, peshwari women,
e. e. cummings, ginsberg, will alexander, max jacob,
schwob, william blake, comte de lautreamont,
jack spicer, zbigniew herbert, frank o'hara,
richard brautigan, miroslav holub, al purdy,
tzara, ted berrigan, fady joudah, nikolai leskov,
anna kavan, jean genet, albert camus, gunter grass,
susan hill, katherine dunn, gil scott-heron,
kleist, irvine welsh, clarice lispector, hunter thompson,
machado de assisi, reymont, tolstoy, jim bradbury,
norman davies, shakespeare, balzac, dickens,
jasienica, mary fulbrook, stuart t. miller,
walter la feber, jan wimmer, terry jones & alan ereira,
kenneth clark, edward robinson, heinrich harrer,
gombrowicz, a. krawczuk, andrzej stasiuk, ivan bunin,
joseph heller, goethe, mcmurry, atkins & de paula,
bernard shaw, horace, ovid, virgil, aeschyles,
rumi, omar khayyam, humbert wolfe, e. h. bickersteth,
asnyk, witkacy, mickiewicz, slowacki, lesmian,
lechon, lep szarzynski, victor alexandrov, gogol,
william styron, krasznahorkai, robert graves,
defoe, tim burton, antoine de saint-exupery,
christiane f., salman rushdie, hazlitt, marcus aurelius,
nick hornby, emily bronte, walt whitman,
aryeh kaplan, rolf g. renner, j. p. hodin, tim hilton... etc.

The Land of Nod (Hebrew: ארץ נוד‬, eretz-Nod)
is a place mentioned in the Book of Genesis
of the Hebrew Bible, located "on the east of Eden"
(qidmat-‘Eden), where Cain was exiled
by God after Cain had murdered his brother Abel;
According to Genesis 4:16:

And Cain went out from the presence of the LORD,
and dwelt in the land of Nod, on the east of Eden.
(וַיֵּ֥צֵא קַ֖יִן מִלִּפְנֵ֣י יְהוָ֑ה וַיֵּ֥שֶׁב בְּאֶֽרֶץ־נֹ֖וד קִדְמַת־עֵֽדֶן‬)

"Nod" (נוד) is the Hebrew root of the verb
"to wander" (לנדוד). Therefore, to dwell
in the land of Nod is usually taken to mean
that one takes up a wandering life. Genesis 4:17
relates that after arriving in the Land of Nod,
Cain's wife bore him a son, Enoch,
in whose name he built the first city;

"Nod" (נוד‬) is the Hebrew root of the verb
"to wander" (לנדוד‬). Therefore, to dwell
in the land of Nod can mean to live
a wandering life; Gesenius defines (נוּד‬) as follows:

TO BE MOVED, TO BE AGITATED
(Arab. ناد Med. Waw id.), used of a reed
shaken by the wind, 1Ki.14:15; hence to wander,
to be a fugitive, Jer. 4:1; Gen. 4:12, 14; Ps.56:9;
to flee, Ps. 11:1; Jer. 49:30. Figuratively, Isa. 17:11,
נֵד קָצִיר‬ "the harvest has fled" ["but see נֵד‬ ,"
which some take in this place as the subst.]

Much as Cain's name is connected
to the verb meaning "to get" in Genesis 4:1,
the name "Nod" closely resembles the word
"nad" (נָ֖ד‬), usually translated as "vagabond",
in Genesis 4:12. (In the Septuagint's rendering
of the same verse, God curses Cain
                  to τρέμων, "trembling")

A Greek version of Nod written as Ναίν
appearing in the Onomastica Vaticana
possibly derives from the plural נחים‬,
which relates to resting and sleeping;
This derivation, coincidentally or not,
connects with the English pun on "nod";

Josephus wrote in Antiquities of the Jews
(c. AD 93) that Cain continued his wickedness
in Nod: resorting to violence and robbery;
establishing weights and measures;
transforming human culture from innocence
into craftiness and deceit; establishing
property lines; and building a fortified city;

Nod is said to be outside of the presence
or face of God: Origen defined Nod
  as the land of trembling and wrote
  that it symbolized the condition of all
who forsake God; Early commentators
  treated it as the opposite of Eden
  (worse still than the land of exile
for the rest of humanity);  In the English tradition
Nod was sometimes              described as a desert
    inhabited only by ferocious beasts or monsters;
Others interpreted      Nod as dark or even
underground—away from the face of God—

Augustine described unconverted Jews as
dwellers in the land of Nod, which he defined
as commotion and "carnal disquietude"

we're just as superstitious as our ancestors, we create fiction from superstition, we get the hots for haunted houses, the black dot on the bible like pirates... it's just these day, a person finding a £20 banknote would get superstitious about buying 20 lottery tickets with it, rather than a bottle of whiskey... and yes, our story-telling skills have diminished, it's more like dietary regimes these days... we pushed subjectivity so far down the drain that we're not telling stories anymore, we're simply regurgitating objectivity, facts after facts... less talk about surviving a tornado twirl and expressing the excitement from surviving such an event, and more: next! pocket that story, box it with the bar-code: adrenaline ******... we're not story-tellers anymore, we're on the verge of losing all plots... being exposed to polished narrations of Hollywood (hardly the case of being worried about doppelgangers, that was obvious in the 20th century) - as said: we like being bombarded with facts, we've stopped claiming narration for a commuting drive... we are the encyclopedia ~generation... well, we're way past being defined as a generational phenomenon... hence the quiz shows...  we started to hate the excitement of the subjective perspective, the parts were "we will never know", jealousy on this scale really killed it off... we weren't there, therefore it's untrue... coupled with this objectivity of: none of us were there, therefore it must be true... plate up ladies and gents! we're once more reduced to regurgitating facts, we're actually forced to regurgitate facts, we have no chance to score with emotions or personal thoughts... people only want to hear objective realities of our lives... we want uniform coherence like under Uncle Stalin... no deviation... none! i wonder what story will come from all this objectification... the usual, current affairs story, i blame feminism partly for this... the objectification of women lessened, and in came the objectification of everything else, as feminism has done, shoving its nose into everything from philosophy to history simply on the basis of numbers, and as to why there aren't enough women here, and not enough women there... my mother is a housewife... my father comes home with a satisfaction that at least one member of the family will not be stressed... add a second partner with stress and career ambitions and fairy-tales, and that's a house on sand-dunes... personally i wouldn't want to marry in any case... plus, feminism doesn't encourage the house-husband idea that Sweden has adopted... well... you'd think that the idea of househusbands would take off once feminism took off... apparently it didn't.

Darwinism is at odds with pop culture, i see these people
striving for fame like they might be buying penny sweets
in their hundreds, and what i find surprising
is that so much fame is being dished out,
me, jealous? yesterday i found
a twenty quid banknote on the street,
today i bought four beers and a bottle of Grant's
whiskey and i felt that: i owned the world -
yes indeed, a circus act - that's usurping
style of the khaki stormtrooper uniform...
a colon is also emphasis, without the italics...
it's not about grocery lists...
so many writers out there who put
the labouring over punctuation to others...
so many dyslexic still passing through...
mate... if you and me were *****... you'd
be tissue paper material, no, not even a ******
blockage waiting for the plumber...
or the ******* that sold condoms puncturing them
with needles for excess success rates of impregnation...
see, i peel the skin off, imitating Abraham's
madness at the excess, and cockerel
the **** like sunrise... all *sheered;
then i put the skin back on... so much for improvements
that desired God's approval... might as well
cut off all the cartilage: nose, ears, nails
(i swear they share the same category... oh wait...
nails and hair... well, n'eh bother, cut the rest off
until you enter the realm of plastic surgery).
so yeah, Darwinism is really the guillotine at
the moment, see them, watch the shepherds herding
them, they created something a Marxist would
never ever understand... the fame class system...
not some rebellion of strong idiots
working the plough field fighting noblemen bored
in their salons with ****-*** their only
exercise and solution to the boredom of a busy world,
mind being in such a world...
or do as i do... half of scotch through...
second jazz record playing in the background...
jazz doesn't translate into headphones,
you need the space...
what worries me is its trans-generational absence...
jazz is the classical music thanks to slavery,
it would never have been born in Africa,
forget it... but it bothers me it wasn't manicured,
kept pristine like some Renaissance painting...
it quickly morphed into Eminem and Vanilla Ice
and all that rap that wrapped it up...
fair enough, i can give credit to joshua redman
and his back east... but that's about it...
so as i sit sipping my Mississippi scotch of whiskey
and cola, having listened to
sonny rollins' ballads, i'm onto kenny burrel's
midnight blue... it's the sort of high culture
that's easy to cultivate... but i'm not the man you
want to revisit the Beat Movement chemistry,
i care very little to talk over the jazz with my poetry...
no wonder talking over classical music ever worked,
hence i contend to parallel myself with Bukowski
in that respect.. i shut up and write,
imagine myself on the Faroe Islands, very far
from what makes me uncomfortable,
the nearest thing to Eden, some remote place,
a village of 20 people where everyone knows
how long they take to a **** and at what hours
(given there's only one toilet) - and yes, the brackets
are also useful to make an emphasis, so example, : and ( )
all combine pretty well.
but they really are losing a one-sided battle,
given historical Darwinism, excluding our modern
perks to get into the raw caveman antics
it can be sometimes very demeaning to consider
both attitudes, simultaneously or correspond or even
excusing our modernity with intrinsic sushi (the rawness
that breeds no home comforts) -
and given the whole popularity culture...
you expect people to remember anything in
the next 100 years? the opening of a century is never
going to be enough to allow for that century's momentum...
i might be living in the 21st century, but all
my influences are bound to the 20th...
and that's where i'll remain, a beggar with a rich man's
vault of compact disks... clutter and a library...
unable to reread the books i've read (unless in snippets)...
like that tale of Neoplatonism and Plotinus
and that relationship with Christianity, but the job
that Nietzsche put in to criticise it came short of
what the actual religion did to itself, the archaeology proof
destined at Egypt, finding works there and not
in Israel along with the Dead Sea Scrolls...
fascinating how they cut Isaiah in half and the historian
Josephus placing the innovator of the Sermon
during Nero's reign, and how Nero is the first reference
to the 666... well, you know, once you zero out the preceding
years, and start again... telling the time will hardly
matter whether b.c. or a.d. - what with Darwinism
and the big bang, the Copernican west... well the Copernican
"west" - what a crazy carousel - get me off!
and indeed, with certain words...
we have encoded approximations to what each words
denotes... the brightest gem in the vault is
Hades... you don't say it as Ha A.D.H.D. -
you say hay and then you say dees, like bees -
yes, whether the d is a below the equator
and is summer in december, or whether b is above
the equator and is summer in july...
so you encode Hades but actually say: hay-d-and-many-e's -
still can't figure out how to denote a plurality of
letters with the punctuation marks given by English...
at present i'm using the inadequate possessive article
route - Peter's, Mark's, the mountain's...
the article goes off radar when there's plurality
in the thing ascribed possession: mountains' heights...
hay-d-and-many-eeeeeeeeeeeee? get the picture?
or hay-d-and-ease - baffling language,
i feel like some aboriginal looking at it from Ayers Rock
going: kangaroo the **** and didgeridoo?
no wonder the tetragrammaton is the tool to decipher
this phonetic encoding... there are too many chiral
symmetries in this tongue.
so again... i don't know why poets don't bother
to repeat themselves, on what they first concentrated on,
like the many water lilies by Monet,
or the self-portraits from varying angles...
or how modern fame, in concept, condemned itself
to c.c.t.v. and a brick wall as to how history is
experienced with mainstream Darwinism...
how quickly the guillotine chops the head off,
the finicky base for democratic applause...
and how in 100 years people might wonder:
well, Plato ain't going to be usurped, Plato will be
treated with the same faithful bias
as a blank blackboard, the established norm...
(that's all e.g. to say, it's not necessarily the
acceptance of such a norm) -
we'll still be ushered to normality by starting
from either the bleak big bang, led to an even bleaker
and bigger bonk... or we'll be cavemen admiring viral
infections - and fame and aspiration to attain
it will truly become bleak... for in these days
fame isn't competing for being remembered...
it's competing for being seen, again the c.c.t.v. model...
and given our overexposure to datums (the Oxford
authority is a bit slow to recognise that... well,
unless of course the same meaning can be achieved
with the word data... unnecessarily datii?),
advertisement being only one such source...
and would i consider the self to be an illusion?
i'd consider it on equal footing with π = 3.14159...
a piece of information, not to the fullest extent
a delusion... meaning i wouldn't discredit it completely,
given that so many people fall for it's existence
when plagiarism tempts us to swing with it...
and that there's the private, the public, the showcased
use of it... but it's still so ****** annoying
to have the lazy crew use the northern barbaric
reference to that pronoun and discredit it by treating
it as merely a useful prefix for compounding words
together to express automaton behaviours, and to have
to lie back on the psychoanalytical sofa and have to
deal with the atom of: ego, superego and id...
                                     (neutron, proton           and
the many that that that      / its its its -
the id is actually a scalpel in psychiatry - the cursor or
vector or quiet simply as stated already, scalpel,
incision maker -
                               the superego? also known as moralising
Nietzsche's übermensch - nein! klein Adolf
kann nicht spielen mit du heute);
well... might as well enjoy being trapped in
the stone ages from now on... because in between the cavemen
and ourselves, our contemporaries just called them
idiots (most notably the journalists) -
yep... only idiots separating us from caveman...
i must be double the idiot of wishing to be back
in the Dumas' France, or at the height of the Polish-Lithuanian
Commonwealth, when the Poles, second only to
the Mongols held Moscow.

title: snuggle
body:
limitless
loss
of sleep    another 502 bad gateway bypass...
i just want to love like...
Edward Scissorhands... Ice Dance song...
playing in the background...
we meet in a graveyard... at night...
and it's snowing... it's snowing ballerinas...
ah... the impossible...
well then... no point blaming ****** omelettes
on prostitutes... either.

100 hundred press ups...
stomach crunches?
   n'ah... i don't feel like it...
yesterday i woke up with my ****-cheeks
aching... they were still aching
today... i thought... better firm them
up a little... 2 hours of cycling ought
to do it, just shy of Rainham via
and back again via Hornchurch...
well... can't say that it helped...
but why bother doing stomach crunches?
i woke up today with my entire
torso aching... like i must have done...
1000 stomach crunches...
well... that's what having ***
in the ******* will do to you
while you're propped up on your
hands above a woman...
more ***... less of that stomach crunches
exercise... press ups: sure...
i'll keep doing those...
   mind you: i never go mad on lifting weights...
i have these two... handle bars?
whatever you call them... how much is on each...
15kg? maybe more... i do about 20 folds
on my knees... but i'm after the adrenaline
in traffic on the bicycle...
   to my demise... i started thinking about Jeminah...
looked her up on facebook...
pretending: it's a bit like me sitting
pitch-side at a football match looking at
faces in the crowd...
my god... you can really stare at people
in a non-creepy way... looking out primarily
for a potential heard-attack...
but if a pretty girl is sitting in the crowd...
you can just put on a poker face
and... no one is going to tell you:
hey! creep! stop staring!
                        it's actually more fun than
watching the actual football match...
if i get to see Khedra enough times i'm sitting pretty
on getting something remotely resembling
a six-pack... not that a six-pack would
look good if you are hairy...
        and i'm not going to just shave, wax...
metro-sexualise myself...
but that got me thinking...
            positive... is this even thinking? perhaps
more like gloating... but... what's the alternative?
wallowing? the plethora of emotions surrounding
doubt? self-denial: the ascetic approach?
can people on write about... denying themselves
an iota of self-appreciation?
in an age of self-employed people...
i'm pretty sure can attach a Dune-esque
self- prefix to what the mythos of Dune describes
as: thinking machines... machina cogitans...
that was always my pet peeve with philosophy...
the words: thing, nothing, something...
broad generalisations... or rather... words that
would make thinking along the lines of 1 + 1 = 2
in language much easier...
                         i am a machine of sorts...
another pet word: being...
       breaking down existence: ex-instance...
or... out-of-every-instance: insistence...
                     not will as such: more akin
to stubbornness... this mortal plea: one more day...
one more hour...
    in Latin that would be...
    out-of-every-instance: insistence (remember though,
the Romans didn't have all the prepositions /
conjunction words that modern English has)
    ex-omni-exemplum: instantiam...
             res cogitans is so vague...
given i have a scratch of consciousness regarding...
the schematic of my body...
i know my muscles in my torso ache...
not because i was doing stomach crunches...
but because i was arching over a woman
performing *** in a *******...
my brain aches from dehydration... i take a pill...
points of concern like so...
      eh... the atomised man...
then again: another "thing" to cut up his mind
with the instrument that i call the quasi-soul...
so stressed by psychology... oh hell...
when medicine sped up to get its whereabouts
with the human body... obviously the psychologists:
"doctors"... psychiatry and its hellish freaks
of instructed lobotomies... oh... one of those
***** envies... they had to cut up a man's mind into:
well, not halves... that's sure as ****...
a ******* Trinity... but like the profanity that's
Christianity... joke... how many schisms can
Christianity... accommodate? from what i heard...
an infinite number of schisms...
by that account... me prodding at a possible
2nd schism in Islam... spearheaded by the Turks
and not the Persians... hmm...
   well... Christianity is a Babel by now...
   i don't really have a criticism of Christianity...
i already had mine... when i was much younger...
a child... Nietzsche already did the "intellectual"
heavy-lifting... i remember being a child
and being confronted with the... if your enemy strikes
you... turn the other cheek...
some primordial argument arose in me...
that's ******* counter intuitive! i'll hit back!
i might not hit back: immediately... obviously...
i might take some time... get hold of the bigger picture...
explore... more avenues...
    but... that's so ******* counter-intuitive...
plus... i didn't take up the option of being confirmed...
confirmation is big in Catholicism:
you can't have a church wedding without being
confirmed... there... that's my "intellectual" take-down
of Christianity... but...
what did Christianity do? well... it turned European
barbarism into... European secularism...
that's all it did... but not that it would ever tame
the barbarism... as... plenty of examples...
plus... the New Testament? to me?
Greco-Judeo propaganda... esp. with the unearhing
of the Nag Hammadi library... in some cave...
in Egypt... and the scribbles of...
some Egyptian false prophet... trying to conquer
Jerusalem, but then retreating... found in...
a book about the Roman Hebrew wars...
by josephus ben matthias... or... as he was later known:
by the proselyte name: flavius josephus...
i almost feel sorry for Nietzsche: with hindsight...
because there's always that aspect of hindsight...
which... the finding came in 1945...
simultaneously... the finding of the dead sea scrolls...
which compiled the lost works of...
Isaiah? right... Hey-Zeus was crucified...
but i read somewhere that... Isaiah was...
eventually... cut in half... at the torso...
hmm... well... peanuts or bananas...
which is worse, if you're allergic to either?
i've had my criticism of Christianity... on a level of
a child... i don't need to elaborate on it...
that it breeds weakness... love is a weakness...
until i met either Jeminah or Khedra...
i had a heart of stone...
          now? i'd still love to get together with
Jeminah... drink some wine... listen to a New Order
record on vinyl...
i got the picture... she was showing me this book
of old, historical Romford...
well... she gave it to me... standing over me...
i asked her: why don't you sit down next to me?
talk me through it?
  she did... ha ha... on our whatsapp exchange
i sent her a link to: foster the people - sit next to me...
she did sit down, slightly reluctantly...
my god... the moment the recoil happened...
i must have "accidently" touched her knuckle
with my finger... phoom! the ******* Challenger
space shuttle disaster! she sort of bounced off
two walls and then the ceiling and was sitting
far far away on the other couch...
but then there's Khedra... the ***** that made
my ****-cheeks ache and my torso attempting
to have six-pack ambitions...
yeah... well... it's a bit different when you see
footballers "taking the knee" on a football pitch
for "some cause"... a bit different when you're
taking a knee... stark naked... before a woman...
just to be level-eye with her...
and... just... you know... fiddly-do-b'ah...
   whatever... oh... i can kneel before a *******...
kiss her stomach... kiss her feet...
i think that's a better altar than...
pretending to **** **** before the altar
of ZEE CRUCI-VIED 'UN...
             magic ******* numbers!
                       yeah... Greco-Hebrew propaganda
against the Roman Empire...
that's what the New Testament is to me...
to go one further... i already mentioned this...
Ba'al Yah'****... lord of mosquitos...
what... turning water into wine...
and wine into blood... is not some infernal metaphorical
device? oh sure... Hey-Zeus was like...
the biggest troll out of hell...
         how did i remedy the spell?
once... i poured myself a glass of wine... ****** in it...
then drank it... MAH-AH-GIC!
a bit like those guys in World War I...
when the mustard gas fell... ******* on handkerchiefs...
the ammonia... purifying the smell of rotten
eggs... blah blah...
then again: why am i writing this?
am i happy? or do i... haven't got anything better
to write? or... perhaps this is easy?
imagine introducing the concept of Ba'al Yah'****
into Islam... to the Turks... hmm...
do you... perhaps think... the Turks might splinter
off... from the prior orthodoxy and heresy
of the Persians? reasoned with?
hmm... they do allow alcohol...
                      and they have the best barbers...
plus... the women? **** like they might be
from the harem of king Solomon...
*** starved... since... not even king Solomon had
the sort of stamina to **** over 1000 women...
if he did... he must have been an ******...
or at least... he wasn't ******* anything by
the end of a session... ergo... trophies... ***-starved
single men... and women... also *** starved...
with... perhaps... very crude ideas of the original ******...
then again... when was a cucumber cultivated,
proper?
sure... look up that josephus ben matthias ref.
regarding the false prophet from Egypt...
wait... wait... didn't Joseph take Mary and Hey-Zeus
to Egypt, the flight to Egypt?
sure... the historian was born circa... 32 AD...
but this is at the time of... NO INTERNET...
    imagine... what it must have taken...
to establish a YEAR ZERO...
                         wow... the amount of work that
went into that... few years... even a 100 could
go missing... just... "missing"...
   the fact being: this prophet wanted to overthrow
Roman rule of Judea: failed... fled back to
Egypt... and where was the Nag Hammadi library
found? in a cave, in Egypt...
just as the theatre of war of World War II was
coming to an end, come 1945... sure...
just "coincidental"... Ba'al Ya'**** had his fun...
not exactly endowed to please women...
abstain from this...
   if the modern girls want their... ahem... feminist war...
on men... sure... let them come...
today i perfect my mango curry...
i started to use whole piece of chicken... on the bone...
today it was drumsticks...
i marinated them in... yougurt...
turmeric... Kashmiri chilly powder...
coriander and cumin powder...
then i baked them...
   i had a spare mango... but already preprepared
mango curry sauce...
****... run out of garam masala...
but i made this other... curry powder...
strike me down i don't remember what i used...
a teaspoon of this curry powder...
some korma curry powder... some more
coriander powder... some more cumin powder...
a third of a teaspoon of clove powder...
some more Kashmiri chilly powder...
some more turmeric... put the heat right on...
to infuse the powders with the chicken stock
and the coconut milk... bay leaves...
taken out before blitzing with the onions
the ginger and the garlic... some peppercorns...
oh... and nigella seeds... a must...
some raisins... and a splash of apple cider vinegar...
yo! Faust! we're cooking! Faust... mate...
we're cooking tonight... sorry to disappoint you...
but tomorrow we're having fish & chips...
from where? Lighthouse Fish & Chips...
145 Heath Park Road, Gidea Park, Romford...
   RM2 5XJ... the best fish and chips you'll ever get...
trust me... i'm endorsing them...
Faust... what's that? chaos... oh... don't worry...
you'll get to the thrills...
there are plenty to come...
  look at me... i'm trying to juggle two women at
once... one... Turkish: a bomb in bed...
wants to meet outside of the brothel...
in a hotel room... "talk"... "improve her English"...
just wants to **** for the whole night...
sure... we'll go for food... me-be even a moo-v...
the other... a shy doe... but that dark tinge of ginger
that's just irritating to the *****...
Faust... curry come this Saturday...
yes, yes... the mango version of a korma...
more spicy... certainly no almonds so not as bland:
more acidic... no... i'm not going to infuse
the rice with turmeric... how much yellow do you
want on a plate? yes, i'll add the peppers...
for a bit of crunch... garnish?
fresh coriander... sure... i don't think anyone
will be asking for extra yoghurt...
   (burp)...
                   and you remember that "other" girl...
the friend of the manicurist that comes to see your mother...
she just tags along... she has a "thing" for Scandinavian
aesthetics on a man...
     nervous as hell: esp. when you peer into
her eyes and then peer at her face...
so much make-up... a body of crumbs... petite...
if you had *** with her: you'd crush her...
but this manicurist brings her daughter along...
you were talking in the garden while holding
this toddler in your hands... exposing her
to the sunlight... from time to time...
gripping the exposed feet of the toddler in
your hands: to warm them up...
you introduced this girl to the music
of the band Ghost... you spoke about wishing
to die on the Faroe Islands...
like it was your place of birth... well... isn't death
just that? a man's actual birth? a completion
for time to ascend toward a forwardness of
the spectacle? ugh... verbiage... unavoidable...
but who the hell just wants soap opera:
uncomplicated vector simplistic language of
purely: verbs... some nouns?
no... no etymology? wow... what a chunk of
history just: ****! gone! back to the analysis
of the comparisons of the ape to human skeleton...
**** similis is an ancient idea... there's nothing
new about it... nothing has changed...
because it's not supposed to...
                and what did it take?
my doctor's concern about my high blood pressure...
you either lose weight... or we're going to put you
on high blood pressure tablets...
**** that... you already miscalculated
by putting me on anti-psychotic drugs...
which made me put on weight...
i took myself off them... you have any...
actual.... counter-insomnia medication?
phenergan? sure... i'll take those... once in a while...
i'll stick to Naproxen and APAP...
and whiskey...
        though...
               wow... what a world changer...
giddy school girls... bro'... n'ah...
  not enough experience... they're just posturing
self-assurance... i'm after the mandible jaws...
but imagine... from a time when someone like...
Brautigan... no, not Brautigan...
       Berrigan... no... not him... ****... it does start
with a B, though... hmm... B... Berryman! John!
that's the one... how many marriages... how many
divorces... not that i'm counting myself...
                     oh, we're ******... esp. ****** right now...
it was possible back then...
but now? one ****-tease after another...
   thank god i chose to not have money...
i'd look like a complete idiot if i was honey-trapped...
because i might have money...
then again: i think i have money...
sure... gold standard... from IMPERIAL RUSSIA...
coins... stamps from elsewhere...
a ******* banknote from IMPERIAL RUSSIA with
Nicholas II's face on it...
   hell... i'll keep it until times becomes really
desperate... but? until then... when they find my body...
and they find that... i'll spin the myth...
i like seeing how people treat people...
depending on their social stratum...
i stopped watching movies...
                  hmm...
                              let's see some more...
high value man: the high earner... "alpha"...
well... fair enough... for a society that's supposed
to follow the lineage of the words:
i'm the alpha and the omega...
                    it's nice being on the outside: looking in...
my supposed value gets a direct translation...
prostitutes are like: the gold standard... or the FIAT...
not being demeaning...
but the money i give them: i wouldn't spend...
on... anything they might spend it on...
if i spent money like i do... Scotland would be
a Switzerland...
but, hell... if all these videos i've watched... are true?
if women want to bring the fight...
with what? i iron my own shirts... i cook my own meals...
i vacuum my own house...
i don't think there's a bargaining chip in sight...
and ***? i just found the best *** in my life...
*** so good that even she thinks it's not fair me paying
for only an hour... she wants to meet in a hotel...
for the whole night... "talk"...
so... Sartre mentions this...
   i'm still in the realm of skim-reading... the entry
points... the freedoms we have as individuals...
and how we express them...
                         i'm not willing to be a wage-slave for
someone to spend that money on...
something non-essential... because...
i call it the LIBIDO FACTOR... well... there's only
this amount of farmers we can have...
there's only this amount of metallurgy factory workers
we can have... beyond that?
attention seeking ******?
freely passing money around?
for what? ****'s sake... CONTENT?!
what.... CONTENT?!
                 it's not that there's too many people in
this world... per se... it's that...
there's enough people to have figured out
what to do... at this point...
i think we're going to run dry on ideas on...
what people can do... beside: plagiarise, steal...
and generally turn towards crime...
which is... a bonus for me...
         i'll have freely available clones... pawns...
should push come to shove...
i know what i'll have at my disposal... clones...
pawns... it's rather beautiful...
******* mind-drones... ditto-heads...
                 but then again... i'm not the one prone
to dream up architecture for a Freud-type
to interpret... all i dream of is a void...
sometimes a word pierces it...
                         no... no symbolism of a big hat...
or a cucumber... simply... NO-THING...
zilch... nada...
   yes... i've watched these supposed "alpha" males...
they're... always... weirdly... over-compensating
for a... hidden deficiency...
they are always posturing... they always seem
to be: eagerly disposing a set of rubrics of anger...
of... awaiting violence...
in a crowd of people... they never manage
to: get the jyst of "things"...
    weird... weird as ****... you know when you can
smell fear: sniff.... sniff... hmm.... i smell something...
it's a bit different when you find an
example that's... posturing... oh... a very different
sort of fear... not a fear from a direct attack....
"beta" males don't give off this vibe...
there's always some variation of a protector....
but these "alpha" males... oh... their fear is born
from... being... undermined...
sabotaged... it's thrilling to watch...
                                      why wouldn't it be thrilling?
it's like that scene from Hotel Transylvania...
when that old lady gremlin swallows something,
shaking, says... i didn't do it...
it wasn't me...
            and they get all hyped up...
become so talkative...
                         yawn...
                      i get scared too... i sometimes jolt back
when seeing a random hallucination in the night...
wait! ****! that's not my shadow...
oh... right... it just maybe is...
        ha ha... they had to go through all that
crap of building up resources...
seeking the "****** bride"...
                 me? what supposed artist gets rich
in his lifetime? i'm investing in...
post-humous legacy...
    i sought value in society's lowest ebb...
among prostitutes...
and what treasures i found there...
certainly no hook-up culture: mentality...
    i can kneel naked before a naked body of a woman
and... if i'd like: **** on the crucifix...
because? by now... i can...
with Christianity and its forever schismatism...
orthodox, catholic, protestant, baptist, blah blah...
whatever... i'm thinking about making Islam endure...
like a Janissary might... or a... Mamluk...
**** me... i'm willing...
                   but there needs to be a splinter...
one... there the Turks take over...
i already established the ground work...
Hey-Zeus? Ba'al Yah'****...
                  there's nothing for me here...
  nothing worth the life i'd want to life...
                           but i'll kneel before the altar of
a ******* standing before me naked...
while i'm kneeling naked myself...
and my eyes come level with her chin...
       time for change....
                     even if i die forgotten...
most people who accumulate wealth are forgotten...
now... that all depends... on the wealth
of my idea... could it be the proper probe...
let the court of time: decide;
i'm still going to enjoy the remains
of this whiskey... whether anyone likes it....
or not.

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all in the United States, Kenya. John, Josephus, Europe, Europe, Europe, Asia, Europe, Europe Europe, John, South Africa, homosexuals, Australia, spirit symbols, symbols, spices, dogs, animals, love and sustenance. On George Tom, Sky Cross, Germany, France and Italy. There are 600 x 600 screams or thunderstorms or Kenya or Kenya. So second, fish or bully. Pharaoh, Moses, Moses, Mexico. Black Black Black Black Black Black Black Black Black And Spanish Keyboard On Ibrahim. Meetings. War? Lami Häm kika B milk yogurt, Yoga is awesome. Strength is a coach all inpper. "The virus gives you the idea of ​​what you do with the pentagon or to return." "You have fled from him, and you have not known him." Well, at the end, George if it has been ******, wounds or no managers are not enough to make and feel like Communion or a y to TV. If you are in an iPhone, if you are positive on the device, it is best that you are of course to tap. ***** and Gomorrah, cold, shame, irate, conversion and flea. Alawgo, Honey, $ 1 dollar Leon, hair loss and will not be here. Star Beach Fortune on the Star Star Fortune Championship hit the first race event to the back of the Light. "Owl, dog, world pictures, government officials, dogs, globalization, the Government of the City, and for those who love it and where it works." Fools and fools go back home. The hair and gypsy hair of the hair are only a horror that does not go to the pit, *****, Creator, and Shinto, and Georgie emphasizes personal focus on his own health. Dr. Lukas Boys is a member of the women's team of technicians, but the best and the best of all children have children in Alice Australia. "American music." The ear, the ear and the first four colors, but the language of Iran, but not in Jewish cities, in the United States, Kenya, day and night. God, John, Josephus, Europe, Europe, Europe, Asia, Europe, and Europe-John, South Africa, Great Tribes, and Holy Spirit Spirit, Working, Forms, Cats, Animals, Love and Year. Click on George Tom, Sky Cross, Germany, France and Italy. There are 600 x 600 screams or thunderstorms in Kenya and here in Kenya. The next day, blue-colored. Pharaoh, Moses, Moses, Mexico are the best ones. Black Black Black Black Black Black Black Black And Spanish Keyboard On Background Start. First meeting. War? After reading B milk yogurt,
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and the ***** farms, ***** and *****, the cold, the humble, the humble, the changing and the balsam. Leather, Honey, and 1 dollar Leon, hair loss and health problems. Star Beach Fortune On Star Star Fortune Champion has a great experience with Light. "Oats, dogs, all over the world, Geo Politics, aka, Social Union Cooperation, Citizenship Union, if you want to go to Karachi." Making people traveling to return to the area. If you have any questions, please feel free to contact us, we will send you the copy of this page to you, if you have any questions or comments, please email us if you have any questions. / Dr. Lukas and all other members, whether they are in the country or not and whether they will be able to explain or not. "American music." Well, and we have a great time, we have a great time, we have a great time, we have a great time, all in the United States, Kenya. John, Josephus, Europe, Europe, Europe, Asia, Europe, Europe Europe, John, South Africa, homosexuals, Australia, spirit symbols, symbols, spices, dogs, animals, love and sustenance. On George Tom, Sky Cross, Germany, France and Italy. There are 600 x 600 screams or thunderstorms or Kenya or Kenya. So second, fish or bully. Pharaoh, Moses, Moses, Mexico. Black Black Black Black Black Black Black Black Black And A Spanish On Keyboard, Oh Ibrahim. Meetings. War? Lami Häm kika B milk yogurt, Yoga is awesome. Strength is a coach all inpper. "The virus gives you the idea of ​​what you do with the pentagram or to return." "You have fled from him, and you have not known him." Well, at the end, George if it has been ******, wounds or no managers are not enough to make and feel like Communion or a y to TV. If you are on an iPhone, if you are positive on the device, it is best that you are of course to tap. ***** and Gomorrah, cold, shame, irate, conversion and fleas. Alawgo, Honey, $1 dollar Leon, and hair loss will not be here. Star Beach Fortune on the Star Star Fortune Championship hit the first race event to the back of the Light. "Owl, dog, world pictures, government officials, dogs, globalization, the Government of the City and for those who love it and where it works." Fools and fools go back home. The hair and gypsy hair of the hair are only a horror that does not go to the pit, *****, Creator, and Shinto, and Georgie emphasizes personal focus on his own health. Dr. Lukas' Boy is a member of the women's team of technicians, but the best and the best of all children have children in Alice Australia. "American music." The ear, the ear and the first four colors, but the language of Iran, but not in Jewish cities, in the United States, Kenya, day and night. God, John, Josephus, Europe, Europe, Europe, Asia, Europe, and Europe-John, South Africa, Great Tribes, and Holy Spirit Spirit, Working, Forms, Cats, Animals, Love and Year. Click on George Tom, Sky Cross, Germany, France and Italy. There are 600 x 600 screams or thunderstorms in Kenya and here in Kenya. The next day, blue-colored. Pharaoh, Moses, Moses, Mexico are the best ones. Black Black Black Black Black Black Black Black And Spanish Keyboard On Background Start. First meeting. War? After reading vitamin B milk yogurt, stirring in the same stuff as the stars. The sea is a dog because of many people. "This crushing virus and the cover and the joy of breaking the joy is to return." "The land destroys the lakes and lakes, wells and galaxies." Well, George ends, but I think the places are best in place and on the TV, and the birthday of Easter. He and the first return, regarding the women and the ***** farms, *****, the cold, the humble, the changing and the balm. Leather, Honey, and 1 dollar Leon, hair loss and health problems.

could it possibly begin with the well-known question,
as to whether a "histoical" jesus existed?

well... to answer that question, you'd have to ask
an actual historian imbued in the *zeitgest of the times,
and if this zeitgeist was that of: the spreading of a revised
monotheism that was judaism, and judaism alone,
you really have to look up someone who lived
in the stated dates of temperal constraints;
and as such, there is only one reliable source -
         josephus ben matthias -
         born in ~37a.d., at the time whem emperor nero
ruled the roman empire,
                   at first one of the leaders of the jewish
revolt, who later "converted",
    caputed in galilee by the romans, his life was spared,
and he gained roman citizenship, befriended titus
   and vespansian...
                            more importantly, his surviving work,
the book       the jewish war.
                      now comes the appropriate cascade of
apocalyptic insinuations...
                  when the greeks wrote the new testament?
they weren't in decline... but in a way were,
       in that they held no reasonable conceptualisation
of time, or the passing of time, for that matter decay...
i guess they wrote the new testament in desperation,
  in relation to the past, and the present, leading toward what
future they hoped to envision, as byzantines they
would eventually become...
          just like the defeated trojans became romans,
in what's recorded in rome's gensis that's virgil's
                                             aeneid.
apologies for the moving backward and forward with the facts...
but it's crucial for some sort of clarity...
    a poem can describe a day, i.e. singled out events:
    like homer, and the trojan war.
journalism?     that goes way beyond a day,
       it can be a week, but it can also be a decade...
  for example the war in syria, might boil down to last a decade,
but journalism can cope with a decade.
         history on the other hand? it can't last a day,
  it can't last a decade either, as such...
             by historical standards, a decade isn't worth
investigating... unless it is by historicirty enthusiasts -
who will, for example, give you detailed accounts
   of the punk decade, or a grunge time-period -
           they stress historicity, because they are biographers,
or even autobiographers... but that doesn't make them
historians are as such.
     why? because history deals with centuries,
and centuries as such, that need to have some sort of connectivity...
  what comes after the historical timescale?
     as the above stated question suggestes.. did a "historical"
jesus exist?     now we have moved beyond a historical
conceptualisation of time... and into a realm of λoγoς:
   which echoes down the ages with the help of φoνoς -
mythology, that is the upper tier of history,
it's the modus operandi for people who want to remember as much,
tell as many stories, as it takes to encode at least
one millennium - hence the need to apply the cocept
of myths, and the logic to that is: you can only hoard so much
in libraries.
     so why should mythology be so confused with other modes
of recording time? homer's epic is not misunderstood
as myth, because it takes days into concern, so far removed
by mythology, that they can be taken as reasonable observations
of the times he lived in.
        anyway... what needs to be done now is to explain
the greek confusion with time in the period of history that made
them the conquered, rather than the conquering...
           thus on this basis, a citation from the historian of the times
josephus ben matthias...
      the jewish war, chapter 7, judea under roman rule (page 147),
1981 edition...

  'a greater blow than this was inflicted on the jews by the egyptian
  false prophet. arriving in the country this man, a fraud
who posed as a seer, collected about 30,000  dupes, led them round
from the desert to the mount of olives, and from there was ready
to force an entry into jerusalem, overwhelm the roman garrison,
and seize supreme power with his fellow-raiders as bodyguard.
  but felix anticipated his attempt by meeting him with
the roman heavy infantry, the whole population rallying to
the defence...       the egyptian fled with a handful of men and
most of his followers were killed or captured...'

     riding on a donkey into jerusalem (30,000 dupes), rings a bell,
the flight of joseph and mary to egypt? rings a bell...
  now the timescale problem of the new testament, the precise
hyperbolic aspect of it...
       crucially? the unearthing of the nag hammadi library
in the egyptian desert.
              hmm... so far so good... i don't buy, for one bit
that jesus was a hippy from the word go!
   the whole resurrection story doesn't fit the bill...
                       he was a war lord... or a false prophet...
seen by jews as an egyptian...     the question is... where did
the actual crucifixion take place? on golgotha, or somewhere
in egypt? well... given the historical account... it must have been
in egypt... and after that: he went back to judea as
the hippy described in the new testament...
         what puts the pieces together is the above historical account
and where the library was found... but on top of that!
    the book of revelation... and the code enclosed in it:
ΧΞΣ    - grafitti, against the emepror nero...
        you don't get any reference to augustus -
you get anthony and cleopatra... so given when the historical
account was written, and the zeitgeist embedded in
the book of revelations?       hmm...                ch'e      ks'e     si.
did the historical jesus exist then?
    if the jews didn't see him as an egyptian,
             and if they later didn't move the accounts from egypt
and self-lacerated themselves with tales from golgotha?
   who knows... maybe the holocaust wouldn't have happened;
on my behalf, that's just wishful thinking;
but the greeks were just as bad... what came last for them
came first... and what actually happened, to them didn't happen...
        is that irony that the jews were somehow
grateful for roman occupation? i mean... did any other
babylonian king enslave them, and tell them to oput a garden
on a ******* ceiling, like nebuchadnezzar ii did?

judaic moral absolutism vs. christian moral relativism (alt. title).

whenever i hear people talk about
forgiveness for past ills,
and how not being able to forgive
someone an ill, will never mean
you can transcend the past ill...
i find this a horrid teaching -
if someone did ill unto you there
is absolutely no reason as to why
the ill transforms into a forgiveness,
esp. if the said party has no
honour to realise the ill deed -
and soon forgiveness spirals into
the christian *mea culpa mantra
and instead of forgiving someone
you start blaming yourself,
self-laceration (if jesus really was
a hippy, and not a prophet from
egypt who the jews thought
was egyptian - can't really argue
with the unearthing of the lost
scripts of st. thomas etc. in egypt,
and how he tried to storm jerusalem
with 30,000 followers, escaping
narrowly with - probably a dozen -
back to egypt, cf. the historian
josephus) -
   which i find strange that no one
has made the dot dot dot connection...
besides the point,
   i don't believe in forgiveness -
but at the same time i don't believe
in revenge...
   what i believe in a continual exercise
of punching that bag of resentment...
you can only believe to become the master
of never allowing resentment to creep
into your system,
    but whenever someone mentions
"forgiveness" i start to think of
the mea culpa spiral, and the inkling
into: so, we do not need courts of law
anymore?
     i'd still champion the old testament
motto of oculus per oculus
   (eye for an eye) -
           so if the old testament motto is
absolutist, the new testament motto
is relativistic... and as much as people
sprinkle wonder-dust on the liberating
prospect of reaching a point of mending
an ill by forgiving the party who
did the ill, i can't but sneer at the person
making the suggestion...
   e.g.? oh, you mean the sort of
"forgiveness" expressed by a relative
of one of the victims of the charleston church
shooting, tears in her eyes, and the culprit
behind bars? or like john paul ii
in the prison cell of mehmet ali ağca?
   that's forgiveness?!
         as far as i know, the only "person"
to have ever genuinely forgiving someone,
was god forgiving cain...
      and he said unto him: hey,
the siberian wilderness is all yours!
   and he even branded him with a sign
that read: untouchable.
         there is no need to work of forgiving
someone,
  the thing you have to train, pet,
   and take care of, is to never allow
  resentment to overpower you, overcome you,
submerge you...
     putting it bluntly: **** forgiving,
just ensure you are never close to perpetual
resentment;
  once more, i'd choose judaic moral absolutism
(oculus per oculus), over
  christian moral relativism -
    that a ****** is relative to 20 years in prison,
rather than the gallows;
so never, ever feed the mollusk of forgiveness,
feed the mountain of climbing the summit
and standing on it, breathing the clean air
of having overcome resenting the climb.