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We are beating our heads against a cement sea, and soon they’re gonna pop open and our faith won’t hold our skulls together and we’ll need medical attention, and we’ll have to pay for our Medicare and we’ll need a job and this is what happened to the hippie generation. [ Germocracy is not a spectator sport. Not because we double down our dollars on the hollow snake eyes, but because they slip between startled blocks of sunshine to prefer an expansive shelter of collected flesh. The moist confines created by legions of meat are the beaver’s damnation. They speak to one another through our catalytic converters. } — [ How are you today, Jim? ] —

Photo by freestocks on Unsplash

I have had a lot of trouble seeing/focusing again. I don’t know why (If I did, it would stop), but I know that I must begin a revolution. [ The battiest old blind man punctured the rapture with the needle that operated the fuel gauge reminded us all of our emptied promises — vassals of engineering scramble to jumpstart the battle-hardened impact of war-heads, the principal ingenious teeter-tottering over the edge of the canyon’s maw. ] I am searching for that common, all-too-thin strand that connects our human hearts — to find the deepest root and tap the sap and create for it a new home | Build a new tree. { Truthfully, I’m not performing at my best, Jada. } Jared was correct when he said that Hitler drew the strand, had the knowledge. { Aw, no, no, no, no, fuck! This ain’t the way it had to go. [ Did he just blame genocidal reverence on a Jew? ] Take a look at these hands. Did they silence a child? } His morals were mixed, but then again, maybe not. [ Cut! ] He wanted the race to be as perfect as it could be. [ I said, CUT! ] His idea of perfection, though, was limited in scope. It is easier to gain a core group of followers rather than a race full. { From then on, it was nothing but flames. Sure, convection ovens for Hiroshima. Fine, the ashes fed the daisies that Nancy Drew plucked to stash in her aerosoled coif. Why not. Why not let the agents comb the desert for remnants of shrapnel — the most they’ll find are more excuses for more violence; from a soft, sharp slap to the face of the Rock brought down the unholy terrorism of racist philosophobonoia. }

I have always overestimated the human race and now, finally, some good has come of it. Through the mass apathy I can control. It reminds me a bit of Jim, my boss at Hoffman LaRoche. Whenever we meet someone, he introduces me as “The Man Who’s Going to Change the World.” On the surface, he seems to be mocking me, but deep inside he admires me and wants me to do it. He has faith in me.

I need for sure the greatest economist, the man/woman who understands the invisible ties between nations, the rationale of the stock market and through that I will truly gain the rationale of money. Next the greatest psychologist to determine the most prevalent defensive mechanisms and help me find the tendril of collective unconsciousness. Of course the anthropologist to analyze our society and show evidently the cultural patterns we lean towards. The historian to grope through the past and analyze other mass revolutionary movements — preferably the most successful | But of course to learn from mistakes | { Are we skin-heads or brown-shirts for today’s game? Did someone forget the misnomer of play? Methodical acting of the perjurious prototagonist, so narcissistically emboldened by delusional interactivity where every website loves you better than the last. Use me, she begs! Touch me, touch me, touch me, touch me!, moans Susie shaking her moppy mane. The experience has been universally remoted for your being in pleasure. }

It seems the greatest revolutions were won through stealth. { Or hijinx! } As with the military, assault a group on your own territory and keep quiet, let them seek you out. You must have first laid the land mines, however, to ensure victory.

{ Speak with the voices of your dead generalists as their piked mouths echo the ideas you once buried inside. }

Again it is the dominoes. If the plans were laid correctly, then it is only the push of a pin that can bring it all down — Yes, a pin-pointed needle applied to the right vein can cause death.

I love everyone and so I must help everyone — I can’t stand seeing the hurt and the pain. I asked Jim, I said, “Do you think that money is inherently good or bad?”

“I must be good, why else would everyone want it? It’s the only reason I’m working.”

“You don’t like your job. If you could do what you really wanted to do, would you be here?”

“Of course not, but I like money, so I’m here.”

“But wouldn’t it be better if you didn’t have to worry about finances and could do what you liked?”

He got somewhat upset and said, walking away: “I’ll let you answer that one.”

{ After a lifetime of relentless masturbation, followed by another, I succumbed to the idea that I couldn’t trust others to manage my satisfaction. That my personal portal to the anti-material world-scapes would smack of Siddartha’s languid advice: Be so transparent that your enemies can see straight through you.}

[ I wept for tomorrow, because today was almost over. ]

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Of The Osiris Foundation

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Erik Jespersen

Erik Jespersen

Of The Osiris Foundation

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