The Convocation of Cain "Take down the weak and pallid Christ, Who died a woman's death! The world has had enough of priest, It longs for warrior's breath" —Wood, C. E. S. "Battle Hymn of the Republic" "Art is not consciousness per se, but rather its antidote—evolved from within consciousness itself." —Susan Sontag, The Plot Simply understood as a straight leg girl twenty-two or thereabouts.Two lawns down, a 40-year old man to a family of four rakes leaves. His ostensible purpose is leaf removal, but his real goal is engagement. She stands rubbing her belly while talking on a cell phone in broad relief against a light, eggshell blue sky. She had made contact with the Enemy of the State. He is looking for a silence beyond speech. His life is for the abolition of art itself. He turn-tails it from the temptress and enters upon his floating world of words. He sits down and writes out a story filled with intrigue and duplicity. A story where he is pursued by counter intelligence agents. He feeds the girl into his story. He calls the story the Convocation of Cain. In this man's short and happy life, does an idiot, the age-old storyteller, tell a morality tale? Suddenly, a story is being told that a man was arrested for writing his thoughts, but only a few are arrested, the rest are taking out of the picture. 86.   I am an agent for the Amerikas. I hesitate to speak. My assignment: draw a man into a web of intrigue. I have fucked all men in the name of statehood. The morning is alive with birdcall. My heart is empty. My mood is somber. Softly beats my heart. I breathe in; I breathe out. I hold the warrior pose for five breaths. My step is out of doors naked in the morning light. Light as a petal my lips contract the fresh pool water gushing up from my cannon ball I extend my body upward and outward and I climb the rope high enough to see my neighbor's house. The man on the lawn, the rather attractive man. He is attending to his bamboo grove. He walks as if in a dream as if he's chasing butterflies. I feel the rope burn into my nipples. I churn the left one. I giggle as he looks up.   Act one scene two. As Duchamp turned to chess, this man turns to gardening. His choice of permanent silence doesn't negate his work. His quintessential New World order novel was the thing. Never had the masses read such crap with such élan. He told me art is a false way, a stupidity. Dada. I let him hold my hand. He said he had severed his servile bondage to the world by renunciation of things worldly. I let him kiss me. I return a kiss to his nipple.   Suddenly, my heart is singing.   The great fast, the annual Day of Atonement, was "the holy convocation" (Lev. 23:27; Num. 29:7). Where am I allowing this man to take me? What is this annual Day of Atonement, this "the holy convocation."   Come with me, come look see.

I step into his open courtyard. The sun, trellised like a ripe tomato, makes me squint amid the splintered light, and I see diamonds that make me put on my shades. Concealment of identity. He steps out blue eyed and intent on me.
 

Frequently, a series of questions are used, following a chronological sequence of events, but it is by no means the only logical method of making an interrogation. Amerika has the electric chair. People can stand up and sleep.
 

Come to me: I call thee forth. Walk Lazurus. Rise and stand-up. Walk the length of rope that will carry you across. Have faith in your steadfast disbelief in morality. In the dubious battles, do we wage? Errant Knight upon your steed so tall. Touch-toned for sex. Touch me here. Tattle tale. No more pussy for you.


Professor Jerome Lejeune, Nobel Prize Winner, Discoverer of the gene for Down syndrome :
"Many years ago, my father was a Jewish physician in Braunau, Austria. On a particular day, two babies had been delivered by one of his colleagues. One was a fine, healthy boy with a strong cry. His parents were extremely proud and happy. The other was a little girl, but her parents were extremely sad, for she was a mongoloid [Down syndrome] baby. I followed them both for almost fifty years. The girl grew up, living at home, and was finally destined to be the one who nursed her mother through a very long and lingering illness after a stroke. I do not remember her name. I do, however, remember the boy's name. He died in a bunker in Berlin. His name was Adolf Hitler."

My mind by curious turns finds itself searching where knows not where it goes in dubious battles wired taped as we speak. The United States possesses both the world's strongest military and its largest national economy. Those two aspects of our power are mutually reinforcing and dependent. They are also increasingly reliant upon certain critical infrastructures and upon cyber-based information systems. They include, but are not limited to, telecommunications, energy, banking and finance, transportation, water systems and emergency services, both governmental and private. Many of the nation's critical infrastructures have historically been physically and logically separate systems that had little interdependence. As a result of advances in information technology and the necessity of improved efficiency, however, these infrastructures have become increasingly automated and interlinked. These same advances have created new vulnerabilities to equipment failure, human error, weather and other natural causes, and physical and cyber attacks. Disrupting these vulnerabilities will necessarily require flexible, evolutionary approaches.
 

Do I reveal my thoughts to Dawn?
 

When did hunger spare such a fair dame? To think her is to fuck her is to fuck her is to think her. Tweak beyond reasonability. The morning is a dark cloud on the horizon. A squalling torrential rain filled windshakes the glass paned wall. Bamboo leafs droop alongside the glass still-pressed by the wind and rain.
 

I am listening to Schoenberg 12 tone compelling masterpiece: Gurrelieder. Allow me to read from the CD pamphlet: "Formally speaking, it depicts progressive stages in a changing concept of art: the orchestral introduction portrays the onset of night, its fluttering arpeggios describing a triad of E flat major (with added sixth) and thereby evoking a concious allusion to the prelude to Wagner's Das Rheingold, a prelude which, also in E flat major, was intended by Wagner to portray the musical origin of things. The opening pages of Schoenberg's score thus acquire a symbolic force, with the music's gradual downward sweep contrasting with Wagner's ascending line and so reversing the symbol's meaning."

All is but reflected glory from God's dreams.

Waldemar: Horse, my horse, why this dragging pace?
No, I see that the road passes
Swiftly beneath your hooves.
But you must go even faster,
You are still in the middle of the forest,
And I had fancied, by not dawdling,
I might already be at Gurre.
The forest thins, already I can see the castle
which surrounds my Tove;
the while the wood behind us
merges to a wall of shadow.
But you must speed on without restraint.
Look! The forest shadows lengthen
all across moor and field!
Before they reach Gurre,
I must stand at Tove's door.
Before that sound which now rings forth
ceases, never to be heard again,
your nimble hoofbeats, Racer,
must clatter over Gurre's bridge.
Before that withered leaf- there it hangs-
falls down into the stream,
your neighing must echo
jubilantly about Gurre's yard...
The shadows lengthen, the sound dies away,
fall now, leaf, now you may die:
Volmer has seen Tove!

Tove: The stars rejoice, the shining sea
presses its wildly beating heart against the shore.
Dew-jewels tremble on the murmuring leaves.
Sea-wind embraces me in gallant sport.
Weathercock sings and the battlements nod.
Lads swagger about casting fiery glances,
while rosy maidens strive in vain to calm
their heaving bosoms full of lusty life;
roses gaze patiently into the distance,
torches glow and burn so with delight.
The forest now shed its forbidding cloak.
Hark, in the town the barking dogs.
And the surging tide of the staircase
bears the noble hero into port,
till he, upon the topmast tread,
sinks into my open arms.

Walemar: Never have angels danced before the throne of God
the way the world now dances before me.
So lovely the strains from their harps never were
as these strains Waldmar's soul sings for thee.
But Christ was not prouder, seated with God,
When the cruel war for salvation had passed,
than Waldemar now stands, regal and proud
at Tovelille's side.
With no greater longing have souls yearned to find
The way to the realms of the blest,
Then I longed for your kiss when I saw Gurre's towers
gleaming on Oeresund.
And I would not exchange their stout walls,
and their treasure they faithfully guard for me,
for all heaven's splendor and deafening din,
and all the sainted hosts of the redeemed!


Tove: Now for the first time I say:
"King Volmer, I love you!"
Now I kiss you for the first time,
and encircle you in my arms.
And if you say I have already told you,
or giving you my kiss,
to that I say: " The kings a fool
who thinks of transient, tawdry things."
And if you : "I am indeed a fool,"
I'll say: "The king is right."
But if you say: "That I am not,"
I'll say: "The king is bad.
For I have kissed my roses all to death
The while I thought of you.

Waldermar: 'Tis midnight,
and unholy beings
rise from forgotten, sunken graves,
and gaze with longing
at the candles in the castle, and the cottage lights.
Mocking, the wind shakes down
upon them
harp-songs, and the clink of goblets,
and love songs.

It is happenstance all.

I travel with a wise woman who can only speak in questions; I'm an assassin (one chosen personally by the guild.) I had to escape my neighbor's surveillance. But, God, could she fuck. She brought me to new levels of breathing. Then it dawn on me that she was killing me softly with those hands always ready to stroke my cock.

I possess the sun with an arrow shot through it tattooed on my chest. The dimension opened like a black hole. My mind was streaked with fear; only few can manage to open the dimension.
 

For nine months she lived across the street, the first month was spring. Her day to day movements were routine in that she went no where; people came and went the while she wandered through the house; occasionally stepping out of doors. At such moments, I felt keyed up by her presence. Her attire never varied: t-shirt, knee length boys swimwear, and always a downward glance of the eye.
That is until she boldly opened forth her belly to me. She's in the back seat sleeping. I love viewing her open thighs. Her distended fruit ripened belly, her de-gorged breasts so heavy that they lay like tender folds of milk, both unnerve me to no end.
 

It happened that I was raking the yard the while she was standing under the shade of a massive oak.
 

Aquamarine shadows waver,
I turn my face to the wind
and behold a belly so round and distended.
Aflutter and bestirred; bewilder as disturbed.
I lay down and she is beside me.
The road is an open wound that we set sore by leaving.
 

I've got eyes like an eagle and I pick up movement from at least one hundred yards away; I have mastered the ability to map out the images of my story in imprecise terms. I write by chance what I chance upon I write. There is no method to my madness. Only the terms of engagement are insane. You must leave behind wife and family and set a bold course for the future via Mexico. I have to get Hail Mary back there somewhere. Hell, it's down to earth; she's gonna have that baby when she needs to; we gotta go, we gotta go fast.
 

"Buy me a soda."
 

"I got a gallon jug of mineral water and a bag of apples. What will it be?"
 

"You want me to rub on you again?"
 

"What kind of soda?"
 

"Big gulp cherry red coke."
 

"That amulet that can't be touched; what a pill."

 

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