Selections from Ploughing The Clouds

Ploughing The Clouds


The African Rattles decided on quietude
while Hammerhead circled the field.
The melee had grown silent.
Stillness fell on the gorge.
All afternoon, the guests in The Old Hotel
tamped down their jaguars.
Violets fluttered in the apprehensive breezes.
Time passing had no shape, no interval, no melody.
Even waiting
Even the gorge
was a ghost of itself--nothing falling into it,
nothing crumbling from it, 
nothing being devoured.
Could The Old Hotel have become Long River, finally--
bifurcation passed to the limit--an infinite Fork?
Hammerhead circled the field.
Instant after instant
time began again
as if to exact Being itself
as a kind of tariff
from the jowls of light
wider than Melee's
primordial insurrection--flash
through the silence.
Nobody adverted to Deep Storage.
Black Lake commuted with Opal.
In the silence, up rose Jaguar
and gazed along Long River.
Would he see the ghost
whose silence was essential to itself
or was it but a cold breath from Deep Storage?
Long River appeared suddenly to him
like essentially interrupted speech--speech
that ever took itself up again
but never resolved to a garden--things said
and to be said, surely--
but Jaguar mumbled without ceasing;
Long River bumbled along
broken, almost dried up, among large boulders.


Hammerhead kept to his circle
and had no regard for Deep Storage.

The Gorge had no enthusiasm for Melee.

If this be a state of misdirection--
but under whose direction?

Violet was by herself --- deep
without reference
to that which is down in the gorge.

Long River is long enough
to pass through whatever obliquity
with which Melee might divert its path;
meld silence through enthusiasm
without scotching it utterly.


I'm trying to work out, work through,
what I don't see or understand.

Is Deep Storage stocked only
with previous storage
or --
pot, cup, cat's bowl, chalice, caldron--
does its melee--
with or without misdirection--
under whom-so-ever's 
stock up The New?
And is The Now
the form
of The New?
And are these my questions?

Hammerhead walks in a circle
obsessed by the forms of these questions
but does he ask them?

When time is denuded of interval,
incapable of song--
does timeless Black Lake
rise up from its bottom
as it?

But here there is release,
Long River is never impeded,
and somehow, without interval or time-shape,
still there is song.

I think the gorge has something to do with it.
That, and the matter of Right Focus.

And remember how Violet kissed Crystal
and how Long River so quietly floated old Hammerhead
that his protuberance
without having to alter its nature
performed its business so elegantly
that it positively glowed?

I am perfectly cognizant of all of that
and of the multiple
instrumentalities of Melee,
but what of this matter about Deep Storage?

People are constantly splitting 
in my  dream
and unexceptionably returning to their persons
upon my awakening.
Then splitting again.

Neither psychic scatter nor its negative
answer to the query.

And I dare not bring this up before the Collective
though the matter is truly pertinent 
to the general emprise.

Neither partial release nor enthusiasm
in the ordinary sense of avidity
can substitute for attendance upon
Long River's intimate actuality.

Long River accommodates loss without compensation.
Long River is the fluent obverse
to Black Lake's appearance of stasis.

Release Great Hammerhead,
the archetype, not the avatars,
but the avatars in all of us, too--
from this abusive focus.

I need Wrench Boy and his capacity
to integrate Long River and Happenstance.

He is the Master of Right Focus -- and everything else!

His Forks 
show compassion 
for ghosts . . .

Ploughing The Clouds


Melee loves Wrench Boy.

"Why?" Wondered Violet.

"It must have something to do with the ghost
they saw together in the garden,
though we all did,
we all sort of saw it,
that night when the gorge was fuming
and The Old Hotel had shut up its special crystal
in a wooden box and hidden it
under a lamp which
it seemed to us possessed, ahem,
'problematical' properties.
Its wick had been dipped in Black Lake.
And that isn't possible."

I remember the box had been found
at the bottom of the gorge
perfectly fashioned and undamaged
by what must have been
a violent and precipitous spill.
Some of us thought it 
directly from Deep Storage
and never to have fallen at all.
But when the box received its glittering crystals
and was positioned beneath the lamp,
fumes mixed with smoky lamp light
and something was released
as if from the stone in the box
right through the delicate wood work.

A subtle turbulence took hold of the ambience itself,
both the quality of the atmosphere
and, more particularly, the activity of our minds.
Not everyone felt it in a way they could articulate
but everyone felt it nonetheless.
A subtle tendency toward distraction, certainly;
but each thought seemed drawn to some other
with which no connection presented itself,
or else stayed right where it happened
without sequel or indication of pertinence.

The disturbance grew across the Collective,
but Wrench Boy remained on an even keel
and genuinely enjoyed 
the slightly queer and zainy 
attitudes it produced in his friends.

There was something perfectly admirable
in his demeanor, yes;
but really in the entire deportment of his whole being.
Violet saw that and thought her sister
would have admired it too.

Suddenly the whole thing
jumped a notch,
and there was an entity--
one might call it a ghost --
a wisp of a breeze
and a pillar of light -- the whole
conventional show, truly--
but it held in what functioned as a hand
a tall fork,
like a rake with five tines.

A wave of enthusiasm, not fright,
passed over the Collective.
We followed the Pillar.


It was a time of great obliquity.
The spirits of Violet and Crystal
were split apart like a fork
in their essence
out of deep Storage
in a manner not manifest before.

And all the opals
floating up from Deep Storage
also showed forks--bifurcation
like intricate crazing
in a white glaze 
on a bright ceramic cup-dish.

The silence through The Old Hotel and its environs
was of an absolute kind--
inhabited by jaguars.


The Great Debt
of Manifest Apparency--
its negative inversion--
subtraction compensates proliferation.

Wrench Boy in fact understood this,
was this
out of Deep Storage--
anti-particle and particle--
negative gravity--
everything in debt
to its own prior inversion.

Only Black Lake--
pure Being itself
and its mythology--
as if down Long River--
Apparency itself
the Great Ghost . . .


Hammerhead--the Archetype--
himself the avatar
of the nothingness
that, other than pure Being,
intimately haunts all Apparency
that like an infinite crystal
a rational garden.


"Stop all this! Take focus!"
cried Violet.

"Misdirection cannot be the Law!
Will release not come
through the Opal?
Is Happenstance itself in cahoots
with this truly maniacal enthusiasm?"


Black Lake is the Mother of Loss,
Wrench Boy the Master of Enthusiasm.
Because he understands his Jaguar.
He turns his wrench
and the Great Ghost
confuses Hammerhead.
Melee observes it and's amazed.
Primordial Eros floats up from Deep Storage
and bifurcates at once into Scatter
and the possibility of the appearance of Loss.



In the kitchens of The Old Hotel,
the chamber crones were brooding
over a certain cup-dish

at the bottom of which,
covering its glaze with delicate crazing,
brown particles of cinnamon
adhered to almond milk residues
and taking the shapes
of elegant wedges and scythe blades,
they twinkled in the intermittent noon light
when the rain broke
and the pumps in the cellars fell silent

footsteps in the upper chambers

faucet drops in the sink

the significance of the figure was evident--
no need to read this . . .


Hammerhead enlarged his head
until it loomed over the hill
       equivalent in verticality and breadth to
       the dimensions of that small mountain
crowned with a forest
       of mixed forks, hammers, and rattles

even his own avatars
were terrified by him.


But the White Shirts were invisible still--
they weren't even hiding
in heir own sleeves

invented by the laws that permitted them,
they were insubstantial, 
equivalent to their functions only--

the people returned to their cauldron
while Hammerhead breathed on the city
improbable anathemas.

The War was taking new forms:
intelligence retreated
to sleeves and virtual cauldrons
that no longer had the forms of themselves--
no forms at all--
but data banks and number crunching furnaces,
dissolution evolved among data points,
schematcs, like wedges and scythe blades
that were not like wedges and scythe blades--

even death retreated from embodiment--
mind simply ceased to generate forms
and fell into irretrievable silences.

Black Lake was All.

(End of Interval)

And The Old Hotel
is also The Bank
and its inordinate extravagance, its bloating
at the expense
of us all--
its hallucination
of an ever-growing crystal--
Faustian humanity
to feed on happenstance forever
without a glance at Long River,
without a legend of compensatory black violets,
without a gaze at the crazing of our opal . . .

There still is a use
for an African Rattle--
not public,
not proved for conjuring
the ghost of social efficacy
out of Deep Storage
but a cleansing brush of sonority
to clear the crazing
from the opal.


Dragon Semen
fills the cauldron.

In the ocean of fire underneath it
salamanders seethe in the flames.

Adders and sea eels--

white tigers
heads turning, this way and that,
flash in the mind fields
down the boulevards
and the bullets can't stop them--
they block up the barrels in the guns of the sheriff's men.

The tigers  take care of the children
but head for the banks.

The druids of Newburgh and Poughkeepsie
(I'll chance it--there'll be druids in Poughkeepsie)
beseech their magical hand stones
                                  thin, flat, and solid,
to uncash the data stream

red water snakes coil round the mind fields
where currencies are sprouted and traded
and the minds cease to generate the forms
through which money is molded--
no one knows what it is

and the druids convene an intelligence
to circumvent its being molded anew.

A castle of titanium and platinum,
a rampart of white silver and gold
struck by moonlight -- one half of it nightwise --
the other half, by sunlight at noon

starlight in the ether rains coinage . . . 

What's wrong with that?
An elegant image
of ancient abundance
but today dropped contra naturam
from Nothingness--
the sky is black
where the celestial bodies
evolve on borrowed forces--
the payback is ourselves and all our woe
to balance the ontic leger.
No redress but Wisdom. Yes, Wisdom.
Only Pure Being
can heal the broken world. 

But Money Has an Enemy . . .

Ploughing The Clouds


In general,
Violet's vocabulary
has become considerably enriched
since the early days
of The Confederacy
now renamed "The Collective."

Consequently, her views
on several subjects
have expanded correspondingly.

Regarding erotic relations
in the conventional sense
she had, for a time, a low opinion, for instance.

On the other hand, her regard
for The People's Cauldron,
the magical efficacy of judiciously "putting" crystals;
for the mysteries of Black Lake and Long River, well,
the very proliferation of her avatars, her many gardens,
were testimony to a generous approbation.

She even grew copiously in the gorge
and twined petal and stem
round selective avatars of Hammerhead. 

For Long River, with a few reservations, 
she often effused enthusiasm.
She was not happy, however
when it flowed away her seeds
and attenuated the flourishing of her garden.

Vocabulary or not, she had yet to develop
a working understanding of The Fork.

Why must our focus divide?
Why must it salt
the curious brews of the cauldron
with contrary medicines?
Why must Crystal break light
into so many paths
contradictory and with such potential
for disharmony, envy, confusion,
that only Black Lake itself
absorbing matters altogether
might spell release?
And why are there crazes in the Opal?

The amity she enjoys
with some of the ghosts
is due to a certain propinquity of nature
rather than vocabulary
and her being with Crystal,
the latter, her sister and teacher.

Focus is necessary for growth,
Scatter for seeding,
Loss, that perennial renewal express
the infinite fecundity Black Lake
effects through The Cauldron.

When her mind experiences
the unpropitious variety of scatter--
the African Rattles that stand
in the fertile regions nearby her,
gather in through their white susurrus
the debits of Misdirection
so that no Loss
in the unpropitious sense
foster a fork in her focus.


Crystal has been listening
to this silent discourse
on the intellectual development
of her sister and pupil.

She thinks, in my mind,
Enough  of this.
I am concerned, as always,
about the character of Hammerhead
and how he is working
to integrate his opal.

He has no difficulty in principle
with bifurcation,
and even the melee
it frequently leads to,
he being so frequently 
the cause of it,
is just fine with him.

But as to Black Lake,
though he has by this time
experienced more than a glimpse of it,
its true ontological provenience
is inaccessible
to a mind so stabbed by forks.

Hammerhead is capable
of enthusiasm for cauldrons,
but, of The Chalice,
he is suspicious
that Misdirection
has flashed up a "vision."

Its relation to his opal
and its transparitional
co-inherence with  Black Lake
are still lost upon him.

He takes a break
and rings the bell
in The Old Hotel's staid foyer.

He takes hold of his five-tined fork,
assumes, to recharge his focus,
an attitude of jovial enthusiasm and familiarity
with that happy bauble, his opal,
unwitting of its bifurcation and obliquity,
signified by its crazing.

In this he is far behind Violet,
in danger of recidivism and scatter.


Hammerhead's release,
considered as history,
is provisional.

There's a fork
in his looseness: One path is
a zig-zag that runs through Deep Storage, alright,
but right to a series of cabinets
and abstract addresses in Deep Storage
that are situated far from Black Lake.
Another path, if he'd take it, 
leads straight to The Universal Opal.
But the fork has too many tines, too many choices,
so that though he is released
to take whatever path he would, well,
Choice or Chance are unlikely methodologies
to do anything at all
but help him lose his way.

In truth he must deepen his attitude
and quest for The Chalice,
scatter his focus a modicum,
until Jaguar manifests as
a sluggard of a sentinel
in the Garden of Crystals.

Suddenly, dead silence.

I can hear it.

A Fork without Bifurcation:
a Stunning of Ghosts. 

A fork at the end of an African Rattle.
A perfectly focused African Rattle at that.

Call back your focus,
for Hammerhead has come round
to The Rigid Fork--
an ahistorical prognostication
whose Rumor is Opal. 

Ploughing The Clouds 


Crystal said:

"Let the planting be
on the widest


"Where have I been?"
asked Jaguar.

Laughter echoed
across The Collective.

Hammerhead said:

"You returned 
to the province
of 'That Man'."

"If you mean me," I said,
"I vanish from myself
in that direction
as readily as he,
and with as great or as little enthusiasm.
One might as well
imagine we drift or drop or repair
back into Deep Storage."


Rumble, mumble, grumble
echoes across The Collective,
a sound that merges
into the bubbling susurrus 
of Long River.

"That Man," I said,
might just as well be That Chalice and its
ever-bubbling fountain.
Do you see it
standing in our Vision
at the center of The Garden?
But we ourselves--each one of us--
vanish from the vision of the others
when we do
see it. If it's there
we are gone
to the place
that is not
'whither' -- 
      Deep Storage does not contain it
in its corridors and cabinets,
its data files and informational arrays.
Only the miasma of light
beyond all databanks 
and fantastical inventions alike,
beyond the impossible and the possible,
beyond, in fact, Beyond--"

Rumble, mumble, grumble
echoed across The Collective.
For everyone had something to say
about The Ineffable.


Opal was listening

to gatherings
all along Long River.

"Release, release
all of us
from grievous Loss."

"Let Jaguar's concordat with Hammerhead
be renewed."

"Let Enthusiasm

"Let us all shake our African Rattles."

And we did.

The problem wasn't Scatter
or the failure to engineer Release.

Obliquity functioned perfectly
on its own terms.

But Hammerhead himself
was compelled to activate
a panoply of avatars,
each with another role
in The Great Awakening,
some facilitators, some covertly or overtly,
mounting the opposition.
The problem was how to elude them all,
presenting no position to attack--
montagnards, guerrillas, really--
but since their numbers were ever-growing,
how might this be achieved?

Wrench Boy fissioned differently, avatar-wise.
There were imps and calculators,
cadres of operatives;
workers, certainly--every one
a master at her post;
warriors, but no soldiers, 
no pawns, no functionaries.
Busy bees, in one respect,
but no Queens;
no drones.

The point was to delay the point
of focus -- keep the cauldron roiling,
allow Obliquity 
to discommode Centrality,
while the sound of African Rattles
kept rising over the horizon,
and we were mighty jaguars
against the inevitable fork,
the schism twixt African Rattle
and smoky Opal.


The avatars of Hammerhead
threatened to foment
unruly melee merely
or else to prevent one
with hammer blows
commandeering Happenstance,
calling upon Deep Storage,
co-opting the principle of Release.

Hammerhead himself
vacillated between enthusiasm
and abject confusion.
He had developed no conception
of how to comport himself 
vis a vis self-arising melee.
The African Rattles moved closer.
Should he join them
or take them down?
And was there an alternative,
not an alternative at all,
but a genuine release
into the space of the jaguars,
and is that what they mean by Black Lake?

He wanted to retreat to his embryo,
inaugurate a new zygote of himself,
come out of the womb of being,
released from the terrible army of African Rattles,
the overwhelming miasma
of luminous ghosts.

"Damn that Long River
and its titillating garden,
always almost in being,
ever being taken away,
so that existence itself
were a long tribulation of longing
with opals to gaze in
but never to belong to--
Long River! Long River! release me,
or at least bring equilibration.
What shall I do with this Melee?
Shall I force her into the gorge?
Shall I fling myself  upon Happenstance,
let Deep Storage reclaim
whatever enthusiasm compels me?
Is there a Higher Happenstance
to rectify Melee or use her,
and I myself
nothing at all
but a grim miasma of ghosts?"


While the Hammerheads were tormenting themselves in this manner
concerning their thought about Melee
that would not resolve
into a simple view,
The Old Hotel was at work
expanding its venue.
It had an inexhaustible mandate
to release space and accommodate
whatever Melee herself should send its way.

A twenty volume Encyclopedia of Misdirection
catalogued how many Algorithms of Obliquity!
Even  Deep Storage can't count them.
Hammerhead feared them;
Opal resolved them, providing
universally applicable procedures for the release from them.

You pass your palm
over its warm face
and an eye
plants itself
in the center of your hand.
This should take care of them.

You know you're released when you sense
an aroma of violets,
the return of organized enthusiasm.
Oh, let's plant a garden,
keep tame jaguars
   in a garden,
leave our scatter-brained states
to whatever world wants them.
Melee--just a matter of happenstance.
What has that to do with our garden?
Hammerhead can busy himself
building little white fences
to segregate the plots,
in the front of each of which we'll establish
a gnome
in the form
of a little bronze statue of Wrench Boy . . .

. . . like a Fomorion's tea bag!

The gorgeous ogress . . . the gorge itself inverted . . .
the orgies of her beauty -- I mean the palpable
came in shock waves
across the meadows
where she'd galavant -- how could a thing so massive
heave itself so deftly
over the huts and hillocks, the megaliths and mountains?
There must have been ameliatory plantetoids
countermanding gravity
in that celestial season.

But the little males
fainted with an overplus of passion--
the feeling was unintegrable, unanswerable--
the female unaware
of the effect of her own steam.


The Old Hotel (at all events)
got steeped in Black Lake
(as the males were steeped 
in the orgonic effluvia of the ogress)
and that was how it acquired
its protean propensities.
It had traded away 
all constancy of material identity--
cashed it out entirely--
for a nature that ever after
could morph prolifically--
its chambers multiplied,
its decor and period grew multiple and variable--
it was ever another thing--
as episode or circumstance demanded.
Even the sense that it was owned or managed
was labile--Wrench Boy, Hammerhead, Violet, Crystal,

Hammerhead or Melee,
sat in the office, if there was one,
filled the halls and lounges
with lavender and violet.


The Pooka appeared
in a field of women--

What pleasure! What wisdom! What glory!

The strato-cumuli billowed uncannily.
The cumulo-nimbi glowed.

Out to the mountainside!
Into the trees!

Engines rumbled in the underground.

The Pooka took off his head
for each of the celebrants.

He gyred and gimbled and wound
all afternoon.

Then he changed
and the night howled.

Owl eyes on the shop-shelves. 
Owl eyes on the branch.

The Pooka vanished
when the moon set.

The women returned to their shells.
Ploughing The Clouds


Enthusiasm erupted through the petals of ten-thousand violets.

All the opals were amazed on their bezels.

Misdirection was quiescent.

Jaguars snaked about 
                               the little flowering stems.

All caldrons bubbled promiscuously,
                                        if somewhat peremptorily--
                                                                is now the time?

Wrench Boy activated "the People's Mike Check for the Human Microphone."

He shook his African Rattle and delivered:

"I think that Jaguar
                                      [I think that Jaguar]

should come back from obliquity
                                                     [should come back from obliquity]

and lend his energy
                                      [and lend his energy]

to the People's Caldron.
                                         [to the People's Caldron.]

It's cold in the gorge.
                                       [It's cold in the gorge.]

I've just been down in there.
                                              [I've just been down in there.]

And I'm here to report
                                        [And I'm here to report]

Long River has been diverted.
                                                   [Long River has been diverted.]

All violets will wither,
                                            [All violets will wither,]

all opals blacken.
                                         [all opals blacken.]

Too long have we succumbed
                                                      [Too long have we succumbed]

to dishonorable misdirection.
                                                     [to dishonorable misdirection.]

Existence waxes intolerable.
                                                    [Existence waxes intolerable.]

No slugs or weeds or happiness at all
                                                                 [No slugs or weeds or happiness at all]

in the oligarchs' garden.


Silence across the Collective.

A fork of innumerable pointy tines
threatened to proliferate.

Let it? 
Great melee.

Restrain the bifurcation at the root?
An end to true release.

Listen to the Gorge.

Existence must proffer its own garden from Deep Storage.

Too articulate, what wisdom
can be loosed
from the gorge
or from wherever
into it?

Invert the gorge, get a mountain.

Too many violets or too few,
what violence!

Practice silence?
Will Black Lake come to us?
Impossible.  We must
find our way to it.

"Wrench Boy, Wrench Boy
come out of your Old Hotel.

I sit in the midst of the Collective
attempting Silence.

Long River runs through the gorge, I know it.
I grasp my African Rattle
to summon appropriate obliquity.
What wisdom can be loosed to us?
I am Hammerhead.
My protuberance has turned into a fork.
Jaguar jabbers at my archaic garb, my white chiton.
I am jabbed by misdirection.
Is the time not yet, not yet
to manifest the Collective?
A fork in existence, not only in ourselves.
Forge unity?
The counter-force is terrified and violent.
They summon ten-thousand ghosts
armed with unintelligible gabble
to blot out both energy and silence.
But silence is the secret
in the sound of African Rattle.
We must suffer our own bifurcation.
Hold Crystal
over the Gorge."


I said
in my heart,
"Never tire of the road.
Subject the oligarchs' garden
to irremediable ware and scatter.
Take money out of the banks.
We are the ghosts
out of the gorge.
We shake our African Rattles.
We redirect Long River.
It runs from our cats' bowl, our caldron,
as from Deep Storage.


I said:"Mic Check"
                                    [Mic Check]
"The opal's focus
                               [The opal's focus]


our own bifurcation.
                                   [our own bifurcation.]

We are The New Old Hotel.
                                              [We are The New Old Hotel.]

We find quiet chambers
                                           [We find quiet chambers]

for all the ghosts
                                [for all the ghosts]

and avatars
                            [and avatars]

of Wrench Boy.
                             [of Wrench Boy.]


Will Long River speak?
Will Bifurcation?
Will African Rattle manifest essential quietude?
Will the oligarchs and their garden
purchase the gorge
and poison us
with spurious violets?
Will Wrench Boy manifest as Happenstance?
Gorge-ghost, gorge-garden. 
There is a phase of mind's scatter--
infinite bifurcation is no loss
but a time to gorge on silence.


They were nobody's avatars.
They were lone gray wolves and wounded elephants,
fluttering lepidopterae, 
mountain caribou and long-horned cows,   
salmon that leap in Long River running
against the edicts of The Counselors,
whose laws propel the skies.
They were clouds of golden dawn light,
massive galactic clusters riven
by the gazes of gamma ray telescopes.
They were little dogs and feral tabbies.
They had gathered in the oligarchs' garden
to assert the truth of Being.

A nameless Glob rose up on eleven tentacles.
Her thirteen mouths required no megaphone.
She used the human microphone with mic-check.

"We are the General assembly.
                                                    [We are the General assembly.]

We count, but we are numberless.
                                                         [We count, but we are numberless.]

We take on every appearance
                                                        [We take on every appearance]

the transparency of local happenstance
                                                          [the transparency of local happenstance

No percentage identifies us
                                                         [No percentage identifies us]

because no totality tallies.
                                                         [because no totality tallies.]

We belong to every species  
                                                         [We belong to every species]

living and non.
                                                        [living and non.]

Matter is our bailiwick.
                                                          [Matter is our bailiwick.]

Space is our abode.
                                                          [Space is our abode.]

Wrench Girl and her Syzygy belong with us.
                                                          [Wrench Girl and her Syzygy belong with us. ]

Melee rides our fire.
                                                         [Melee rides our fire.]

Hammerhead, Hammerhead, where are you headed?
                                                  [Hammerhead, Hammerhead, where are you headed?]

Will you be with us
                                                   [Will you be with us]

when we open our tongues in the Dream Time
                                                   [when we open our tongues in the Dream Time]

and occupy The House of Being and its Banks?
                                                   [and occupy The House of Being and its Banks?]


Hammerhead raised two fingers
and the nameless Glob 
recognized him.

"Here are some posters I made
                                                     [Here are some posters I made]

while sitting on my bed with red sheets.
                                                    [while sitting on my bed with red sheets.]

Their utterances came to me in a dream cloud
                                                  [Their utterances came to me in a dream cloud]

irradiated by a glittering crystal.
                                                     [irradiated by a glittering crystal.]

They say:
                                             [They say:]

                                             [BEING IS LICIT]
                                                                 [ONLY PURE BEING
                                                    CAN HEAL THE BROKEN WORLD]

                                                        [EACH SINGULAR ENTITY
                                                                IS BEING ENTIRE]

                                                          [EVERYTHING THAT APPEARS
                                                                     APPEARS TO BE]

                                                             [BUT MONEY HAS AN ENEMY]


The Assembly broke up
into small groups
to discuss these matters.

Some took the posters
and circumambulate the oligarchs' garden
even today.

This happened inside the People's Caldron
under the Sign of The Fork.