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May 15, 2007


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Tsk. In the profitless shadows when he could be enlightened. Perverse natures are always upended.

Boyz in da Hoodz: The heartwarming tale of digital outlaws hoist by their own petard.

"Only one man and his posse are above the law in this country."

And they're wearing us.

One way communication goes deeper than broadcasting. It is of the essence in supervision. Seen by the unseen we are all God's children. Our conscience reflects our internalization of the unseen other. We censor ourselves. How easy it proves to control the unruly. "Back to normal." And prozac.

Andrew Feldmar, a Vancouver psychotherapist, was on his way to pick up a friend at the Seattle airport last summer when he ran into a little trouble at the border.

A guard typed Mr. Feldmar's name into an Internet search engine, which
revealed that he had written about using LSD in the 1960s in an
interdisciplinary journal. Mr. Feldmar was turned back and is no
longer welcome in the United States, where he has been active
professionally and where both of his children live.

Name one Canadian you can trust.  


As always you guys are frittering away valuable time with what is and completely ignoring what will be.
Where does this nightmare lead?
It should be obvious by now that all this sekurity apparatus is in place to prevent the anti-Christ from having easy access to the creche of the newborn Messiah.
On the other hand could it maybe be so that the anti-Christ can more easily track the comings and goings of the aforesaid Messiah?
Will salvation come from the top down, or from the bottom up?
One or the other anyway.
Forget discomfort man, it's the Apocalypse!


A chili breeze blows in with thee. Or could it be hellfire's breath?

Could we share some Cheetos, please, and then speak of our fritterings... more better?

Herod started out in Homeland Security, as I understand it, before rising to become King. Slaying the innocents was a tough call to make, but it was in the best interests of the country.

Near genderless grateful disheartened slaves on the up like old people clinging serve at the TSA scanner in the transit bottleneck for the place you want to go checking books and baggage, profiles, rumors, incidents of snitchery and long long lists, drawn up by strange small-minded creatures tapped by semi-desperate GS-12's profiling the school system pulling the bell on the about to disappear working for who or what they know not one wit.
It's who you align with people say but they don't know really they just say it. Every word I write now read by pigs in layers of intrigue and wide-variant payscale and motive before you ever see it and under that circumstance it would seem somewhat stretched of anyone to expect me to do anything here other than flail or spit up, and flail at best even faking it, or vomit.
"What do you want?"
Angels ask this at the gate. Comfort? At what cost to what else?
Not to know?
That's how we got here.
Haiti outlawed slavery years before England did. And Ouverture bound off to France to learn his lesson. Death in the deep bricks of some other purpose. That iceberg black with scabbed ooze.
The parasite seeks apotheosis though it lacks the self-reflective means to put it so. Through the timeline and out the other side.
Falwell's shade barrels down Atlanta ring roads shoulder to shoulder with big-agendaed demons or is it Indianapolis? Stuffed into a mini-van, crowded, uncomfortable, blank now from dying in the old traditional way, slowly from the organs in.
Falwell's name slides up and out and into the Great Archive and his thing-ness his essential being rests its figurative head against the seat back while the radio settles NPR relaxation noise into the little cave of the car. What's left of him that's not leaked away into the next dimension wants to find a place to eat, something fine and greasy but he has no real stomach, just the residue of what that was he was, big mask all filled with the Lord's undoing.
In the curve the air makes New York to Washington Buffalo to Washington the sound of mediocre keening, grief of the compromised and an almost unhearable tone from what might have been but wasn't.
The mirror of God broken by coloratura pitch shattered by screams of triumph so short-lived what's next your dog in the backyard playing the guitar putting his heart into it.

As Jesus is my alibi, Roy, a nice bit of writing.

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