The Sixth Landing
I landed in Phoenix just as the freeways were built, ordered my own dump trucks of dirt so children could slide down feet first as I did the original slag hills where I grew up. Houses here had been bulldozed to pavement. Excavation began by flood light at night. There were ringside seats all day. Leave came to walk the barriers, explore the pits, but not one artifact was found. Kmart, at 16th St and Roosevelt, yielded hundreds. We walked the freeway at Christmas that year, picnicked on the bridge over 24th St. before sliding down the berms of shale and dirt.
I lifted one of their dictionaries. The Social Impact of Technological Slavery — begins with the European Discovery of America. The new Indian replaced with social, political, commercial new worlds made room for psychics and glands. Discoveries overturned for murder. Ex-terrestrials bigger than Columbus enthroned King Pentagon. Like the arch angel, timing is all.
My first work was to obscure these landings. Like leaves blown into letters on the street, that spell things we do not want to know, I water and tramp the obvious. But word shells wash up. The sea paints pictures in the sand so fast words are futile. I am very busy. The sand is obvious. By the time you read this forest fires will be burning trees into sentences. It is late. Here’s my report.
Rival views of the Landings were endlessly ridiculed. No one thought from the staging that the technological revolution was staged. “Facts,” were broadcast with analysis of the “facts.” You could say I came to the grave worlds to ask, “whose is this, which one is this?” Mummies of a thousand years, white to bone would understand the analogy with Maurois’ Tragedy in France — possess the soul by Vichy confederates and propaganda – or Why England Slept — appease by fabrication and myth. New titles for quislings: Global Science, the Alien Savior.
The first Quakers of new prose took documentary form, gathered first hand, culled from sources. Literature factura. It was a lot like pouring a concrete foundation, prosthesis of flat folded sheets of the unspoken. Should words get a public burial? Authorities overruled. The idol of government held bodies responsible, buried beneath and got on, site of some secret. To bury something dead and gone came every word spoken.
The burial was secret because the kill was. Watchman Lee used to call it dead Adam. The list of beliefs, poets of influence, heard and unheard, cried in vision to hear the same remixed. Cloud powers split words into sheets.
There is no obvious connection between this horizon and a series of dreams of dozens of arches I remember from the message of the leaves. A colored image of a nose bleeding among honeysuckle. That was under an arbor of bees flying. Yellow and white fragrant tubes. Coming toward me, my brother, blood flowing from his nose. I am four.
Another arch preoccupies the county home of Uniontown, PA. I visited at ten. Who visits an insane asylum at ten? A long whitewashed tunnel extended to either end. A padded door swung massively in on metal hinges where inmates were kept. They ranged outside the tunnel and in to stumble and moan. The path was elevated above its gutters so it could be hosed. I didn’t smell anything but disinfectant. I am going down this tunnel. There is slobbering on both sides.
Now you see them hunting also in cemeteries at night with spades and boots. Radios, novels, microwaves seek to restore communication with lost powers. Flashlights look for turned earth, but Adam’s residual soul was secret. Oracles out of power were reduced to writing. A cry in the river of light, to write anything human in speech, to navigate a sea so warm the leather hides of the boat smoked on its stretched frames.
4. Metaphor of the Leaves
Inmates and police had common cells. Their brains are studied to promote robotic sources. Corporations, Universities, hospitals run the arches. Careerists, norm police provoke madness as class rights. The bosses pretend not to notice weekly instances of mutation in the malls. Hospicio Cabañas, built as an orphanage becomes a deconsecrated Man of Fire. Gaslit doubt is built here. Centers for Brain Health make diseased brains. Memory, perception, sanity, projection, introjection hold trials. Psychopathic auto cut flash clip frescoes bloom and darken, crack and spall. It’s certainly too much to believe public events staged. Evidence is an iridescent airbrush. Stagings are incomplete. The needs of further manipulation are a comfort. We are thrown out of the circle.
Now I have worked the 6th seal a little your comments are important because the one I have up is light. So I will take to sleep what you say here. I know the trip is going fast. All you can do is open your ears and eyes and mind, but if you take any notes at all you will bring them back, with the photos of course. I think it good you only have 120. Keats told Shelley, load every rift of your ore with gold. All the sixth seal takes on what I told you about the sword bathed in heaven. Danby focuses that. I had meant to do it before this, but today put up more of that notion. I do feel like I have only one nap and one sleep to get it down. So I’m like you, the thing is going too fast, but we do our best and file it for the next. Your tomorrow sounds like the best. Here’s the link for the Sixth Seal so far. Angels Bound in the Euphrates! We’ll plan for Sunday! My Sword Shall Be Bathed in Heaven.
AE Reiff, Encouragements For Such.
At the edge of a great snowfield Louie Otesanek grew different shapes and shades. His palms are wide and dark and mingled with the highest sky. See more of his work here.