Now Is the Time To Prepare

    Now is the time to concentrate on the hidden things, secret things with apocalyptic elements made explicit by the revelation of the Spirit. Trouble worldwide and canceled ceasefire discussions mean exponential explosions in international weapon sales.

    The Bible clearly describes a variety of war crafts and military machines to be used in these latter days, vehicles and machines far beyond a first century comprehension – locusts and horses prepared for battle. Armored helicopters hovering over the battlefield with cannons and nerve gas rockets.

    Look. Look and listen for mechanized infantry with the sound of a thousand thousand chariots rolling through the valley with the nano-particle smoke of the abyss. Look for far-light lasers. Look for depleted uranium shells fired from naval vessels off shore. Shoulder mounted Jericho-flechette launchers.

    In the sky, networked autonomous stealth drones and long-range tactical bombers. In the waters, nuclear submarines and an aircraft carrier fleet in the Persian Gulf.

    Soon there will be intercontinental ballistic missiles launched with the word of the Antichrist’s command and two hundred million Red Chinese Lóng Flame Tanks crossing the Euphrates riverbed.

    The future is here with unparalleled opportunities. Now is the time to see it. Now is the time to prepare. Now is the time to invest

Revelation 16:12-16

I Would Have Set Them Straight

    The brothers of Goliath, you say? Yeah. I remember them. I fought in the Philistine wars with our shepherd king. I was barely out of short pants myself, but I was there with my bow and my sling, ready to take on the entire Philistine army myself. No sissy stuff. I was there to bring them down.

    There was Lahmi, who ate bread even as he fought his way across the valley, a loaf of rye as big as your head in one hand and a spear as tall as you in the other.

    And Isbi-Benob – the man from Nob. What a nob! He wore a bright new sword and thought he could kill the warrior, David. As if.

    And the other one… what was his name? The one with twenty-four digits. Twelve fingers and twelve toes. Six on each hand and foot? No. It was eight and four apiece. Strange, I tell you. And where did he find shoes for those feet? 

    And Goliath? Goliath. Well, you know the story that David went out with his sling and a few river stones. But I was there when the battle broke out at Gob in the western foothills of Judah. I watched Elhanan bring down Goliath. Man, what a crash when he hit the ground.

    People talk about David like he did it all alone. But some of us were there, and we remember how it really went. Funny how the scribes write it down one way. Funny how memory writes it down another. They should have just asked me. I would have set them straight.

1 Chronicles 20:4-8, 2 Samuel 12:15-22

The Visions of Iddo the Seer

    These are the visions of Iddo the Seer in the first year of King Jeroboam, son of Nebat.¹

    When the sound of the fire died down and the desert wind, full of grit, laid low, I was found naked, more than naked, outside the walls of the city. I climbed the foundation of the walls and looked about the city. I saw the house reduced to scattered stones.

    I was assaulted by terror and unable to stand. I climbed out the window and stood on the sand.

    I saw stones stripped and laid bare in blind circles. It was the house of the dead, flying the banners of corpses.

    Men cowered behind the wall. Forced through barricades into darkened corners. The city was a great inhabitation of despair. And I was afraid to scream.

    Strange visions in my head during the night. Visions and a voice that said, “You must not speak of yesterday.”

    I saw beasts and stars and horns and slaughtered children in the rubbled remains of an open air prison. A shadow army. A whisper militia now screaming for the whole world to hear.

    I saw lightning and all the shekinah glory legends, all eyes and fire in the storm hovering over my bed. I saw burning olive trees beyond the walls and checkpoints. I dreamt of burning human bones ritually defiling the land. I dreamt of fish and cucumbers, leeks, onion, garlic, and watermelons rotting.

    The voice said again, “You must not speak of yesterday.” I sat long in silence listening. Waiting for another word.

    I saw hellfire fall from the sky to burn families fleeing in the dark. I saw the earth crack open to devour and drag them down. And the voice said again, “You must not speak of yesterday.”

And I knew it was not the voice of HaShem. And all I could do was scream into the sound of the fire.

2 Chronicles 9:29

1 922 BCE approximately. Scholars continue to debate.

In Search of Words

    Yahya stood in the bathroom, looking into the mirror, trying to see the reflection of images in the television – a thousand hidden faces, twisting, kicking arms and legs captured by some impossible wreckage. He saw strangers and foreigners and pilgrims beyond the door.

    And he began to wonder

    about catacombs and cathedrals, soccer fields and train depots
    about the many multiplied paintings of Christ’s crucifixion
    about late night diners and midnight drone attacks

    And the glass shattered.

    “What is this?” he asked as a wave of panic washed over him. It was the same question he’d asked ten, twenty, a hundred times before. The same quiet exhaustion. He wiped his face with a towel and got dressed. That’s when he decided to go looking.

    ...he went in search of words
    but there were none to be found.

Proverbs 19:7b

A Future History of a Remembered Apocalypse

    Fifteen years ago, just before midnight, on the night that the mounted police came to our door, I was in the basement writing unrhymed distortion poems for the Free-Radical Press. The horses’ Lorenz-Helmschmied barding was crafted of plaited ultra-high molecular weight polyethylene fibers. They rode silently to the door. We never heard them at all.

    We didn’t hear the blackwing Megiddo-Copters either, sweeping low over the valley with pulsar flares and active INVICTVS tracking systems. There would be no escape.

    The mounted police came with calamitous purpose, looking to deal punishment, harboring the view that the world needed God’s wrath to purify it and wearing neuro-peripheral interference shock gloves. The demands of divine justice held in human hands. We were alienated and estranged, enemies in the mind of wicked works. Dumbfounded and numb with broken hearts.

    Life inaccessible without proof of citizenship. Blood like the blood of a corpse without a demonstration of loyalty. Compliance. Peace through strength. And peace through blood. Split skulls and spilled blood. Casualties mounted.

    We heard a voice over the loudspeaker call out the command, “Go!” And the cavalry attacked, a hellish invasion with bitter biologicals and chemical weapon sprays. Federally authorized weapons of mass destruction. Flashes of fire and brimstone smoke and sulfur.

    An army of red-blooded pressurized American patriots was gathered at the place, ready to make an overwhelming assault with fireworks and jump-cut explosions. Two hundred million poorly trained agents authorized to use excessive force without legal restraint.

    I saw single mother saints and brown skinned prophets shot down and trampled. The house erupted into flames. I ran out of the house, scrambling to put on my shoes and my coat as I fled.

Revelation 16

A Technical History of Violence – part 1

     Si vis pacem, para bellum.

    Our contemporary language is indebted to the Roman men of action who had as many great words as they had weapons to wield when they needed them. Semper Paratus. Semper Fidelis. Great words to describe the human physique. Great words to understand the anatomical structure – jawlines and bone structures – of their subjects. They knew how to describe a variety of pharmaceutical effects. They knew how to accelerate the process when necessary. Roman guards with hammers and war-clubs killed as many as five hundred prisoners a day and filed the proper reports.

    But the toughest part of the executioners’ job – taking hours, if not days, sometimes as long as nine or ten days – was figuring out what drug and what dosage, precisely to finally kill the victim. Too much of the wrong drug and too little of the right drug produced equally unsatisfactory results. Administering the drug was precision work. You have to account for fungus and pH levels in the water, for barometric pressure, and semi-erratic auguries. Traumatic exposures of this sort often left them bleeding to death from the inside.

    Pause for the audience – seated at the bar in red shadow and gold lights, a moody backroom at the club on the corner. Drinking cheap beer. “Buy us a drink, player?” Lights flash green and gold in rhythm to the music from the jukebox. They do not look at themselves in the mirror behind the bar. Cigarette smoke drifts. Breathe. Prepare yourselves. Make your orisons here.

    They caught their victims by the beard – in every battle – caught them and smote them. Slew them with sword and spike. Many well-respected generals of the law were drawn out of the paw of the lion. They abandoned their soldiers to slaughter. All men most miserable, their young years given to cruelty and to blackmailers. Betrayed. Soldiers who trusted the day. Soldiers who braved the night, but were led to the slaughter.

    Our responsibility is for war. Our responsibility is to strength. In order to raise the mighty warriors of tomorrow, the soldiers of future generations, it is imperative that we make all the natural preparations. They need to be taught verbally. They need to be tested physically. This is freedom. War provides and strength enables everything.

Some Random Thoughts from the Mental Junk Drawer

 

    - The only way to be 'richer than Midas' is to be as merciless as spiders. 

    - Only the rich can afford another war. And that's only because they have the rest of us pay for it. 

    - The so-called Christian Nationalist has the same complaints as the Egyptians in Exodus - "these foreigners are becoming too numerous and if we don't stop them, they're going to side with our enemies and take over the country..."  - Exodus 1:10

    - When it comes time to choose a theodicy to explain the existence of suffering - and there are many to choose from, some better, some worse - keep Vincent VanGogh in mind. "La tristesse durera toujours."

What This is This? (Acts 4: 1-12)

    Some of you – those of you who see my Facebook posts, or who have read my books perhaps, may have figured out that I have strong opinions. And that I am not afraid or ashamed to put them out to the public. I am somewhat outside the political mainstream. Not a Republican. Not a Democrat. But something other. I’m not much of a patriot. I’m a pacifist. Radical? Maybe. Troublemaker? Not intentionally. I’m not afraid of conflict, but conflict is not my goal but it’s often there.

    This distinction, however, has been lost sometimes. I was kicked out of seminary after the Principal decided he needed to break me of my ‘rebellious spirit.’ And after having been restored and ordained, I spent twenty years at odds with the administration of my denomination. Consistently under review and frequently on probation. I was scrutinized. I was mentored and monitored.

    So – I chuckle a bit when I’m trusted with today’s pericope, with its theological and political uproar. Peter and John causing a public disturbance. Confrontation with the political and religious authorities – it sounds like my life.

    We’re continuing the story that began with the healing Pastor Mark discussed last week, when Peter and John at the Beautiful Gate saw the man born lame – “Silver and gold have I none, but such as I have I give unto thee – in the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, rise up and walk.” I must have memorized that verse as a boy; I still hear it in the King James Version.

    And that man went walking and leaping and praising God into the Temple.

    Following the miraculous healing of the man born lame, Peter and John launched into an extemporaneous sermon about crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus – which had occurred in the most recent days, and how faith in this risen Jesus is what restored the crippled man to health, and how “it was for you in the first place that God raised up his servant Jesus and sent him to bless you as every one of you turns from his wicked ways.”

    And then comes the repression. Then comes the suppression. The priests and the captain of the guard and members of the Sadducees were annoyed by Peter and John’s teaching - specifically about the resurrection of the dead – and arrested Peter and John and put them in prison overnight.

    What reason? What charges? Pffffffft. We don’t need reason. We don’t need charges.

    The next day Peter and John were hauled before the court to explain themselves. “By what power and by whose name have you done this?” There are no charges listed. There are no offenses. But Peter and John are called upon to justify their actions. By what power and by whose name have you done this, the leaders asked.

    So here’s the question. What this is this?

    “Are we being arrested for this act of kindness?” Peter asked “Are you asking us about an act of kindness to a crippled man and asking us how he was healed?” Are we being detained because we acted with kindness and compassion to someone in need?

    And this sounds like a bit of the hyperbole of the absurd. Surely you wouldn’t arrest us and put us in the cells overnight because of an act of kindness. That’s absurd. Right? In what world would that make sense?

    But in our world today it’s less an absurd notion than maybe we’d like to think; when public figures are deriding kindness and empathy as the curse and ruination of Western Civilization. “I can’t stand the word empathy” said one such figure. “I think empathy is a made up, new-age term that does a lot of damage.” (Charlie Kirk)

    Kindness will not be tolerated in much of the world these days – especially in places where it is needed most. Consider the fact that over 400 humanitarian workers have been killed in Gaza since the outbreak of that war – that genocide. Doctors and rescue workers have been targeted by snipers and bombed by airstrikes, even when they’ve been traveling in clearly marked ambulances or UN vehicles. Food and medical supplies are denied to the population within the war zone. Kindness will not be tolerated there.

    So, no. It’s no longer the hyperbole of the absurd to ask if we’re being arrested for an act of kindness.

    Perhaps Peter and John were arrested for a difference of theological doctrine?

    To understand here we need to recognize that there were a number of divisions within the Judaism of that day (as there are today, and as there are divisions within Christianity as well). There were the Pharisees -with whom Jesus and his followers frequently clashed (and with whom Jesus and his followers actually shared many similarities) and there were the Sadducees – who were generally from the aristocratic class. There were also the Essenes and later, the Zealots, and other shades and varieties. The faith was not monolithic.

    The Sadducees believed only the five books of Moses to be morally authoritative scripture while the Pharisees gave equal weight to the psalms and the prophets. The Sadducees disbelieved in angels and spiritual beings; the Pharisees saw them everywhere. But the big difference between the Pharisees and the Sadducees was on the doctrine of the resurrection. The Pharisees believed in the resurrection of the dead, while the Sadducees dismissed it as a relatively new theological innovation.

    Were Peter and John arrested because of their proclamation of the promise of resurrection in the person of Jesus of Nazareth? It’s very likely that it figured into the Sadducees decision to have them arrested. They may not have liked the proclamation of a doctrine they considered repugnant, but the Sadducees were typically tolerant of the other branches of Judaism.

    Peter and John were warned off from making further public disturbances – though the author of Acts records no real disturbance here. There were no shouting crowds. No mobs. No violence. If the Sadducees were worried about pushback from the Roman imperialist forces – which was a valid political concern in those troubled days – there doesn’t seem to be any reason for that concern here. If there was a disturbance or an uproar, it was of the Sadducees’ own making.

    What reason? What charges? Pfffft.

    We do not seek trouble. We do not seek conflict. But when mercy is done in the name of Jesus, and when Jesus is proclaimed as risen Lord, trouble may come looking for the church. When acts of mercy and kindness are viewed as dangerous and even criminal, the Church will be in trouble.

    We are not looking for trouble – but we will do the good works. We will act with kindness and charity. We will give of ourselves to others. We will live with empathy for those in need.

    We are not looking for trouble – but we will speak the truth of our convictions – sharing the inclusive love and redemptive life of the risen Christ Jesus with those around us. We will show the world the love of Christ for one and all.

    We are not looking for trouble – but this will probably cause a disturbance.

For a different - comedic - take on this same story: Allegedly

The Hidden Ranks - A Darling and Mio story

    Darling, traveled under her nom de guerre, wearing the occasional disguise – wigs and glasses. Lifted shoes and invented limps. She was both investigating and investigated. Though not yet defenestrated, the threat was always there. Persistent pursuit. It was adrenaline action without rush. Always professional. Always the cause.

    She carried memos where digital traffic was routinely intercepted. Whispered secrets where phone calls could be overheard. Passed notes in the back of class, backstage, and dead drops out front. They’d given her an implanted electrolarynx to disguise her voice and quiet thumbnail cameras. They’d given her passwords and encryption authentications. But she could not do it alone.

    Milo too, serving in an army without a gun, within the hidden ranks. Constantly pushing back with ink and film and precision knives against despotic force. Unlawful, maybe. But they would not be brought under the power. They would not be enslaved by chaos or corruption. They would not be held in bondage by fascist atrocities or soldiers in the church.

    There were cops on the street and in the air to maintain the deregulated status quo – twenty-four seven drone surveillance. Masked blacked out forces operating with impunity. Between the streetlights, between the taboo, the dangerous, the risky and the public square. Everywhere. There were dead friends too. Murdered and long dead men and women with names unspoken unlisted, dirtied with painful memories. Teenage boys stabbed in jail. Women beaten to death by sidewalk police. Broken down, despised and ostracized by political forces forever beyond their reach.

    But not without a fight. They’d sworn true faith and allegiance to justice, and to love if not to law.

    She saw reflections in the mirror, in the pupils of strangers’ eyes. Reflections in late-night television. The weight and cruelty of the everwatching eye. Flickering screens and shifting positions. Emotion laid low, beneath layers of self-control. Passion suspect beneath purpose.

    House and home. Children. What could not be protected had to be put aside. He had plans. She had opportunities. None of it mattered. Their marriage now, their only safeguard. They’d sacrificed everything but one another.

The Darling and Milo stories: 
1 - Everything’s Back to Normal
2 - One Life and One More
3 - Milo Remembers
4 - Milo Wonders 

Milo Wonders

     This is the fourth installment of what is becoming a series. I like these character, Milo and Darling. I'm curious what will happen to them. 

Milo Wonders

    Milo sat at his drafting table, work lamp off, magnifying loupe put away in its case. Evening was coming and Darling wasn’t home. He wasn’t worried, not just yet. A loving marriage that had earned his trust. Repenting. Forgiving. Never enemies. Trust. Their marriage in this thirty years war had survived.

    Survived her travel, twenty-five thousand, forty-thousand miles, he’d lost count. Survived illness, and bitterness ongoing. Seasick, airsick Fear. Survived apartment fires. Survived dangerous mobs and riots in the streets.

    And through it all she was keeping the record, writing the report through the regular rhythms of bitter conflict and escalating violence – in the city and the nation beyond. The assaults, black and blue, and unlucky blows.

    He checked his watch and went to the kitchen. He’d start the potatoes and wait.

    “My thoughts have been and will be formed and pass away. I know the dust and dwelling place. I know the frailty of this flesh. Every tombstone. And there are times and there are places – still dwelling, being, living now. Thoughts going. Thoughts drift. I wonder. My struggles before, blood, trouble, and trials of love, and strength, and sorrow when the world comes to an end. My thoughts to the very last will be written.”

    Now the sky was dark and blackout conditions in force. Curtains drawn and lamps down low. Dinner dishes for one cleaned and put away. Her portion waiting in the fridge. He checked his watch.

    “I am a man, well pleased. I am a man of conscience, unashamed. But I’m having a hard time finding my thoughts. My mind. Do you think it strange? Do I love and serve? Am I distracted?”

    He imagined not murderers and thieves, but busybodies and gossips. There was the danger. Evildoers. Purloined letters. The private correspondence of critics. Damaging interoffice memos circulated, copied, and passed on by Darling to her handlers. Undermining the State Press – writing the free press, underground. He imagined fiery hell burning away. The fiery judgment of a living hell. The godly and the free suffer persecution. But fire and water purify.

    He checked his watch. “Fire can save us, yeah? Purify? I hope.”

    Hours later, one in the morning, she came through the door. Returning home, she fell into his arms, burning with fever. Ill. One hundred degrees. One hundred one. He rushed her to bed.

    “Can we live a thousand years like this, Darling?”

1 - Everything’s Back to Normal
2 - One Life and One More
3 - Milo Remembers

One Life and One More

    A lush tone poem by Sibelius played upon the phonograph as Darling sliced vegetables in the apartment kitchenette. The light of a hazy sunset filtered through the flag that hung in the window. She could feel the lush orchestration and soaring melody thrumming inside her.

    “Darling, are you okay?” Milo asked from the door. She was standing at the counter, with peppers and onions on the cutting board and knife held loosely in her hand, but she wasn’t moving. “You seem distracted.”

    “Yes, Milo” she said and then, “No, my love.”

    “You are distracted,” Milo said. He said aside the drafts and drawings he carried and, stepping into the kitchen, relieved her of the knife.

    She clenched her teeth and, looking silently about the room, shook her head. She saw her reflection in the window and again in the cracked mirror on the wall in the living room. “Not distracted,” she whispered.

    “You’re shivering,” Milo said. “Cold too. What is it?”

    “The death of so many. I could not. We couldn’t.”

    Milo led her to the couch at the center of the living room. “Sit, Darling. Sit. Please. Let me get you something.”

    “No,” she said clutching his arm. “I want nothing.” She looked into his eyes. “Just sit with me a while.”

    He sat on the couch with her, and it was a comfort. To them both. A comfort to know that she belonged to him and he to her, in equal measure. They sat that way, together, until the sun was set and the room was dark.

    "We don’t know what we’re doing, do we?” She said later, during dinner. Not really. Your art and my travel. And yet we cannot do nothing. How can these little motions stand against so many lives?”

“If we can save but one,” Milo said.

    She’d fallen in love with him years before, slowly, over occasional conversations and walks to the market. He was patient. Always patient.

    “One life,” he said again. “And one more.”

    Gunshots erupted in the night – as they had most every night that month. These were not so close as some of the others. Perhaps at the train station down the street.

    “One life,” she whispered back.

    “And one more.”

Everything’s Back to Normal

    I don't quite know who these two people are just yet - where they live, or what they're doing - but I've enjoyed finding them and expect that I'll see a bit more from them.

All I Know Is Darkness – a Psalm for Palestine

    A song of sickness and native-born suffering.

    Look, it is night, it is dark, but look, shuttered windows and boarded doors on the street, unfriendly faces leering from suspicious shadows, and the message you receive, loud and incessant, insistent, if you’re listening, is: help, oh, God, help me!

    I’ve been filled for so long now, time, times, and half a time at least, with misery, living on the shores of Sheol, numb and numbered with the ones hanging upside down over oblivion, stalked and hunted and left for dead, all strength is stripped from these arms, like one of the slaughtered tossed into a ditch with no protection, unremembered, even by you, no flowers, no grass, only stones beneath the grave, not a place for anyone, only depth, only darkness.

    Drift

    Like a man from the black, friendless, defiled, grotesque, wheeling, spinning, thrashing but no escape, trembling hands a prayer for return, but the dead see no miracle, no sign, no wonder, only shadows rising with no praise.

    Drift further

    With the door closed behind, the room is black and dark and silent, do they sing here? Love songs? Hymns? Do the spirits sing spiritual songs? Do they know your wonders in the void? And still I’m here, weeping in the dust on the floor, every morning, every evening, though those words mean nothing when you won’t even look at me, I was born too close to death, wounded in birth, I bleed to death, shifted weight and slipping foot, I carry unfinished terrors in my wretched body, and all I know is darkness.

Everything’s Back to Normal

    She arrived home a few minutes early, before the shouting, before the gunfire. She came back to their apartment to relax. To rest before the next trip to the other side, across town. To Kyiv, Belfast, Beit Lahia, Chicago, Des Moines… She knew she would need to sleep in the meantime of memory. She was tired. More than tired, really. She was worn thin by the constant pressure of disaster, the rapid cycling of bad news. The listed names of the dead mispronounced on the radio.

    “Is that you, Darling? I’ve been waiting for you.” Her husband, the artist. The insurgent.

    She smiled flatly at his voice. “It’s me. I’m home.” She tossed her keys into a small dish on the table beside the door, hung her coat on a hook and closed the door. She saw her reflection in the windows staring back at her years apart. Remembering. Hoping. Some things can’t be clear. Some things can’t be returned. She wondered if it were a question or an exclamation. She had no response either way. “Working late?” she called out to him.

    “Just trying to finish up before…”

    Then came the explosion and the fire. The gunshots. The sirens. The roar and shout. The oppressive heat of rising fire. Ringing alarums in the air.

    Weightless and unreal, she fell to the floor. Her eyes were closed but she knew his weight when he covered her with his own body. His skin, his flesh, his scent. She could feel his heart pounding against her back. The screams were hers and his together in the dark. One.

    Later, when the smoke had thinned, the glass swept up and the bodies removed – little more than the diluted nightmares of social polish – she went into the cramped kitchenette. “Coffee?” she asked as she watched him spread their beloved flag across the cracked window. Another reminder of danger.

    The coffee pot rattled in her trembling hand. Another cup of coffee? We can’t go back to the way things were. Everything’s back to normal. And things will never be normal.

The Verisimilitude of Truth

    Ready now. This is all the warning we’re likely to receive, and we are already sinking. Check winds and tides and set sights for enemy lines. The right kind of people have the right kind of skills. Men of arms and a warrior ethos. Bear down and engage. Clear the fleet for fire.

    We hold these truths to be self-evident:

    The people of Iran want freedom – therefore we must bless them.
    The people of Iran are terrorists – therefore we must bomb them.

    The military has directed energy weapons, microwaves, and laser beams. We saw dragons and we saw drones. Sound waves and energy raves. Their heads were exploding inside their skulls. Bleeding from the nose. Vomiting blood. Moving helps with the pain, but they fell, incapacitated. Good show. Show death like a sleep and let them cry for water. No one has gone consciously unto heaven from death.

    Gunshots continue.

    Somewhere off the coast of Yemen, a U.S. reaper drone fires a Hellfire missile at a flying, glowing orb. A kinetic strike by Hellfire missile results in destruction. In explosion. Details remain unclear.

    45% of Precision Strike Missiles
    50% of THAAD Intercept Missiles
    50% of Patriot Air Defense Missiles
    30% of Tomahawk Missiles
    20% of long-range Joint Air-to-Surface Standoff Missiles
    20% of SM-3 Missiles
    20% of SM-6 Missiles.

    Depleted.

    Decades and centuries. I was there, strong and full of life… a threat to global peace and security… the most vicious of all the little Satans… Brutal new age powers. Richer. Stronger. Vigorous voices beg no forgiveness and make no apologies.

    We are scouring Hillary Clinton’s 30,000 retrieved emails for clues. I myself haven’t read them, of course, but I am familiar with the contents. I know all of what I need to know. The information I received had the verisimilitude of truth. I read it quickly enough, skimming for what stood out to my eye and my mind. I regret my confusion and wish to clarify...

Great the Grief of Hoarded Gold

    Exciting news and a special offer for you and yours, but you must act quickly or it will be too late. This 99.9% pure, 10 oz. gold bar honors Jesus’ final passion with a bas-relief picture of our Lord with his crown of thorns. But you must call now. Only a limited number of these holy icons were minted.

    Behold and blow the kings of the earth, great men of empire, holy and rich men, commanders – the mighty men of every domain and every land. Behold and bow low slaves. Behold and bow low wage-slave free men within the rocks and gloom of mountains, in the mountains of darkness.

    It’s a failure to pressure, a failure to sell. Call the number. Call it now. Stronger. Faster. More lethal than anything ever before. Your swords and trumpets. Your firelocks and bayonets. Your supersonic missiles fired at great distances, from across the sea. There are early judgments and later wrath. Near fulfillment and fulfillment far delayed. Both are yours. 'Vengeance is mine’ sayeth the Lord, and we’re doing the Lord’s work here. Pray for peace, sure. Sure. But Prepare for war.

    Hide us from Him who sits upon the throne, from the things to come, the strong wrath of the Lord. Prophecy before our very eyes. Wake the mighty men. Let me hear them. This is the bomb! We will accomplish greater things, greater than anyone has ever seen before. Great things. Huge.

    Great the grief of hoarded gold.
    Gaslight and betrayal. Beware the profits of freemarket prophets.
    I’m running away from snakes at the door.

    You should take care and consider carefully the fiery trial which is coming to you. Thrown into prison – but for punishments not corrections, not for testing. Alignment before assignment in your awestruck body. The works of the leprous flesh are the lust of uncleanliness and a despising of true government, selfwilled and unafraid to speak evil of dignitaries. Your body requires submission. Buy bitcoin and gold and beat your plowshares into swords before we beat your body into submission.

    But the road is closed at mental health.
    The road is closed at community.

    Who cares? Call it whatever you want. They are people of no significance in this world and this is serious money. Are you in or are you a lemon-sparkle dusted pansy? These are serious days. These are days of war, days of destruction. Be warned: Wrath will be poured out and it will be ours.

    Still the road is closed at peace.
    The road is closed at safety.

    Peace and safety! Peace and safety! Pffff! People will not recognize the catastrophes that are coming. Taken by surprise by the events that follow. Sudden destruction. Ten to One on a Thousand. The distress of a day. The darkness of four in the morning all of our days.

    It’s all hype, of course. Hype and bluster and boasting. But you have to believe the hype if you want to make the sale.

    With vertigo, with bleeding wounds,
    and fiscal anxiety for the rest of us.
    Great the grief of hoarded gold.

Let God Arise (Psalm 68 Roughly)

(1-6) What Are We Going To Do?

    What are we going to do? That’s what everyone wants to know. Your talking head propagandists, your nationalist social scientists don’t know. These scholars and lobbyists claim to see the invisible hand but cannot see the kingdom of God in history. What are we going to do? We cannot claim the banks and loans and deals and assets on your books. What are we going to? That’s what the managers of decline are asking. That’s what everyone wants to know.

    Have ye not read?

    Do not consider riches as private property but as common good. Your economic philosophy is in practice, godless. Insatiable greed. Domineering avarice. They demand the spirit of men and destroy the breath of women. They deny. They defend. They depose. But they cannot explain the irruption of the spiritual in the physical realm. Fools of one flesh.

    Like the smoke of a fire, drifting gone.
    Like melting wax in a fire.

    Let God arise -Father and defender of orphans and widows. Sheltering the homeless lonely in a holy place. And prisoners too. Freemarket rebels can find their own place in the wilderness. Let them have the bootstrap deserts they have made.

    What are we going to do? Ride through the deserts – let them see.
    What are we going to do? Build a road through the desert for the Rider on the Clouds.

    Sing and play music. Dance and be glad. But – and I love this part – What does the Rider on the Clouds need with a road?

(8) A Sweaty Sky

    Too much, too much. We are overwhelmed. Even nature by fear is beset in the presence and glory of the one who strides across the desert. The wind stops its bluster and blow. The great expanse of heaven gets nervous. The sky breaks out in sweat and rains shower down upon the earth.

(12-14) A Long Sequence of Non-Sequiturs

    Chieftains and kings of armies, having failed in highly confidential negotiations and transactions, having failed to deregulate, or discourage the enemy, are in flight, in flight. Their ambitions in flight. Their strategies are not working. Gathered militias and blockading forces have failed to secure the straights despite the outlandish destruction of material property and the slaughter of civilians. They are loose-tongued commanders with no charge.

    The nuclear maneuvers of fighter jets and submarines turned back and routed. Rerouted.

    Meanwhile the women – fair and beautiful – at home divide the spoil and booty of war -sorting through the pots and saddlebags for free blessings as they sit in the sheep pens. Sheep pens!

    They are singing the good news.
    They are singing and at ease.

    Then there’s something about metallic doves with wings of silver and pinions of green-gold. Victory doves. This is not an assault. Peace doves. This is not an attack.

    Now the snow is falling on Mount Zalmon – which might be something clever about white snow on the Dark One. No more bluster. No more bloviating boast or bluff. Disordered, self-glorifying kings are scattered as the purity of snow falls on the mountain.

(20-23,30) The Contradiction of Blood

    This God of ours, this God we know
    This is the God who saves.

    Take comfort in the Violence
    and the Vindication
    though it seems like contradiction.

    He smashes the heads and long-haired skulls of his enemies, the hairy crowns of psychopathic gunmen. Bullies and bulldogs. Abductors. Exploiters. Captors. Slavers. Smash them dead! Liars. Thieves and Liars. Murderers from the lowest and highest estates. Smash them dead! Dictators. Authoritarian tyrants and Fascist fools. Smash them dead!

    He drags them back from the hills, drags them back from the sea to do it all over again so you may bathe your feet in blood.

    But! A word of caution. A word of restraint. Take warning here: Our enemies may not be his and he will fling far and scatter wide all who take orgasmic delight, all who take profit and material gain, from the horrors of war. You have been warned.

(24-26) A Musical Interlude

    The noble procession proceeds:
    Singers ahead (sing good news and at ease)
    musicians behind
    and in between are
    are row upon row
    of beautiful girls
    beating their drums.

(28-35) Let God Arise

    Take command – it befits your power. This is the way. One way. Take command; it is yours. Reclaim what is yours, most powerful, most respected, inspiring awe and admiration of the entire world. Stop the wars that we have unleashed. Bring unity to the world we have divided. Bring prosperity to the world we have plundered.

    Rebuke the crocodiles in the reeds who lie in wait to devour. Rebuke the bulls who rage and trample over us and our children. Rebuke the silver idolaters trading in secrets and exploiting the mammon-market.

    Sing this song, Play and perform it for the Rider of the Heavens. High heavens. Ancient, primeval skies. Singers ahead (sing good news and at ease), a crescendo of instruments and the climactic pounding of drums. The crash of symphonic cannons and solemn bells and chimes and gongs.

    Then let the reverberations of silence ring long into eternity.

    The Kingdoms of the earth with outstretched hands. Europe. Russia. China with outstretched hands. Latin, South, and North America with outstretched hands. India, Australia, Palestine, Cuba, Indonesia with outstretched hands. Syria, Venezuela, Kenya with outstretched hands. All the tribes and nations of Africa with outstretched hands. All islands with outstretched hands.

    Speak with a voice of power.
    Splendor in the clouds of power.
    Awesome strength and power.
    Blessed be God.
    Amen.

See Also: 
Let God Arise (a sermon)
and
Sweaty Sky (a limerick)

Yeehaw for the GOP (a song)

Here's a low-fi recording of a goofy little song I wrote as I was out and about the past couple of days. I hope you'll like it. 

You’ll go to war with everyone, you’re ready to invade
bombing schools and burning mosques is how this game is played.
Burn the oil, blot out the sun make it darker everyday
it’s the end of time, the final reel and Jesus is on his way.

Take advice from fools and cross against the lights
you’re just a graveyard bully who’s pickin’ another fight.
You deliberately misunderstand the doctrine that you claim
Everything you touch turns into another round of shame

Yeehaw for the GOP
for God and country.
Yeehaw for the GOP
Ain’t that somethin’
Fox News lovin’
modern Know Nothin’s
God’s Own Party, yessiree.

You don’t want the immigrant, the woman, or the gays
You only want the schools where the teachers bow to pray
Dismiss the prophets, malign the mystics these books you’ll never read
ignorance is the way to your nationalistic creed.

Lincoln’s party has devolved from what it used to be
I remember how you sang, “Let us die to set men free.” 
Building prisons, camps, and jails, and all of them for profit,
Deregulation is your way to bigger bank deposits.

Yeehaw for the GOP
for God and country.
Yeehaw for the GOP
Ain’t that somethin’
Fox News lovin’
modern Know Nothin’s
God’s Own Party, yessiree.

Jesus ain’t no Democrat, I know this to be true
but how could anyone see the Lord above when they look at you?
Mister Rodgers was a Republican, a man I could respect.
If more of you were more like him, I’d hug and kiss your necks.

Yeehaw for the GOP
for God and country.
Yeehaw for the GOP
Ain’t that somethin’
Fox News lovin’
modern Know Nothin’s
God’s Own Party, yessiree.

Desperate Signals

    Please. Hear me.

    We are captives of a brutal peace. Another spectacle made of blood, suffering another forceful assault. Anther succession of mortal explosions and the corporeal fire that burns even the air. A proud legacy of street-level violence. Machine gun mounted motorbikes and government guns on pickup trucks flying vulgar presidential banners fire into the gathered crowds. Public protester executions. Beheadings and gauntlets. Gassing socialists with illegal chemicals. Hacked thousands flee as refugees.

    There is an inequitable Armageddon at the door – the imbalance of munitions and humiliations over hunger and rotting sickness. We’ve scuttled past the strong war warnings to push the clock forward – the symbol of our destruction.

    We are traded for betrayal. And the same fate for many undefined sins against the state and houses of dynamite. Times of trouble such as never was such a wasteland. Repeated. Desperate rejections of this regime. We are begging in waves. The blood of ten thousand. The day after and again repeated. The fallout of chaotic response.

    The artillery ambitions and strategies of the resource savages – those who buy and sell the world beneath and cap the sky above have brokered evil in this place. Millions of tons of debris, the rubble of ruined lives and unexploded ordnance. We know the wickedness of their weapons. We know the vanity of their lives. We are nothing but physical potential forces to be added up, accounted. The ledger of our lives allows only a little fight. The military turned in and the open energy of our vitality transferred out.

    All military economies are thus. No neighborly peace, no negotiated truce behind locked doors. Savage battle is how things are done here in the crucible of war. Exploitation and salted earth. No cease fire for bitter arguments. Cold blood despots make sick peace jokes. The catastrophe of intimidation power. Normal procedures are followed for murder – in secret, unacknowledged or publicly documented. Either way there should be no flesh saved.

    We are besieged. This is the plain and forecasted truth with dangers exposed. The infrastructure of invasion turned inward. All choke points secured. Cut off by simultaneous offenders. It is an open secret. The poisonous promotions of violence and horror. It’s a game to them. “Shooter, shoot her!” comes a faceless command from the demons of common criminality and civil battery.

    From the ramparts of history, we’ve been raised – to live and die within the walls of a conquered city, but we are silenced in this day. Four years already and three years more. And then? Our desperate signals sent out, stand up nation to nation. Land or sea. Still there is no response and the days are unshortened.

    Please. You know the answer.

A Daily Resistance – March 29, 2026

     … give me a trained tongue, that I may continue, even with a weary word…

    The Sons of Violence are marching in the street. The distractions of tomorrow’s world are here today. The lines of war are drawn, redrawn, erased, and mapped. The threat reemerges. Tensions between China and Taiwan. Between China aggressions, and Iranian loss, and Russian expansion. Israeli annexation action. Tortures abroad and at home. Violent pyrotechnics and pyro-techniques. Ignite!

    … I was not rebellious. I will not turn back…

    Today they are pushing. Even now they’re striking. Dead of night dissidents dragged out without seeing the nationalist kill/steal numbers. What did we see? What did we say? Nothing and nothing. Blacked out. Redacted. Those files will also not be released.

    … give my back for blows, pull my beard. Insult and spit in my face…

    We have no legal framework for the common depression and unproductive desires of our fellow Americans. Citizens and Secondhand wage slaves. Bought and sold. Corporate interest and interest rates rule. Military industrialists will have it all. Past examples carry forward. Past examples argue against truth. Doctors tried for treason for setting a broken leg. Insurrectionists demanding the head of the Vice President.

    … I have not been disgraced. I will not be put to shame…

    I have all the ache and fatigue, of living. The nervous chills – without the fever. Death and explosion. Destabilized. Life is over. Sorry pounding at the door.

    … Who are my adversaries? Let them confront me. Who will declare me guilty?

The Absolute Grounds

    The absolute grounds have shifted and we have fallen.

    The threat of arrest and/or assassination – we’re in this together. All of us implicated. All of us complicit. My discouraged mind dissents. My hovering hand falters, my wounded heart … my heart… Oh, God, my heart. A serious exchange for a tedious response.

    Trapped by inaction into inaction. Submission.

    No. No. This cannot be real. This is not the reality I recognize. But this war continues with or without us. Drags us down into the abyss. We are wrong. We are wrong. We are made guilty.
    
    Daily missile attacks. No access to food or water. Flash bang. The head jerks backward. Eyes roll. Alarming video released to the press. I cannot talk about it. Transformed. Unlived. I need… I need… I can’t even say any more. The words have been stolen. Abducted. Murdered in the street.

    A serious exchange for a tedious response. Don’t try to force it. There’s no accounting. Shortened time. Fault lines. High explosive gunpowder, blueprints and plans. Twenty-five minutes too far. Shot down. Crash and fire. Fire! Fire! A fire, a fire…

    American troops. Iranian mothers. Gazan children. Israeli ambassadors. My son. My daughter. My brothers and sisters everywhere. Knocked out. Upside down. We’ve lost the horizon. We’re going to crash. We are going to die.