Evan Myquest

Thursday, December 01, 2016

La Mia Arcana

john goodman, back in front of a computer shouts, Donny!
my arcane seven: to not be fooled by the great turkey who puts a mechanical mouse into the room full of cats. oh look, a feather on a stick. oh look, the finger is the moon. oh look, we have lost focus on our dear old mama. but we take so much pride in our knowledge of mars and sundry planetary backsides. the turkey gobbles on and on and the cats leap with claws out at the mechanical wildemaus ignoring the fattest target of their lives. meanwhile construction crews arrive with mortar and bricks for the cats' windows and doors. and the fattest turkey opens the house to a parade of even fatter turkeys. they set about unfolding and then recoloring old maps. mech maus vendors take to street corners, billig! they shout. billige grenzsicherheit! cheap border security für alles! then, as seen on tv, come the mechanical cats. it isn't long before even the sheep are electric. dreaming, lost...in marseillaise dreams.

the dipstick is still coming out half melted--
my arcane 6: new rules of disengagement by the Sorcerer's Apprentice.
they put up a wall, we paint welcome to New Sodom on it. they require registration, we all sign it Legion. they privatize medicare, we send our stool smears to The Dumpster--c/o White House. they require a morning pledge of allegiance, we say 'under Moloch' to our orange juice. they take away our safety pins, we go Kubrick with white shirts, eyeliner, and bowler hats. they come for the undocumented, we give them boxcars of golf pros. they come for our poetry, we give them Nantucket Wheeling limericks that rhyme with low bottom size the ump. oh, must quit, the source her 'er is up through the floor and I'm on a list.

my arcane 5: priests in tubes. when the priests leave their adobes behind to become accountants it is safe to exit the shelter, but the way to heaven is still closed. the numbers, the vast numbers, beget large counting machines and the acreage under their counting houses multiplies. yet startling satellite telescope photographs reveal violet draperies of star systems and no priest counts those vestments as his true cloak. as sand becomes glass and gravel becomes concrete, the architects become sculptors of the folded hands while the priests count everything but their beads and their palm fronds and their mounds of ash. but if those priests find a movie house of old technicolor visions, the shotguns emerge, and the sugo rosso simmers again. the google buses drive empty for the day as old cars explode. baptism by brick and by mortar counts, for the moment.

my arcane 4: scabrous boiler room baboon of a false microsoft chatbot, i have not the capacity to despise you any longer. i have despots in my garden these days. i have people watching and listening to me from infinite vantage should i fail to dot my articles and cross my amendments. yes, i am fully aware of the malware on my computer, my corporatist government put it there for my own good. suppose we duel at dawn on my next Bang & Mum stopovers. i will yelp your probiotic software in all the temples and alleys and mahals. forgive me if this is a wrong number but are you near your computer just now? please type this alphanumeric string on your command line...1-800-donald.

my arcane 3: dig out, then dig in.

my arcane 2: on drama. it is said fiction is life with the boring parts cut out. now the nightmare of living in interesting times has roiled the plot lines into vining tentacles. the mind is twined like a rolled loin. the point of a progressive nature is obscured. positive feelings are devalued. understanding voices lose credit. worldviews false and more false come in waves.

My arcane 1: Those of you who have been parading Debbie's head on a stick are drawing flies. Dark clouds of flies. In fact, you have become the lords of those flies.