Thursday, March 24, 2016


(Morristown, NJ  -  George Washington)
Oh how I hate making myself problems;
bringing up matters to haunt, things which
I must do. Why did I kill the goose, that
one with those golden eggs? With the idea
of rebirth, some silliness comes forth and
I want to begin something anew. If that's
so, then why did I stop the previous? The
lines of my pretzle'd logic are pretty
endless. All I really seem ever able
to do is go backwards.
On some forms of matter we probably all
agree, while on fifteen other things we
never can but it's all the same anyway, as
politics takes its steamy toll and brings
all its steamy bedfellows back again.
In the middle of Morristown, there's an old
cemetery, and it's laid out geographically,
in a way not done now; the compass points
are marked, the graves are aligned to the
Heavens and the constellations above. It's
all rather strange, yet it's ringed with
churches  -  all that rather heavy, symbolic
Masonic influence, just like that capstone
eye at the top of the pyramid on the back
of the dollar bill. I myself have walked it  -
quite odd, an angled hill, the rest of the
town grown all around it. It's basically
ignored, the way a crippled cousin or
something that makes other people
uncomfortable, is ignored. No one
deduces a meaning or cause from this,
no alignment on our own parts any
longer with things of the heavens
or the cosmic world. You can read
about it here, or go there, or look it
up, no trumpets will blast, no bright
images will scorch your face.
I've always felt that the marks left 
on the face of Moses, after his Mt. Sinai
'interview' with God and the scorching 
of the stone tablets with those 
commandments, and the reason no 
one could 'look' at him, and go there 
with him, and all that burning 
bush stuff, quite frankly, was because 
of an alien craft, (at a certain point it's
it's all 'words' anyway. The years of using
'God' as the word have made 'Alien' as a
word, though not as a concept, unfitting to
our ears. Same thing really - that's
the power of 'words'), lit down on the 
mountain top, seemingly as fire in 
the bushes  -  primitive man had a 
hundred ways of stating the obvious 
in what we've taken, years and 
years later, as euphemistic 
mis-translations. The presence of 
all this Heavens placement in the
most simple graveyard attests to, 
for me, the cosmic presence of greater 
things in the past. We've scrubbed it 
all down and ruined everything. People 
fight to the death over what's 'symbolic' 
or 'allegorical' in the Bible, when 
really they shouldn't at all. It's 
obvious to me we were made by aliens, 
scientific dewdrops, machined and 
calculated, and placed here to do their 
bidding. In wonderful straits, living
beautiful, long lives. It all got screwed 
up when there was a bit of warfare 
between the space-travelers  -  big 
blowouts, exploded planets, etc. All 
the myths and stories of God, Gods, 
interaction with mankind, Devils, 
fallen angels, serpents, half man-half 
beast experiments left to wander around. 
The crazy basis for all those tales and 
stories, and for Genesis 6  -  it's all there.
Go ahead and read Ezekiel and tell me
that's not a spacecraft he went away in.
Read the book of Enoch. Take the blinders
off your eyes as you read Revelation.
I mean, c'mon, get over it. We are 
made by 'Gods' and betrayed by 'Gods'. 
This is Heaven, and this is Hell  -  it's all
going on together; one big bundle. Stop
your linear, rational crap. Why would you
NOT understand a reference to a 'cat' 
being a 'cat', or a 'house being a 'house'?
Why must we so stupidly assume that 
the earliest of Mankind did not just 
simply say what they saw, what had 
occurred? 'In my father's house are many
mansions'  -  that's about as literal as you 
can get for the eternal presence of deeply
layered, multi-dimensional, outside
of time, recurring lives for each of us.
Mental flotsam, image screens floating
before us. The reptilian portion of our
brains is the oldest, most primitive center 
of the brain. That's the reptilian thinking 
of the Luciferists who try to control and 
rule us: contortions of rank and layers of 
being, numbers and procedure, rules and 
regulations, and  -  yes  -  churches and 
commandments and governments too.
In order to do so, they put all this out
in front of us  -  layers of interpretation,
rules and regulations, and then they take
and claim their own authority for it. The
Israelite portion of all this is a joke  - all
this goes from long before that unsettled
band of nobodies starting ranging around
and stealing the Egyptian and Sumerian
creation stories  -  babies in reed baskets,
floating down rivers, sacrifices, slaughters,
God's own sons and daughters, dying and 
returning. Egads, it's 2016, we're the same
primitive creatures we always were. These
stories and tales have been around forever.
Why do we always insist on being pushed 
around, and accepting it? Go sit in this 
cemetery for awhile. There's a
revelation-spirit there awaiting you.
This whole 'cemetery' place, along its fringes, 
is framed now by 'Headquarters Plaza'  -  
perhaps the most insipid piece of crummy 
over-development on a small urban 
scale I've ever seen. It doesn't deserve 
its name.  And I bet Washington, in his
'Headquarters', would have taken a 
sabre to any of the goons behind this 
one. The complete ignorance in place 
here is so prevalent as to make any 
sensible human blanch at the scene.
An old mausoleum, down at the bottom, 
fence all broken and tomb ignored, red 
bricks soiling away from the acidics in 
the rainwaters and atmospheres; little 
rows of graves tugged into the very 
edge of the macadam put in place for
parking and plaza use. The modern 
world with its gross wining and dining, 
eating and staring out from its little 
tables : at a landscape devoid of an 
referential solidity. No one knows 
a blasted thing. It doesn't matter who
these dead people were : names 
inscribed for the ages onto a transcript
of nothingness. What do we of the present 
day give to them? Nothing, not even a
proper read back of their names and dates
if we can find them. We are disgusting, 
and we act it. These people were the 
farmers and chandlers and wheelwrights 
who made this part of 'Morris County'
what it is  -  and who was Gouverner Morris
to any of these people. What did or does that
intriguing name even mean? How long ago?
What is the forge and what was the mill?
Where exactly, and why? You see, don't you,
what I'm getting at? We are in a dead-sea
soup of no-meaning. We've lost everything.
In place of the blood and wounds of soldiers
here on the ground, we've built Post Offices 
with municipal names and banks and churches 
and all the requistie trash which now 'makes up'
our towns and places. We are bankrupt, with
nothing. All we have left is 'naming'. Words.
We build and destroy, and then call it whatever
last was there. Headquarters Plaza, Shady Oaks
Lane, Spreading Elm Estates, Hidden Brook
Village. Even when nothing of that is there.
We should be ashamed.
And ashamed as well for how we conspired
to twist and tear at every facet of our own world
and spiritual lineages  -  the distorted face of
of forever-Moses, burned by radiation, half
blind by the madness it causes. A mad ghost of 
a man, unable to see again. We weave a story
around what we call it  -  this man, this place.
We leave with our wreckage. An underground
mausoleum, never opened, and untended for
probably a hundred years now. The walkway's
all gone and the rusted hinges are solid; the soil
has collapsed the hillock around it, and now no
inscriptions can be read, no names deduced, no
any, no 'thing' at all except deep in this festering
tomb great secrets remain - for it is from another
place and silent about everything except to the 
spirit-reader who stumbles here.
Yes, deep in this aging tomb, great secrets remain:
it all still resonates here on this dense physical plane.
Edging towards a darkness where there is no light left,
understanding all things, it bears us no grudge. It holds
the modern day in thrall  -  with someone's powdered
bones within and with nothing more to say. We shrug.
No one cares and things are different now  -  there's
no language anyway for the things we'd like to say:
'horse-whipped horn-swaggled, lolly-gagged,
no goodnick, high-falutin' fakers all that you are.'
And George Washington had no religion except
that war and he was never meant to say half of
what it's said he'd say but buried here instead are
all his secret papers, here where the massive
craft had landed once and one old horse and
maybe 'he himself' in duplicate form and doubled
twice - for that is how great legends go - and there's
no outfitting the exploration party today for they've
all gone home for something and they've all
managed to disappear and like some plague of
locusts the truth is shunned and all the weeds
grow everywhere ('and in my will to win I stand
apart and study deeply all that I can.
The railroad ties are stacked deeply along the side
of the road and the heavy trucks which carry them
there,  and the boatsman from the harbor who tarry
near the edge of the sea and relate what they've
done and seen and the piles of fish they throw like
the men with the  Gennasaret nets and the piles
of fish they throw from the holds and the scales
which measure the catch and the men and their
women who work the coast and the feeders with the
cutters and weighers and all those who sell and as
I remember back the surveyors too who once
marked every place, for a certainty of this world,
like naming, to keep it in place -- they are ALL
forgotten now and the sailors who sang of the sea
and the warriors and officials and taxmen and judges.
And I sing with the Song of Miriam thus : 'sing unto
Yahweh for He is highly exalted. The horse and its
chariot has He thrown into the sea'. And still I hear
those words echo down chambers of time, in a new
circumference and an understanding of many things
  -  material I cannot relate and ways of understanding
I cannot retell, but slowness is the Prince of Time,
and once you achieve that pace corrected you can
achieve most anything. The symbols of the world play
on and they shine back off earthly light, reflected.
And what of the sky? And what of the sea?
For wordless are all things in their final demise.

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