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Thursday, February 18, 2016

After Late-Night Television the Fires Begin

After late-night television the fires begin; the city is ablaze, raging infernos. There are conflicting reports on the radio. Some say it was a downed aircraft, a black-winged helicopter, a secret test plane, an unidentified fleeing object. But what was it fleeing? Others say it was a comet, a bolide, a stray meteorite, some cosmic renegade. And still others report it as an explosion at the munitions factory or the state owned pig farm. In the air is a billowing cloud of smoke and particulates lit by Illuminati searchlights, those enormous, parabolic, aluminized reflector lights which are programmed to swing and flash in sequence in the night skies.

This is the turning point, the stationary point. This is the inflection point on the curve of history. But there is not one questioned statement- a zero view. There are only classified protestations and blind prejudices identified as a storm of natural occurrence. But these are not merely the aural and visual hallucinations of a deviant personality.

I oppose-they say. I lack compassion and judgment-they say. I am lost. They say. Stigmatized and negative. Conflicting reports. I am an unbeliever-they say. And I am unbelieved.

Through the smoke, grit and glitter sparkle in the reflected light of midnight search lights. If not for the explosions, and sirens, and gunfire, and screams in the street below me this would be almost magical. Thaumaturgic, even. A marvel. A miracle. And another explosion, closer now, at the armory. A string of percussive claps, each louder than the last, throwing ash and paperwork into the air. The building shakes beneath me.

What is the real spiritual agenda here? What is the agent’s name? Who is assigned to this investigation?

This is NOWHERE, but not a Utopia, and not a Good-Place. Not at all. A very parable of cities on fire, like all the others. There is a pattern at work here, a pattern of spiritual and cultural destruction. They want to destroy us. I know how crazy this sounds, but my paranoia is the result of a culture of lawlessness created by untouchables: “Touch Not the Lord’s Anointed! And Do My Profits No Harm!”

Imagine the looks of horror and streams of water, shock, anger, and tears above the roar of the flames. Mark the moment. Strike the page. Burn it down. The Sad Eyed Belle Dame sans Merci does not appear to me this time. She brings no comfort; she brings me no word of stern rebuke. The wind changes directions and the smoke is blowing towards me. There are police and news helicopters overhead.

This rooftop platform is no longer safe.

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Muted Hosannas Muted Hosannas
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