A Part Before Breakfast To: the saint who was created Ezra, the one who is imprisoned; a gift is made to you; by Eb, a recalling angel of the true God. Attend to us. Nothing that you know is true. You cannot know what is true. We reveal what is more nearly true. When you are god, you may know truth. And to Rebecca, your wife, without whom you would be a different being, mistress of the South and to her descendants by blood an by adoption and yours, And to the saints of Philadelphia each one in his turn. Skip over nothing, but adhere to each word. Don't divine by fire or cast bones. Runes are for elementals. I will recite to you what may be to the degree that you can recognize it. I am many, more as there are more of you. I will tell you some of what must be and what can be. It is a dreadful thing that we, the many, tell you, a knot to be untangled, each person unraveling his own filament, nor are there two identical. Yours are voices of confusion. Yours are discord. If you pronounce what you believe you know of these sayings, you confuse them. Each, for himself, must understand the time and nature of the sayings, or revelation must elaborate it or masters or priests or the unborn fetus in the fat woman's belly. Let them reflect while in their beds with their wives, or eating sweet cakes for breakfast, or dining on cheese upon the darkness. But silence the children about them, nor make them a game of puzzles. Five years; not one ending, but many; as rain drops wet the highway one droplet upon one droplet, ending little by little the dry, just so is reality. Out of the South is storming a four- fold plague. Each new birth is a trifling altered, but of a sudden, the change is a revolution, a newer creature. In your path a wall of stones is thrown up, building over eons. Boulders are aligning to impede your world. This wall of stones is five years in thickness and a way off is a second, lesser for you to batter through. Between the two is a moat of mud and ice, the water of ten hundred failed world. At that time horns will blow. Beacons will be lavish in the sky. Our brother, Tesh, will forecast a downpouring of rocks, an avalanche of ice, a hail of stone and a torrent of waters. Girls will struggle futilely to give birth. Old women become pregnant. Old men are important. Get you pleasure, but the time is fleeting. A stone enclosure like Ashroth, what is called Ash-kelon in Canaan of Asia, a stone pen for sacrificial victims (of which you have been told these three times) and fortunes and alien images of God, is constructed upon the hills of the island called in your time Ireland and the island Japan. They are one system. It depicts the vast celestial structure. In the South a gigantic bird hatches too and hunts like a dinosaur upon beast and man. A Part From the Window Five women and a man, strangers to one another; by the name of "Placer," at the era of your writing, the women are Chinese and one Indian. The man is Honduran, but of native family bonds. As these persons come along, each is elevated to prophet from childhood into old age. Each will reveal to her and his generation. Here is how it is with the descendants of each: all the men's children will be prophets and their descendants after them. Each woman with whom he has sexual relations will be blessed and enjoy contentment. The man and his descendants are the clan Ebicc which prophecies great things, dreadful things and things critical to your species. Upon the Sabbath they will mislead and upon Tabernacles they must not be believed. As for the women, there's is insight for their families, their communities and their nations. They are of practical help. All the females who derive from their bellies are a breed of prophets, and their daughters after them, the older being the more powerful, but they must be sexually faithful and they must not divine or cast runes. While they are pregnant they will mislead and if they speak upon a Sabbath. Out of China a fury rages into the North. A downpouring of boulders, a disease in the water fowl materialize as out of vapor. Your whole planet is divided into parts. Your world grows heavy and slow. The moon is washed away in a flood of water. The women prophets become a scattered tribe, the Ebros, but die out in generations by disease and injury because the villain, infidelity, stalks them. A Part About the Recording Your species is tumbling down the finite flume. You must, in the end, come to nothing. It is a birth canal leading to oblivion. Your existence is in the living of it, an existence as a skydiver. In arctic Canada muskoxen circle, a living fortress as the snow drives. The ars called the Muskoxen are rendered invisible by the swirling blizzard. The Inuits stalk the defenses and retreat. For two days the storm blusters, the beasts staring outward for danger. A mariner woman of the South, a working woman of the Mexican Pacific (as you say in your era) has two sons and a daughter by different partners. The younger boy is diseased and infects other children of his acquaintance. The daughter is a slut who goes into the United States. The dogs that she raises are the Ebiffso of prophecy. The older son elevates to a man of police powers. He kills his father. A monument is erected to him. It is truly said, "better a dog than the father of a dog." O! Humankind, how fleeting your history, yet how ignorant you are of your mortality! Is your world less mortal? Are you mountains, not dying and being born? Is your ocean and river not failing? You are as temporary as a wink. Enjoy the time. Exploit it. Strive not for permanence, but for our God's rewards. Your wives are your reward. They speak for you. Their husband is there reward. Life is its own reward, but joy and elation you give to yourself and share with your kind and with your mates. That is your great reward. The muskoxen star describes a circle in the sky which defines a circle on the planet. From China, the Earth splits into the circle. Muskoxen take up defenses. The North is the place of your defenses. In Tibet a shaman prays to a stone upon which he has written your name. The stone is as much God as is the shaman. You are moved to obey the shaman's prayer. His wife brews beer and stew and sleeps on his right side at night. Her children are his children. She is old. When the eagle sores (soars) above the mountains, it recognizes the woman and her children, but it fails to see the shaman. Ezra, the saint imprisoned, you have come to nothing, but don't take accounts. The whole species accounts to nothing. Account your deeds, not the deeds done to you. Account the hundred hundred whom you have improved. Our God adores you. Your wife is a ruby of high merit. Your wives are blessed, each one. Did she not give you joy? The sons of the youngest one are priests for the people. Ezra, the saint imprisoned, you must record what we tell you. We are the angel Eb. You will say what may be, what can be and what must be. Record those things as we reveal them. Your country is a menace to all living things. It is called Chaxpa because the god of oppression rules it. Chaxpa recedes in importance because greed eats it. So comes China, nine countries it is. The greatest is Shinlo. Shinlo will rule your world. The foreign ruler from Japan (as you call it) will dominate it. He it is who is a Red Prince. His wife detests your wife for her faithfulness. She copulates with serpents. The Part From the Lawn The great city of Mexico, as you call it, perishes slowly and painfully from want of air and from earth tremors. Before it was bombarded from the heavens. Before it erupted. Now, for many thousands of years, it is ruined. The ancient people of the city are melded into the olla. As Ankh-Esen-Pepi was a female king long since in Egypt (as you call it), a terror, a slut, so was Catherine of Russia. There comes a new Ankh-Esen-Pepi, a great power broker and manipulator for the Arab dominions. The black nations are a nuisance unable even to feed themselves, a mad beast preying upon itself. They are savage among themselves and infect with savagery those they infest; like tykes playing dress-up and sparing as they scream. They spread poverty. They shatter, unable to build a beneficial culture. They are chaos, an instrument of social destruction and rebuilding. They are termites. The black nations are used by Arabs as has long been done. One like Ankh-Esen-Pepi will overcome East Africa for sexual pleasure and as instruments of war. Your world is a single place. Against the desires of nationalists, it becomes a single people, tribes are intermingling interbreeding. The relentless adultery is the plan making a race of Earthlings. First among them are the Eurasian. Without diversity the species spirals into a common fate. The Arab peoples account for little. Here they go, blessed out of all proportion to their station, ingenious and insightful and yet they chose the evolutionary deadend and they come to account for nothing. Their God has not done it to them. They have done it in defiance of their God. Consider their religions. They are religions of destruction which sacrifice the humanity from the human as olden Hebrews took life from beasts in the delusion of giving life to themselves. The religions fail to cultivate. They kill, harm, oppress and look into the caves of human evolution. Of a truth, God wants his gift of life to be enjoyed and to be enjoyable. Better to be the dress-up black than the crushing Arab. Better to celebrate being alive because all too soon, you taste is gone. Just so for the whole species. Just so, Ankh- Esen-Pepi is a king of villains whose son will long dominate her realm. Come the Eblim, those with but down for hair and sparse white wisps like long filaments of spider silk, delicate faces. They have the way of thinking like one another just as we, the Eb. A Clan of women with broad hips and childish breasts, of men with the odor of gardenias and womanish breasts and the empathy of altruism, struggles to survive among the Inca's descendants. Likewise, those surviving on maize and red beans, renew a playing court for the ancient ball sport. Silage, cob and all, is fed to the children and insects provide their sustenance, but they endure and are rewarded because their God is our God. They kiss their wives' bellies and their husbands' loins. Our God will say to them: "peace abide with you." Monkeys abandon their bower, great apes vanish. The monkeys foray against your species. They attack your women and their infants. What are monkeys, you question. Don't you recognize your impoverished peons, your derelicts and outcasts? See also how the dwellers of Siberia, as you say it, cultivate temperate grains and discover rare minerals for their masters. They make alcohol at all seasons. Our God regards them as sluts. A peacock struts the terraced lawn attended by three peahens. To them, the world is a world of peafowl. So it is with humankind, but your world doesn't exist for the benefit of your species, nor is its future or history focused upon anyone species. Humankind is successful against other species, exploiting them and exploiting place and time. So, take warning, beware of the very tiny thingS, some living, some pretending to be alive, preons, as it were. Beware the gigantic things, worlds and systems of worlds and rivers of ice and fire of which you know nothing. But, above all, beware of humankind. It is its own deadly enemy. Nothing is becoming good for your species. Don't look forward to a golden age. Live each day. This moment is your golden age. There is becoming a single race, a blending so that the Levites must keep separate of it. The Levite women must not receive foreign men and the Levite men must mate from their own tribe, but they fail to obey. Authority decays until there is no priestly bond-with God. The horde adopted into Levi is holy and in them hope is invested. A negro colored prince of Levi stands up in Ethiopia (as,it was said in the days of the Torah). In his old age he is a master and takes four wives. All but one is barren. The Light of Lydia has long since set a dreadful curse upon him and upon the Masters of Philadelphia (which is to say Alasehir) and Odessa in their turn. The Master of Ethiopia blesses the black nations. He decorates himself in plumage and garish peacock aglets to call Atonement. He sings the blessings of Passover. On account of him goodness resides in Ethiopia. The civil government imprisons him. Plagues of termites eat up the forests. Disease changes the character of every species excepting the reptiles. At Egypt the waters cover cities even as rains fell upon antiquities. A monster is summoned out of the Western Desert. It devours the land. Arab children defy the monster. It is a religion. They overcome it. Just so, a single language overcomes Babel. Abandon Hebrew and Cantonese, Arabic and French. The universal tongue is spoken from the sky. It amalgamates the diverse peoples. It is the language of energies and electronics. Voices callout from the South, many solitary voices from crypts and caves, from hidden and secluded places. Each one is singing the rite of Atonement. Each one alone. Those enduring solitude at Atonement are readily atoned of any sin. They are especially blessed. None of the voices is declaring that he is a Light of the World. The master is stripped of his coat. A woman kisses his face and takes his hand. Woe to the masters upon Atonement. It is the season of their travail and anguish. Over the entire South there develops a rumbling and a tempo of gigantic birds marching. Buildings and lands succumb. Water is everywhere. The Master's woman attends upon him. A boat and castaways flock to her. Her champion holds her sword while the Master pronounces blessing and proclaims, "I am the Light of the World!" And again, "I am the good and the everlasting one!" So the castaways make a tomb of Peru (as you say it). An army of ancient warriors, long sacrificed, long interred, is called forth one upon one taking up new life in the persons of the pregnant women. The warriors are the Ebcash and although obedient, they are easily frightened. For each of them there is a name of honor. They rally boys and girls to the Master's woman in the mountain called in your time Bolivia. Woe to the masters while the woman has the army, woe to all of your kind. A highway is laid forth by air and sea and land to the pastures of the West, expanses of grain like an ocean are captured by the Ebcash. In the West the woman builds a garden in memory of the dead for you must recall those who preceded you. In that place a red bird is set flying and with her a green bird, but they fail to return and the alien host swarms in overcoming everything with fire and explosion. Fishers cry out from the inland sea, as you call it, Lake Michigan. They chirp and moan and are destroyed. Everywhere there are two-headed turtles and malformed amphibians. The Master's woman makes a standard for herself, a cape of peacock plumage, a garment of ecru cotton filled with magical and holy symbols of the South. It is covered with a cloak of red feathers and she wears a broad-brimmed hat like the women of the South. Against her the Sun and the sun's energies wage a conflict. It is long before the deluge of ice and water from outside your world, long before the age of the great coldness, long before the storms of boulders. The Master's woman hides herself in the mountain. Her cape protects her. In Canada (as you call it) a Levite woman adopts sons to replace those who have deserted her. The young one is named Joshua. He defends the muskoxen. The old one is named Richard, as it were. He is the Richard of prophecy who builds the bamboo causeway and the bamboo barrier and on account of whom Japan is called The Island Of Richard. A Part About Smallness Each woman must produce one child or, if she is a monogamous wife, two children. Each male Levite must produce or adopt one child and one more for each of his wives. Each person must cherish and protect life and no priest may cause the death of any person, not even his mortal enemy. Long past, the legendary Malagigi, the paladin of Charlemagne of the Franks (as you say in this age), was entitled an enchanter. He seduced a Frankish Levite girl. By him she produced two daughters and a son who was said to be Orlando. By a later Levite husband the woman had a second son. If either parent is a Levite, the offspring is Levite, so, at once, the woman was mother to bastards of a Peer and a Levite toddler. The descendants served Emanual's family first in the South of France and later in Ireland and on into Canada. The descendants of the Prince Malagigi are endowed with Celtic (as you say) power and strong will able to influence others and to comprehend what is incomprehensible. Like Malagigi, they are reputed to possess a magic book, indeed, many magical books, and so are able to seduce both men and women for their pleasure. Do not be confused by nonsense and superstition. The cousins breed among themselves, keeping their secrets for they bear a blue mark on their sides and under their scrota and upon a concealed female place. So it is called a witch's mark. Touching it communicates a disease. In war and peace their refuge was Holy Island, but some became seamen and went to New York (as you say in your time) to live among the mountains. He is the father of a family predicting disease. His heirs come to devise marvelous things. One protects the world from Bajard, the comet of destruction. A Part Worthy of a Penny There are fingers tapping on ancient tablas in India. Women weep and children ache with hunger. A harmony of horns bellow to the geese. The tablas are recovered from the metal of war. Each tapping is a prayer. The dance is a prayer. They are useless. A wind is blowing. Out of the North Wind baroness blows extinguishing men's potency. Even young men are frustrated, unable to copulate satisfactorily. Others find no mate because they are isolated by obsession with their incomes and toils. Others mismatch their women so that their semen is rejected. An increasing number of others are malformed or defective in body or germ. Some are already partly of different species. In all, the best of males produce the fewest of offspring. Of a truth; women are good, but they must be controlled if there is to be a social contentment. The men visit and die. what is the use of them? Out of the North Wind ire blows. It is a disease infecting the men with unfounded rage. Where are the wives to bolster them? Their society is thrown into turmoil. Husbands are slain by wives, wives by husbands. There are quarrels and ill feelings dividing the sexes. Fortunate are the mates who benefit from the marriage of chemistries, the union of wills. Our God has created a changing riddle, but the answer is at all times the same; love is stronger than death is. Out of the North Wind arises a tribe which survives to marvelous age. As the Cibel beloved of Apollo clung to life for as many years as she clutched grains of sand, so the Eble possess bodies which forget how to perish, nor can they produce offspring beyond fifty years. Among them there is no jealousy or greed and the sexes abide in harmony, each adhering to an assigned role. Their persons have the odor of leather in sea water. They were natives of America and they are slow to anger. Comes a woman of Eble who, being upward of three hundred years of age as you tally time, and traveling in Florida (as you say) is raped by Negro boys who injure her gravely. On that account, the Eble undertake to kill or castrate every savage to whom they are exposed. Their fury boils for forty years so that many are imprisoned for the atrocities. But this accounts as nothing because the Negro boys kill and maim one another far more than avengers' injustice. A Part To Be Considered When the use of money has elapsed, a holy man of the Eble in what you have come to call Spain, describes a holy place in a grove of oak trees. There he establishes an altar and a basin of sacrificial fire. Young persons from sundry parts of your planet adhere to him because he is a great good teacher possessed of truth, insight and a gift of healing. Those young persons and others form themselves into battalions and overthrow local governments by their numbers, by force, and by intimidation. One of them who calls himself Imam, concocts a plot to murder the holy man, their mentor, and to elevate himself to a role of dignity and influence. Assassins attack the Eble in his bed for they fear to confront him while he is awake. Masquerading as government agents in order to mislead the followers, they would shoot him, but their explosives are impotent and fail. He touches each assassin so that he is made good. The holy man's wife curses them mightily and they shrink away in shame, becoming fugitives. Black pebbles rain from heaven over the whole earth for two days. Many are as tiny as iron sand, some are as large as a child's marbles. The grove and the holy altar are destroyed and burned. The holy Eble is taken captive by Jews of the government of a foreign place. His faithful wife and her sisters reads a chant and he vanishes. Who does not see with his mind? He hides with his wife within the very heart of his enemies and lights a fire in old Jerusalem. The smoke of his fire call down justice upon an evil people. Our God speaks with many voices, one for each ear and one for each heart. There is but one language, but each individual, derives his own meaning. Just so, regard an orb. There are an infinite number of ways to the holy city and an infinite number of ways which fail. Don't fret that some choose different routes and suffer different understandings. A single language speaks to boulders and blades of grass, to you and your spouse, to the worlds'and the energy beams. Each struggles with its understanding. The number of persons is grown much too immense. Success is failure. The species feeds upon itself like an infected dog. This one is competing with that one for dwindling resources. The gift given to the Europeans was cooperativeness, but it becomes corrupt with survival by competition. It is womankind who were given the cooperativeness and males who endured competition, slaughtering one another in the war of the fittest, but the vole survives while the triceratops is petrified. Getting more than is needed is an evil. Accumulating possessions is an evil. It stimulates insecurity, covetousness, greed and squanders resources. Not even water is limitless. It would have been wiser to share and cooperate. There once was enough for everyone. The Pacific Ocean boils. Mounds of lava ooze from the magma until there is a new land, freshly fashioned. It forms into a three-sided islet. In time a station is erected upon the islet and feral dogs ravage the unique paradise. The first faint inklings of extra-terrestrial life forms are detected there, but what should be interested in the species of earth beyond the feral dogs? What is war but adolescent sexual jousting. Sexual frustration is the ruin of your species. It is on account of perceiving your own flaws and shortcomings. It is an evil to prove oneself in combat or in business or in any way. What you are is very good. It is the shortcomings which make it so. A Part of Sweetness We who are many would eat fudge if we inhabited a person and we would have pastries made with fruit and a Shahath cake with almond nuts just as the masters do. We would drink cider and eat mother's cheese on rye biscuits. Are you any less deserving than an angel? less discerning than a master? Keep a dog and be pleasant to those who are around you and, in its time, eat fudge and Shahath cake. A village by the gulf is in Mexico. Chocolate is made there into syrup and put into hollow candies by a woman with a tattoo on her genitalia. The candy is made with pepper and flakes of pome. Where one consumes it, she is infected with love, a disease of dire consequences. It is just as well to eat the fish. In that place pots and hollow adobe blocks are fashioned and fixed with chemicals and zeolite from the seashore. A roadway meanders from the brine olla to every cranny in the continent in an elaborate network. It is to say: you can get there from here. What do you know of time and what do you know of place? To you everything is tiny and trivial, relative to yourself. It is an infinite network going to all places and all times. The White Bison Woman was given to lace together the networks and to reach across the filaments to unseen nodes. She can bake a pastry of blue jelly, pome flakes and dried grapes which will carry her vision even to the dead. A Part with a Measuring Rod The gigantic birds migrate along the seashore and along the path of the ancient flyway. They devour carrion and hapless creatures. They chatter among themselves, critiquing their macabre cuisine. They leap up upon things as vantage points, but they come to nothing. The ants and vermin overcome them. Honey bees build hives in their breasts and, in turn are devoured by lesser creatures. From Japan, the peoples make an invasion of every desirable place. They live in bubbles floating beneath the waters and warm rivers: provide them heat. This one praises the macaques, emulating them by bathing in hot brine with herbal foliage. He opens a vent into the magma, capturing your world's nuclear energy. In Orion a sight is seen like a slow explosion and on Jove's moons your species thinks it can weather storms. It is better to eat the Shahath cake and chew litchi. Everything is ephemeral, you no less that the gigantic birds. The lesson of your life is to enjoy it. Yours is a thread that tangles up from the beginning of the world. By existing now, you existed then, mother to yourself, not a childless woman. A drunkard becomes governor in the West, presiding over the ants of Europe and the termites of Africa. The American nation (as you say in your age) is a government of almost continual war. Never before was there a country so war-like and aggressive. Theirs is a history of war, recovery from war, preparation for war and war again. It is a country of evil rules and evil peasants, destroyers. Upon that place objects are hurled from the upper limits of the sky, lances as it were and destruction, but water is its ruin. One by one the saints layout territories using themselves and their strides as measuring rods. Many saints over many generations, each describing a district of goodness. It is an uneven patchwork, small and overlapping. This place seems better than that and the best is Holy Island. This is what your God has said: "I will throw down each holy place and each saintly place and make of them a single holy place. It is my City populated by but a small people." Coffee and herbs, teas and cocoa liquor are combined as a holyday libation. Do not become intoxicated. It is an evil, a poisoning of yourself. Before the deluge and the bombardment every saint in the Holy City and the record of every saint who has died, are removed from your world. They are put out of the way of the moat of mud and ice. We who are many make you a promise, in so much as you love, that is how much you will be evacuated. In so much as you do good for others and for your world, that is how much you will be preserved. Don't deceive yourself that your natural fondness of your children or parents will honor you beyond the present. From the East a party of fanatics, the Ebpac, overthrows the rulership of all the high holy places. They are killing fields and worthless to our God. Abandon them. The holy place is precarious, upon a mountain upon a sliver of land drenched by tropical cyclones, a libation of coffee and herbs. A Part For the Childless Woman Like the ants and overwhelming number of species of your world, yours is a race of women. The males are essentially extraneous. It was not always so. In former creations there were no females or, again, male-like life forms were essential. For your family of animals, males have another function. You say, "what is the use of men?" They are your promise of salvation. They are the bond with your God and they are love. Beware of the conflict between the female and the male. They have differing goals. An excess of males is the doom of peace and of the species. But, again, women must be ruled and conformed. Four things are unhappy, the childless mother, the homosexual man, the frustrated person, the material fool. None of them is evil, but none of them is happy. It is better to be a mother than not to be. It is better to be homosexual than not to love. It is better to be frustrated than not to try and even the fool is good. The women of your kind may be motherly to many sorts of persons and things. It is said: "keep a dog and be pleasant to those who are around you." Consider your mother, you are her, not perfectly, but after her kind. Your thoughts of her are your thoughts of yourself. In recalling her, you revitalize her record. Who revitalizes the woman who has no child? This woman's child dies in infancy and that woman's child abandons her. This woman's child is a heartbreak and that woman's child does injury to the world. Let her mother her husband or her charity or her community. Of olden times the critics condemned masturbation as if semen were precious and orgasm was sanctified. It is nonsense. It is an alphabet of survival, and the childless woman may be mother to other pleasures. Open a chasm into the great mountain of Africa. It contains the marvelous records of bygone species and ancient visitors. Listen to the music of the tabla and the tabor played upon the high places of Asia and Europe. All things are one thing and that one thing is both nothing and everything. There is no song without an ear because the ear makes it into a song. Your species is slave to its limitations. In all the world, what can you do? What do you accomplish and how long do you persist? The life of a single star overawes you, but aren't there countless stars coming and going like May Day rockets? Adore the woman who has been given to you. Adore the husband who loves you; endure. There is a single mother to you all, a single mother to everything you understand to be alive. She reinvents herself, smiling and going in haste. You repeatedly revitalize her in differing incarnations. Has she even come to notice your species among the diverse menagerie of living things? Endure until you see goodness and then endure again. The last woman is the first to receive salvation. The last male is the first to arise upon Judgment. The last nation of the Earth is a single people. Of it, it is said: "it is herbal aspic and fish juices. It is rancid butter." What becomes of those who eat crab and filthy crustacean? A man arises to say, "I sell them to the highest bidder." A fine, far woman arises in Central Asia, verdant and productive, an exporter of oils and a fortress of power. Of her it is said: "crisp breads for her breakfast and wheat porridge well feed her children." She is animated with diverse life. Flying vehicles hurtle into the earth. The flat land ungulates as if trodden by a Titan's heal. Of its own weight is an ordinary thing crushed. What can endure where the press of the gravity is multiplied? Surely, like a wave out of the fat woman's mouth, ripples of gravity convulse. First, weights are excessive and, in a moment, the weights are trivial. Water doesn't remember how to behave and the wheat fails to understand. Something has made a trick of the crisp toast. A Part From the Singer Listen to yourself. Your song to yourself is insightful and true. Listen to the ancient pipes and the string instruments of the primitive state of your species. Listen, God himself is singing to you. The lyrics are the truth, the melody is the truth. Listen, it will delight and guide you. Each element has its voice. Each substance harmonizes. The North Wind is a melody of suffering. Canada, as your age calls it, becomes a warming land and the giant bears vanish, their discordant barks unheard. The land is a vast stone plate roasting like a wok upon a float of molten basalt. The muskoxen survive only because the best of the peoples, the Ebolacia, occupy the nation. The Ebolacia become the most deserving persons of your world. This one is gentle, that one is strong, all are loving. They put a ribbon around their arm and a garter they wear on their calf. Listen to the chime of heavenly mallets drumming upon Canada's sizzling plate. Listen to the record of the planet's most ancient life forms, sloshing in a tidal muck. Even the primordial mud tingled with life's melody. How did that first inkling of life come to find the Earth's seacoast? It was Canada beckoning with sustenance and the lure of a siren's melody. We, who are many, have a voice which is music. It is a single language, an ancient wind instrument. Even the algae sing to one another. The lichens, in deep groaning whispers, lullaby themselves. They are the opera of nature's cantor as the law is recited from the high place. The priest wears a ribbon around his arm and around his thigh. The law is destitute because you have failed to publish it with your deeds and your fortunes. In the longer term there is no place which is safe haven for you no matter how righteous you become. The planet itself is dying. It's the coda transcribed in the Earth's melody. You will be physically removed into the endless sea. But what is this in the shorter term? Your species looks for the worst aspects of yourselves blossoming in others. You give them power. The worst sorts of persons rule you. It is a vile chemistry where the evil floats to the top. It is better to look at the best parts of yourself and cultivate them. Just so it is with the Ebolacia. The women caress your neck. The men prepare a feast. Judgment's feast is not a time for strangers. Each element has its music. Keep the cantor's tempo. With ash-gray face, chant the mystery of Dan. This horse neighs and that horse responds, together pulling a wooden wagon. It is the chariot of the Prince of the World. You choose him and he is evil, the shadow of the end of the world. He eats fish and the livers of swine stirred in a wok. What can elude the red man? What can survive him? The cantor must whisper his song and the assembly must sing with him as it was done in the olden times. Dreams don't foreshadow the future, they reflect the past, but, just so, the future only continues the present. Life is not a serious business. It's a lark, a caper of vicissitude played upon celestial orbs. Enjoy the party and your ignorance about what is approaching. Like the Evil One, our God hears the music. Unlike the Evil One, our God remembers it. Dribbling like hourglass sand out of the South into North America, the childless men, like aimless souls fret to survive. Out of the North Wind howls the song of destruction. what has our God done with one species after another? No more do they live and reproduce in joy and kiss their wives' bellies. No more do they rejoice tumbling together in the carnal dance. They pursue the mark. They give reverence to the mark and, on account of money, they slaughter one others and strangle themselves. Two Daniels arise in Greece. They have no children, but they go together into Turkey taking sexual intimacy with one another and with natives who are infected with wasting disease. The Daniels are not affected or made ill. They are blessed and fortunate. Better to wrest pleasure from the taboo than to forego the dance. Who can arm you against your mortality? Have you asked the blessing of protection from a wasting disease? What priest kisses you at evening's altar? Beware the uncircumcised man. A curse is upon him since time out of mind. They are the Ebwa. No uncircumcised man shall arise at the Judgment Feast in Paradise. This Daniel is circumcised and attends the boisterous hora with many women, their breasts bobbling to the violins. He is without a child, but not without hope. Neglected, that Daniel is uncircumcised, an Ebwa marked as unclean. His children are a race of anguish. What butcher will offer the obsidian knife? Into North America an army infiltrates like dribbling sand relentlessly falling in an hourglass. At the appointed moment, the red woman marshals them in the West. This Daniel is overcome by them and that Daniel is entrapped. Disgusting larva overtake the woman's memorial garden. Slugs devour her produce. And this is what she pronounces from the midst of the level expanse of her conquest. "I must eat worms! I must survive on ergot! My memorial fires smolder with mildew. Flee to the southern jungle. Flee to the snake-infested rain forest. A wasting disease overtakes the grain. A blight overpowers the fruit.I' From the Prince residing in Japan there is the reply. "Say nothing to the ice storm. A quenching deluge overspreads those who are circumcised along with those who are uncircumcised. Even the childless women. Water is the Angel of Death and plummeting boulders are resurrection." The ballet of destruction nips off one family branch upon another. The ballad of enjoyment is morosely somber. Black birds coil spirals where only sunlight should shine. The childless man's family dies with him. The childless woman's family dies with her. It is a desirable thing to put the dead to rest and to make provision for the species that is arriving. Neither confuse your body with your existence nor your wishes with your deeds. It is your song which shall be heard again if you have filled it with love and joy and lawfulness. Say to the master: "teacher, dance with me in a hora with circumcised men. Let me impress my footprints into our God's recording." A Part For the Closing We who are many have even espied the female priests, a slutty flock of moldering birds. The moil knows them as an unnatural evil. Preserve the children out of their reach and the women preserve out of their scheming greed. Out of Greece arise two moguls who go into the commerce of the world as the cabbage worm invades the food garden. Wealth blinds its victims, even the female priests and the female princes and the women of great authority. It is the illusion of safety, comfort and refuge. Where the priest obsesses over money, she has lost her goodness. This mogul is circumcised and sleeps with virgin girls of Arabia. That mogul is the uncircumcised Ebwa and buys sexual favors from cunning old women. This one is freckled with sadness for his failing to possess the world. That one gives a ruby to the vicar and pouches of diamonds he gives to the priests. This is what the master will come to repeat. "Neither diamonds or rubies make Paradise, but attend to the cunning old woman. It is she who fries the Tart of Affliction. She is the ovaries of the race, the boulevard of Atonement." Today is your golden age. Hold your chest and be possessed of yourself. It is a blessing. Drink water from your own fountain. Make the best of what you are provided. See the best in your possibilities. It is an evil to see forests of evil. Earn a blessing with your happiness. You are prisoners. This one is like Ezra, the one detested, a dweller within a prison. That one is no less confined. He cripples himself with his quest of the mark and his enclosure in his place. Realize that the woman is the worst. The one to whom so much was freely offered and who has but one task, to give pleasure, that one craves the mogul1s mistress. Yours is a territorial species, uneasy and uncertain in strange places. You are beasts of place, lovers of home and builders of fences. It is so, even of the masters who are masters of a place but not of a time. Likewise, angels exist only in definite space and no a moment. You intentionally enclose yourselves as a plant does with tendrils. You are foolish to fear. You take your place with you. The savage of the jungle is savage in the city. The Master of Snake River is no less master in Persia's principal city. The knight bullies you as well in Brazil as in Avalon. Like the crab, you take your limitations with you. A governor of China takes a foreign mistress. She is a good woman with green eyes and knotted tresses, but given her estate in the Southeast. Fields and corn she cultivates as in the Americas and orchids without scent and cattle without horns. The one who loves her composes a comic limerick to her intimate charms. He is cast down and beheaded. No one weeks for him or for the solitary woman. One has said to repay an eye for a lost eye and again, repay a tooth for a lost tooth. Of olden times what is one to expect as its meaning? But, one must restore the lost eye and restore the lost tooth, not take another. It is better to die a childless woman than to extract vengeance. Give your semen to Moloch, but preserve your infants. Make for them a track and around them keep Saint Bernard dogs. Play pretend with them and recite the comic verse of China, or make your own way. It is better to forego infants and share the loving of an acquaintance. Where in all the world will you make a place for your infant? Better to make place for a wild creature. Our God has fashioned the scorpion as well as the lichen. Kids prance atop fence posts, teetering and braying in play. It is the season of kids playing. The Chinese governor condemns the southeastern tribes. He is toasted with fine imported wine. He is become father to a monster and sire of an scandalous horror. It is hidden like a dragon in the desert. A statue of the Great Teacher overshadows it. Hear me, you saints of Philadelphia and you destitute others without a master. Twice in the year, but only twice, liberally drink citrus juice and red wine. It is Ebshover and mix with it crushed ice and sugar. When you drink the Ebshover rub your chest and recite comic verse. The wine must be red, but the juice may be grapefruit (as you say), or fresh lime, just as pleases you. At the end of your drinking, put away the wine and thank the God that your mother didn't put you into the mouth of Moloch. Our God has provided you with oatmeal to make your breads and rye flour to mix your muffins. Our God has provided dates and pomegranates and apricots for your season, but it is passing. Enjoy the taste of what is available. At each moment make the best you can and, like a saint, ignore the evil. In a place in the East, jets of water gush from the earth. Of olden times young people gathered there to count the seconds between this outpouring and the next. But it is an evil place where fear is the wise one's best advice. Listen to the Evil One alarming you to save yourself. Of a truth, there is no salvation, only delay. The Prince of Canaan is not to be dissuaded. A great machine, greater that the jet airplane, greater even that the locomotive, is in his wisdom and he will swoop it down among the innocents. Why be forewarned when there is nothing to preserve those who are condemned. In a moment you are all vanished. Upon the whole earth there are seventy fold the rightful number of persons. Each nook is possessed of them. They breed their own distortion. An insanity possesses the overcrowded, a mania to self-destruct. Madmen lead the foolish and rancid diseases are pandemic. The men with the striped vestments bring up the deadly sport, footballers (as you say). The striped shirts swell with hatred of everyone and every type of thing. They are destroyers who reign terror. When one is defeated, another preys upon you. A monster comes out of China, a terror out of Persia and out of the South, a red and purple orchid will preserves even those doing evil. A Part For the Thanksgiving War is an evil, a stunning evil. At all times and in all ways war is an evil. It is better to cull the multitudes with cunning and pleasure. The wanton slaughter of the species is a madness of insane rulers and ignorant followers. Once having listen to the anguish of the bombed, the wailing of the broken; once having listen to the crying of your enemy and even the madmen must come to recognize that war is a mental disease, a sport for the Evil One. And who is the Evil One? Don't you recognize your self? Black children, charred and battered, starved and dying, breed the next generation. Have pity on yourselves. Commit suicide in a peaceful fashion. The one who cries out for war is evil. Shun his company. This is what our God has said: "I have distributed pleasures among you as a woman. Mercy I prefer over vengeance, affection over retribution. Sacrifice is not my meat. It is the food of the priests. Be cautious of them lest they become greedy. I have given you good things and goodness. Combat only from imminent necessity. Don't send young persons to do what old persons cannot. Pay My priests their ransom. It is their inheritance." Why don't your mothers give their milk? We who are many, have corne together this once. We are the Eb, who arise with you in the :dawn and stand with you in the rain-shower. We listen to the way you are going. We sway to your chanting. The Eb are appalled. What have you done with the God's goodness? Who tastes your wives' milk? The reproductive organs of the priests are torn out and they are worthless to the assembly. Their semen feeds Moloch, but they possess powerful machines and wondrous inventions. They give their affection to someone else's infants. If the master has produced one child, he is righteous. If he has produced four, he is peopling the world with righteousness. But if he produces the seventh, he warrants censure. Where in the whole world is there a place for them? Likewise the saint's child. It must be carried like a papoose and caressed with fingertips. It is neither innocent nor ignorant. It will be burned black with bomb dust and bombarded with missals, just as the sea-vented lava broils the unwary. If you fail to be thankful for what surrounds you, it will only become less tasteful to you. This is your acme.