from further west

In the early springtime of 1804 an enemy stood in our foothills and moors, it was not a Russian or from further west, instead it was sickness – the dreaded Black Pest. It marched on the heels of a deep prolonged drought, it tore at all people (priest midwife and lout), it was a tenacious and deadly disease that all but had forced us down onto our knees. Some doctors from Iysh that lies in the north discovered the Sharpstand's medicinal worth, applied it to boils that covered the skin, infused it in tonics that healed from within. They shared their new knowledge with peers far and wide, who watched as the skins of their patients soon dried, soon ceased with rank seeping, soon lost their red hue, within but a fortnight the weak sprung up new. The Pest it was vanquished by what was once weed, lowly Mountain Sharpstand met our greatest need, and saved us from decades of hardship and woe, we now still turn to it and make sure it grows in valleys and households, hospitals and fields, who knows just what benefits it may yet yield.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

pile and heave

They rested a fortnight upon the Great Stair: of game there was plenty; the weather stayed fair. As soon as the stormheads did pile and heave they packed their belongings and took their due leave and trod from the summit which they had called home, took pelt spear and rations left nothing but loam. Through little-known passages they made their way with nary a waver and not much delay they crept through the Wilds and dodged the patrols of dark King Luzari and his hated trolls. There was but one victim (he died of old age), they lowered him into a too-shallow cage of rock stone and earthen clods out on the heath with coins on his eyelids and sage in his teeth. Then upon returning they found their stead burned by bastard Luzari and his churlish worms, did stay for a while and searched high and low, let not foul impatience nor cruel worry grow. Marked deep in a cavern a message they found it said that their kin had fled to higher ground, they rushed to the Heights with deliberate speed rejoicing at finding the well-hidden lead. They found there their clansmen and clanswomen too and whipped up a rabbit and venison stew and performed their customs and prepared a feast and prayed to the Father who's born in the east. They stayed there the winter, as snow the trees bent, then off to the high Land of Plenty they went where their dark-haired children grew tall great and strong, made merry and hunted, spun yarn tale and song.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

oh nameless Mother

All hail now the mighty compassionate one whose horse is a nightmare who flies with the sun who visits us when we are lonely and small who lifts up the spirits and helps us stand tall. We call her but Mother, we won't say her name, we ask that she shelter strong weak wild or tame, great puny or powerful, hirsute or short, with skins quite unblemished or covered in warts. Her gaze is far-reaching her mercy is vast, she touches all peoples regardless of class, regardless of heritage lowly or proud, she pierces cloak disguise lie falsehood and shroud. There is not another her power can beat wherefore she's the queen of all pathways and streets, of home hearth tree meadow stair village and town, so know of her glory and sing her renown.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

in the sty

Her bed was a mat made of tightly-wound straw; a mud-splattered pigsty was all the girl saw. She lived in the sty by her stepmother's choice with no human contact with no right to voice her daydreams and passions and all she'd been taught by pig ant and horsefly (of which there were lots). She'd wait for the swine to eat their daily fill of watered-down muesli and other such swill then scraped at the corners of their wooden trough – it kept her alive but was barely enough. Her clothes became tattered and worn through and through while her young half-sister got threads bright and new, was dressed in fine silken and shimmering robes and got tiny diamonds put in her earlobes. The sty-bound first daughter was ugly, you see, by her deceased mother's genetic decree, whom father had knocked up when he was a teen with salt in his currents and rage in his spleen. The newer addition was beautiful though with raven-like hair and skin as white as snow; her older blood-sibling would twitch shake then seize and splay her webbed toe-joints whenever she sneezed. The outcast grew slowly, her muscles were weak, although with her beasts she soon enough could speak, could see by each habit and movement and walk more than most mere humans convey when they talk. Her kindness was massive her compassion too her spirit and mercy they blossomed and grew, she then started praying (to whom she knew not), was thankful for her pitiful meager lot. A Goddess did hear her, sleek silent Oumbast, did send out a pussy to visit at last, its soft furry body did warm comfort feed the sty-bound first daughter in her time of need. On mouse rodent bunny the girl then grew strong and fled from the confines she had known so long, and became a healer of animals all, of horse cow and donkey of beast great and small. Her sister however was naught but a pest, swore at her own parents and tore every dress, then fled with a sailor to his foetid shore and lived in the manner of a spoiled whore.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

hill and woodside

She slipped from her swaddle and rushed out the door and of her fair countenance was seen no more. The deep woods did swallow her, the mom would say, while wailing and pleading to all who would stay e'en for a few moments at her home's front stoop through which her young daughter had once flown the coop. There was a search party that sallied in vain that combed hill- and wood-side through hail snow and rain that of the wee maiden found not hide nor hair while chased through the brush by wolf boar and brown-bear. Like all young and innocent who just vanish in ways unexplainable and outlandish the girl felt not anything akin to fear for Nuuzstathena was suddenly near and saved the sweet child and took her afar and transformed her weary bones into a star. It sparkles and shimmers most nights in the east just below Orion's still-struggling beast; weep not for the little ones – Goddess keeps watch and hers is a gentle and merciful touch.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

sewing her clover

There once was a goddess, the Maiden of Spring, who did a most curious and mischievous thing – she holed herself up in a dank sodden cave enraptured by a handsome, dastardly knave. He'd spied her when life was beginning to teem, out walking in snowbanks from which budded green, and trapped her with cunning and love's sweet promise without even gracing her lips with a kiss. Forthwith to his light-starved and troglodyte lair is where he then took her, the Maiden so fair, and fed her with roots that grew deep down below until field and mountain was covered in snow. Our heroine then yearned to make her escape, to see the broad sunlit vast upper landscapes; she slipped from the grasps of her erstwhile lover to walk in the snowy fields sewing clover. As soon as the hot sun and warm winds did blow she longed her dark paramour once more to know and crept without making e'en one undue sound back down to his hidey-hole far underground. It's there that she winters and shelters from Fall until she is tugged pulled compelled dragged and called once more to the surface her deeds there to do, to make life erupt again, verdant and new.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on PAPIWA

We're hosting a conference for all West Asia so come ye great peoples to Grigovia and hash out the problems that we all now share – water conservation and Ynki's cruel stare. Some fine delegations are settling in: Iran Turk Kurd Uzbek Afghan and Chechen are here ready waiting and primed to begin, while Rus Turkmen Arab refused to join in. PAPIWA is a grounded fantasia (Peace and Prosperity in Western Asia); come sing with us its fleet inaugural hymn; to get here fly walk ride crawl tunnel or swim. Discussions and panels are planned for these days to deal with America's foul warlike ways, to find methods for keeping citizens rich and countering crude oil's sting burden itch. We'll talk about clean and renewable paths to pull energy from the sun's ceaseless wrath, to pull from wind above and lava below the juice that we need to make our cities glow. Together we'll find many peaceful accords, solutions to issues that don't involve war, new friendships and markets and such blessed things that give hope sustainable and solid wings. Our door's always open if you come in peace, if not though (like Ynki) we will never cease to avoid and hamper and disrupt our foe, to crush his advances and bloody his nose.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on craggy Iylianna

There is a formation high up on a crag that we call Iylianna (i.e. Crone or Hag) – it looks like the face of a shriveled old witch who'd beat back her neighbors with broom pot and switch. She vanished from view many long years ago, her body was not found (to where did she go?), her legend lives on in a lofty rock-face, in that inaccessible mountainous place. To see it go climb to the top of a spire and make sure the view isn't cloudy or mired by surrounding buildings or smog or darkness then turn you your body to point to the west. From Grig it is visible, it will delight, its contours do make a most impressive sight, so go now and look for it, it's trouble worth, to see Iylianna in her stony berth.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

praises and majesty

All hail now our sister, whose vestment is bright, who beams down upon us both daytime and night. Unlike her hot brother, great powerful sun, whose rays are a boon to most everyone, she chooses to vanish and sometimes to hide while always commanding the varying tides while always enrapturing those she's espied in her waxing glory she shimmers with pride. We call her fair Mu'untha and offer blessings, her praises and majesty we're known to sing, in festivals dances and a monthly meet, where we long-lost strangers and family greet. Such meetings and merriment to sister fair are held in the center of our village squares, please join us and make sure to arrive safe and soon – rejoice at the coming of a newborn moon!

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

gather and climb

A long while ago in a land before time there lived a wee hermit who'd gather and climb, and fetch from the trees and the soils below the tubers and apples that made his limbs grow. Now after a while his digits were long, his legs and his arms were both stretched-out and strong, his torso however had not grown an inch, so up to the treetops he went in a cinch and hung from the stoutest and loftiest branch until his face reddened and his feet were blanched. His hunger and thirst though would force him back down, but soon he avoided the hard rocky ground, and gained from the fruits and the wealth grown from wood the moisture and sustenance that did him good. He then started moving just nighttimes, you see, up there in his majestic verdant proud tree, and sleeping clear through the bright sun until dark, with toes wrapped around the coarse blessed rough bark. His torso however continued to shrink, and skin soon got loosened from a lack of drink, it hung from his armpits and from his crotch too, and he soon was covered in hairs dark of hue. One night there was lightning and crashing thunder that burst split exploded his perch asunder, to save his now hirsute and blood-reddened skull he spread his legs and his arms like a seagull and marveled to find that the patches of skin allowed him to glide and to ride on the wind. From then he chose to not touch solid ground but used his broad glide-flaps to move him around, did hang in the trees and shed each ounce of fat, we know him today as the common brown bat.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

most foul enemies

Our Wall's not as great as the one farther east; it's quickly sprung over by woman or beast. It lies now in ruins but not long ago, its contours stood strongly through springtime and snow, its ramparts would scrape at and cling to the skies, it kept us quite safe from most foul enemies. At one point at least five kilometers long, it's spoke of in lore and sung about in song, it sheltered the maidens and kings of the day, who'd go there for battle and sometimes to play. Inside it were gardens and great castles too, that once were grand blooming fair mighty and new, but now all that's left is a lone tourists' shelter where young couples go for a prone, night-time swelter. Please come for a visit, it's well worth the trek to see what is now just with creepers bedecked but was once a bulwark against foreign hordes (we offer both guided and unguided tours).

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

so curse not

The goddesses bear us from this coast to that; they carry the skinny and also the fat. We can't rightly see them, or make out their forms but bask in their love-shine (which makes us feel warm). Their presence at times they reveal with numbers, with duplicates, triplicates, one-two-three-fours, with lights in the darkness and held-open doors. So curse not the delays nor lay on the horn for we all were birthed once, we're all woman-borne, and treat one another with kindness and grace, this tragic, misguided, jolly human race.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on Grigovian bread

Much talk can be mustered and rumors be spread about how Grigovians cherish their bread. They like it in daytime and when it is night, they like when it's crispy, when not baked quite right. They'll eat it for breakfast, for lunch and din-dins, for “If there's bread baking then everyone wins.” When baked in an oven its smell will arouse the passions of all nearby gathering crowds, when given out freely to all passersby there won't be one single eye-socket left dry. It's made from just one or two ingredients, among them sage, thyme, and leaves from healing plants, that then get mixed into a base of nut flour, that's then left to sit for at least fourteen hours. “The hotter the better,” is what most cooks say, but some still prefer the more old-fashioned way of keeping the oven at much lower temps and opening up just its lower-most vents. So strong is this powerful, life-giving bread that some have accused it of waking the dead, like back when a woman who'd been gone a week did smell it and suddenly get rosy cheeks. While much can be said for it words won't suffice, the smell of it strongly one's nostrils entice, the feel of it lingers and sours the tongue – for ages its praises will surely be sung.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

and her ken

He wanted to grasp her and win her applause but her gathered family did give him much pause, for he had the feeling that it would not do to just bag and leave her like week-old dog poo. Besides his was a weakened urge since he had voided, spent, and purged and spilled his manhood on a Red Chinese who'd greeted his passions with 'Thank you' and 'Please'. He spoke to the family, made himself one with their type of humor and their brand of fun, he drank, laughed, and joked with them for four days and nights, did not see much anger, no serious fights. If he'd pushed or forced something before its time it would have weighed heavily against his mind, so he at times sat back to give her her space and not once invited her up to his place. He dared not to wish anything for himself but Happiness, patience, and long-lasting health but sent a plea up to the most loving gods to bless the girl's family through mounting odds. Wise Nuuzstathena and fair Aprodit heard each gentle syllable, each spoken word, and promised to shelter the girl and her ken from other aggressive and confident men. He would keep on traveling, that much he knew, there was not much else that he knew how to do, keep drinking the waters of lands all around, wherever his boots did leave marks in the ground.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

they know no

There lies fairly nestled in a mountain bowl a bright, tiny cottage not modern nor old that houses a widow, her children (and theirs) who sleep in the cupboards or curled up on stairs. They forage for berry and honey and nut to bring back to their clean and water-tight hut, they know no convenience but never complain, assured that such action their honor would stain. One day while out planting her seeds in the loam the widow was harassed by an angry gnome who swore he would fill her life with woe and dread if he weren't allowed to occupy her bed. Without hesitation the old lass complied and ushered the short-round straight to the inside where he promptly sat down and ate up their food – his hunger was massive, his noises were rude. After they'd been sent to bed with hunger pangs the children did gather and cook up a plan to rid themselves and their fair home of its guest, that unwanted, hungry, and foul-tempered pest. The next day they told him of a special place where there were some females of his minish race; they said that it lay in the mountains above where he would be welcomed and showered with love. The gnome wanted nothing to do with the notion so the oldest daughter she mixed up a potion that put the intruder into a deep sleep – he fell to the floor and lay there in a heap. The children then carried the wee, tiny man (who fit into the smallest of frying pans) up to a small temple set high on a peak where he'd sleep and slumber for nearly a week. They prayed to the goddess who sheltered therein and asked her to bless their home, future, and kin, to erase the mind of the gnome when he woke, to keep him alive though and not let him choke. They never did hear what became of the man but prided themselves on their impromptu plan that freed them from that which had plagued them and theirs, their siblings whose beds were nooks, crannies, and stairs.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

but rather resigned

The signals got mixed up (the wrong ones were sent) so that when the telegram finally went there were no recipients, no one to sign, not one soul to scribble on the dotted line. The fools who had written it sat back ashamed for there were no underlings left they could blame, but rather resigned to their sure, coming fate decided to sleep in, to slumber 'till late. The staff at Grigovian Anti-Spion had that day declared all its battles to've won; it did this to flush out foul enemy spies by tricking them into text-messaging lies, by fooling them into sending telegrams, by scheduling meetings on boats, trains, and trams. In this tricky manner were great numbers caught, more than the planners originally thought, so that our fine country is safe once again, at least from those traitorous women and men – who knows whom our enemies to us will send.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

things on time

Her rhythm is true and her grace is sublime, she is Dah'zhou – mistress of all things on-time. She favors such people as know when to wake, like soldiers and doctors and persons who bake, like teachers and bankers and most household staff, who wake up at dawn before drawing a bath. She rides with her sister – fair, rose-fingered Dawn – in a golden chariot they're pulled along, that's spanned to two felines who lift soft paws high as they race and scamper across morning's sky. The two make much merriment while they complete their circuits through sunshine, rain, hail, wind, and sleet, sheltered from the weather and foul airs without in an airborne, golden, and mobile redoubt. Dah'zhou keeps no log-book, she gives few rewards, she won't punish people who would rather snore than get up and get out and tackle the day, who choose between warm, downy covers to stay. Instead she's been known to bring to life inside such persons who wake early an honest pride that stays with them long after darkness descends, that buoys their labors and infects their friends. So next time you find yourself wanting to snooze, remember there is more to gain than to lose, by waking up early and fleeing from bed with joy in your heart and a clear, rested head.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

mountains of riches

Ours is a robust, diverse economy; we farm many bushes, not just one main tree. In our desert regions grow figs, sheep, and dates; in Iysh are planted vast hectares of grapes; from Grig (our fine capital) clear to the west is where we've found apples and barley grow best. We harvest mine tailings left over from when the Soviets enslaved our shortest, strongest men and sent them to toil deep down underground where mountains of riches and death could be found. There are many minerals, some rare-earth too, there's goose, duck, and rabbit that taste good in stew, for curries and turmeric we're widely famed, for pelts, shoes, and pouches sewn from wild-caught game. These things are protected by a ministry (the People's Collective for Rock, Beast, and Tree) that answers to all citizens living here in a referendum at least once a year. We import as few foreign goods are we can, preferring to till, mine, and milk our land. To keep ourselves free from state-sponsored invaders we plant rice, beans, eggplant, corn, squash, and potaters. We're looking for labor, we pay well and fair, we're not prone to suffer from food shortage scares, so come to Grigovia ye one and all, 'till now we've avoided the global free-fall that's plaguing our neighbors, our friends wide and far, who now wish to steer by our small nation's star. All hail to the Goddesses who number Ten, for how they have blessed us and our verdant fen, we lift up our praises, we make offerings, we give thanks for living like queens and like kings.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

one still thirsting

There are many flavors that confuse the mind, that leave one still thirsting and (worse) fully blind, that take from the essence and beauty of life, that just lead to anger and heartbreak and strife. When facing such foul, dastardly temptation you dare not but one of the Goddesses shun for they each can help you in strong, subtle ways to hold onto Happiness through darkest days. Next time you find something too good to be true, then ask yourself 'What would Nuuzstathena do?', then wait for the answer but don't look for it, for there's little good comes from searching for shit. A priestess can help you to listen and learn, to understand why you still want, lust, and yearn, to lessen the burden we know as ego, to live life in Beauty and go with its flow. So seek out a mentor, have no fear to ask, have no fear to drink from fair Aprodit's flask, to lay down with Mu'untha or hitch your wagon to Dah'zhou who rides on a golden dragon. The process is easy once you make it start, so feel with your instinct and trust in your heart that there's no such thing as a curse or bad luck so long as you truly do not give a fuck who may be there watching while you stop and pray – there's no time to waste so get to it today.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

and filling repast

On acres of grounds and in countless displays we tell mankind's story from then to today, at least from the view of Grigovia's past, please come for a stroll or just run through real fast. About half the people that come here do so their learning and knowledge and culture to grow, the others (like tourists) just dash on fleet feet – they'd rather relax, rest their bones, drink, and eat. A restaurant lies at the end of the tour that one cannot reach but through our big front doors, we did this because of an honest desire to have people eat well of learning's hot fire; to fill their minds first and their intestines last; to see to their double and filling repast. We have cloth, tool, weapon, and art galleries that sprawl under soaring vaults and swooping eaves, that are filled with treasures made by man and not, that we strain to preserve from foul, creeping rot. The resto serves tchuirff and fine food and good eats, from Iysh in the north to Gar Nuuzsh in the east, some snacks from the south and bites from Pyltagrad, please try them then sit back both sated and glad. We hope you will visit the National Vault, if not though it is your own damnable fault, there is no set fee so please pay what you like, food prices are kept low (sans seasonal spikes). Buses transport daily to our vast compound from just about every city and town. We hope you will come soon and witness what's grand about our beloved Grigovian land.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

Ħ-'Ɨº×ïǂш¡Ɏ¡шǂï׺Ɨ'-Ħ

he was just a peon, a low-level thug, who'd pee in the corner and soil the rug

of being alive

At each Yiptlong entrance is a special gate built with local rockfall, mostly shale or slate. They are rarely swung shut, they're seldom locked tight, even through the longest and darkest of nights. They don't serve the purpose of keeping man out instead it's their duty to remind about the transepts and doorways we transit each day while making our mortal, carefree human way. So next time when passing a gate pause a bit, put down what you're doing and have a short sit, take one or two moments to empty your mind, allow all your passions to slowly unwind. Each time will be different, each time something new, with practice a calmness will come over you, that you can take with you the rest of your way, please give it a try without further delay.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

a grand parade

Next month we shall honor our self-liberation with grand parades and nation-wide celebrations. Back in October (1944) were Nazis and Soviets poised at our door, both waiting for the proper moment to strike our miles of trenches and defensive dikes. They had not intruded far into our ken before of a sudden two groups of women – old ladies and mothers with knives in their teeth – had sprung from some fighting-holes deep in the heath. They'd stalled the advance of our two deadly foes, had dampened his ardor and bloodied his nose, had halted a moment the oncoming Blitz with screams in their bosoms and milk in their tits. Now cautious and wary the foe did advance after having cleaned up his soiled underpants, with eyes stapled open and fear in his veins did he get to moving his armored war-trains. He entered a country stripped from peak to fell; its bridges torn down and poison in its wells; its bounty eroded; its people vanished; its fine reputation besmirched and tarnished. Before he could settle and plan strategy emerged from the tunnels (ordered, silently) a vast local army armed just with its hands to drive the base enemies out of its lands. To maximize its psychological fright it struck in the darkest deep hour of night and tore out the hearts of its enemies two with tactics both ancient and brand-spanking new. Now armed with his shiny, slick war-making tools the bold rebel army gave chase to the fools who had dared to enter into its domain and gave him good reason to not come again. We are very grateful for the sacrifice of all those brave warriors who joined in the fights, who made sure that we all – that you, him, and me – could stand here rejoicing, happy, proud, and free.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

its raw volunteers

The 9th Mountain Rangers are calling to arms all young men and women from cities and farms, from hamlets, skyscrapers, suburbs near and far, there's no need to prepare just come as you are. The 9th has been shaping its raw volunteers into hardened soldiers for 200 years, first formed during conflict in 1813 ours is still a tight-knit and family-like team. We instruct in aspects of modern war-making, in subterfuge and guerrilla undertakings, in sabotage, hacking, and counter-surveillance, in cleanliness, honor, and marching in phalanx. Our uniforms blend into rock-face and soil; our pride is deep-rooted in blood, sweat, and toil; we ask that you lend us your muscles and ears; your sweethearts will greet you with music and cheers. Come visit our offices in Grig's downtown, come join this here unit, increase its renown, protect our dear borders from enemies base and help us to defend our glorious race.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

in her bones

Afloat in the swollen, wide Yalung River, in her heart much fear, in her bones a shiver, she begged to the Goddess, the most graceful one, to save her from certain death and destruction. The waves and swift currents whipped up by the storm, did toss and abuse her near-limp human form, they threatened to drag her down into the deeps, into a vast, endless, encompassing sleep. Then just as her hope and last fragments of power had fled and the bells were tolling her last hour there was a deep calm in the skies suddenly whereupon she once again uttered her plea. 'Please help me, dear Goddess, I know that you're near, my heart is still clamped in unshakable fear, I know you are merciful, graceful, and true, please tell me what in this here peril to do.' The answer came not in words, symbols, or talk, the maiden though found she could suddenly walk, with tentative steps she then fled from the flood with tears in her eyes and a heat in her blood. Just moments thereafter she built a small shrine right there on the banks to give thanks for divine help and intervention from a nameless force that saved her from a downward spiraling course.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on Grigovian energy

Vast wind farms abound on the Great Barren Plain where few people live and thus fewer complain. They're built to high standards of technology, can capture such gusts as would barely move trees. Deep wells also tap into geo-therm heat (through cycles that are on an endless repeat) by pulling hot water from deep underground and using its steam to send turbines around. Solar collectors dot the Great Dune Sea, all gathering photons by day, silently, but these must be washed and always cleaned of dust lest they should develop a light-blocking crust. There's coal in our mountains, some wide seams of it, but we're not much into just burning the shit. We'd rather turn algae into diesel fuel or harness sources that are renewable. All things that make power are owned and belong to each native person born in the Yiptlong, or brought to life within our national borders – to all of Grigovia's fine sons and daughters. We've set up a true non-profit corporation to make sure that all electricity won gets doled out and shared without too much corruption lest there should flare up a vast social eruption. GriSol is its shortened, legitimate name, to honor the source whence all life truly came, invest in our future and make our land great, together we can all mankind elevate.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

warm cloudy flagons

Straight back to the top of majestic Grigung return all the gods from each mission far-flung. They race duly to there after saving towns, after doing acts of daring and renown, after bravely rescuing kids from a fire or climbers who'd got lost among craggy spires. They live in a place that no mortal can see, high above the region where grow no more trees; their houses and balés, their mansions and domes are modest and practical, welcoming homes. They drink only warm, cloudy flagons of mead, their wounds close up quickly and they rarely bleed, from us puny mortals but two things they need: virtuous behavior and a lack of greed. To seal themselves off and keep enemies out they've fully encircled their lofty redoubt with a cloak of snake-skin and bright amethyst that's known to man-children only as Graegist. Oumbast is the trickster, the fool of the bunch, she causes cruel chaos if she should miss lunch, she lives by herself in a barn made of stone where she can chase rodents and curl up alone. The other gods they mostly get along well, for close to each other they still choose to dwell, there is in fact little they complain about, except of course Oumbast and base human louts. Please use of this knowledge, please share it freely, and plunge into prayer with a newfound glee, for the gods are watching and listening too to all that we whisper and all that we do.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

upon fancy bedding

Through most of the lifetime of young Aprodit she'd been with the local boys a major hit. They 'd chased her and followed her every move and were always trying their merits to prove. For her part though Aprodit did not care much for men and their urges, for penis and such, instead she far rather would lay with a lass upon fancy bedding or just on the grass. When boys and men found out the truth about it, they chastised and chased away fair Aprodit, who picked up and vanished all too willingly, who made a new home for herself and her ilk, where to love each other they'd always be free.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

this fragment remains

Here follows an excerpt from an old address, this fragment remains but we have lost the rest. “[T]hat We here assembled must ne'er again see such offensive, blatant, cruel brutality. Therefore let Us rise up and pass this decree, please hear to my missive and supplicant plea, so We in this innocent community shan't wallow in pity much robbed of our glee. Henceforth shall to Vagabonds entrance be barred, likewise to all peoples whose faces are scarred or pitted and wrought by the Traveling Pox, who go about barefoot without shoes or socks. Offenders of these Our justified laws will be forthwith chased down by Large, Vicious dogs and thrown into cellars where they'll surely rot, and howl out in madness and curse at their lot. These rules and conditions must be fully known, therefore let them be hung to gate, tree, and home, and posted where all Passers-By them can see; it is with Pure Hearts that We pass this decree.“

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

and brightest night

She won't be heard coming, with licks cleans herself, is curious, cunning, and likes a high shelf. She climbs in the treetops, has no fear of height, can see well in darkest day and brightest night. Her hearing's exquisite, her sense of smell too, she'll play with the laces that hang from a shoe, she is always watching and can simply vanish as if she'd been from this our universe banished. We honor her coming by petting her fur, by pulling out insects and prickers and burrs, we cherish our Goddess whose love transcends caste, come join us and celebrate slender Oumbast.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

the goddesses ten

Now here is a list of the Goddesses Ten, who help and assist many women and men. It starts with Amahamor love-filled and pretty who works in most every hamlet and city. Then cometh a long-time and bold favorite, the captor-escaping, lovely Aprodit. Dah'zhou is by alphabet the next in line; hers are those who make proper use of their time. There follows a goddess who laughs when we yawn – the maiden of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn. We'll throw roadways-goddess now into the mix, the ant-headed patroness, wise Ganestryx. Mu'untha she shines with the light of the moon, her rhythm and tugging sets our mortal tune. Nuuzstathena stands powerful, tall, there are few among us immune to her thrall. Oestre ushers in the first days of Spring, for female fertility is her main thing. Oumbast can be found in most bodies feline, she cleans herself often and purrs all the time. Majestic Steppe Mother, she's last but not least, her wards are growing things and wind-gusts and beasts. We've come to the end of our patroness list, it's not too extensive but provides some gist, they make a most beautiful, colorful blend, each one of our powerful Goddesses Ten.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

Ganestryx, ant goddess

Her body is human but here's a strange slant – her head's been replaced by the skull of an ant. Her mother she did it a long time ago, did knock off her head with a single swift blow, to prove to the daughter just who was the boss, then into hellfire the dome-piece did toss. Soon Ghali felt sorry to cause such cruel harm, did reach out with one of her thousands of arms, did pluck from an army of ants passing by the shapeliest carapace that she could spy. Then she placed said carapace on the bare stalk and told poor Ganestryx to stand up and walk, then breathed some life into her daughter's limp form whose heart started pumping whose flesh became warm. Ants are known as masters of roads and pathways; the moving of resources consumes their days; they undertake projects regardless of size; to protect each other they lay down their lives. Ganestryx she shelters and watches over vagabonds, travelers, all types of rovers, all persons who venture beyond hearth and home, who leave, bounce, skedaddle, who wander and roam. So next time when planning to head for the hills, to leave behind worries, possessions, and bills, remember to include in your prayer mix a plea to our patroness, fair Ganestryx.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

Ұ•Ψ¤_ƗƆïºɅȯɅºïCƗ_¤Ψ•Ұ

the waves were way massive; they churned, broke, and sped; through all of the chaos though no one got dead

two great lands

We're over-excited hereby to proclaim a new research project, a bright knowledge-flame. It is a joint venture between two great lands, both ready and willing to meet the demands that pure, honest science requires and needs to bring forth hard data and satisfy creeds. Within the next fortnight our rocket will fly from a floating platform up into the sky, the waters are managed by Indonesia, that fine, willing partner to Grigovia. The vessel is not manned but steered by remote, its systems will analyze tiny space-motes for traces of metals (titanium, gold), soon space and its riches will be ours to hold. We're planning on mining the asteroid field – who knows what vast treasures its members might yield? – this daring endeavor we'll do by robot as we sit here watching from couch, chair, and cot. The robots are programmed to set up a base for meeting and gathering in near-Earth space all of the materials, fragments, and chunks that will be poured over by our science-monks. For more information log onto our site; tune into our broadcast that runs day and night; rejoice with us as we soar into the skies where what might await us remains a surprise.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

in camouflaged boots

Our Self Defense Forces are taking recruits, come march with them proudly in camouflaged boots. They don't stand on outward appearances much but value persons who work well in a clutch, who use their resources with daring and grace, who are not afraid to smear mud onto face. Their weapons are rifle and garrote and knife, they do not seek war but are ready for strife, they hack and they hamper, disrupt and confuse, there are but few tools they're not willing to use. They thwart Rus and Ynki, our two greatest foes, they harass and badger and bloody the nose of any imperial superpower before which most other nations shake and cower. Enlistment is open so please stop on by; Huzzah For Grigovia will be your cry; now onwards, dear comrades, once more to the breach, we've many more lessons these tyrants to teach.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

a crawling fright

I do love the tunnels when it's late at night – they fill me with shudders and a crawling fright. There's no way of knowing just what is the time down deep in the caverns were hewn from the lime. Vast numbers of spiders and rodents abound, way down in the regions so far underground, but also a ghost and a spirit or two appears from the darkness without much ado. Please come with me next chance I get to descend and hold my hand as we our way through there wend, adventure is calling and more than one scare, accept this bold challenge and join in this dare.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

such damnable stuff

The maiden of massive and circular girth was certain that she had been cursed upon birth. Uungla Olenda was her simple name, she found in it reasons for anger and shame. Then early one morning she had had enough of sadness and other such damnable stuff, threw off her bed-covers and flicked on the light, said: I have the power to make myself right. With one simple sentence Happiness began, to love herself fully was her new life's plan, she stood up and dressed in her favorite things – a dress made of silk and some pink fairy's wings – then sallied out into the wide world around, delighted that she had her confidence found. She shared her new wisdom with people who'd ask, and sternly refused to hide behind the mask that she had once chosen when just a young pup, with nine simple words did she lift herself up.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

fortune and love

The girls place their presents on rock or stone chairs in hopes that a Goddess should come to roost there. The maidens they do this perhaps twice a day, much like in the time-tested Balinese way, but men also perform this fine holy rite when women are bleeding both daytime and night. Lit incense now rises upon a light breeze, to dance in the rafters and lick at the eaves, with luck it will reach vast Grigung high above and bring down upon us good fortune and love. These shrines grace the portals to house and abode, their backs mostly facing the Great Divine Node where many a Patroness goes back to rest as soon as the sun falls to sleep in the West. So long as the rituals keep happening Grigovian people will find cause to sing, if they are not followed though bad things occur, this is not a guess – of these things we are sure. Huzzah for the majesty of the Goddesses for they do forgive us our faults and trespasses, both now and forever we shout out in praise and marvel at their most harmonious ways.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

under the hoofs

Great salvos impacted on turret and gate, each one a reminder of perilous fate. We were few in number, who had stood our ground, who in Nuuzstathena much courage had found; through hell and high water she'd been at our side while peoples around us had crumbled and died, crushed under the hoofs of the Mungul invaders or sold out by cowards and dastardly traitors. Pushed back to our fortresses in the Yiptlong we'd watched as our enemies jumbled and thronged and pulled down our temples and destroyed our homes and defiled most everything that we'd known. With food supplies shrinking and hope running low there came a most sudden and Summertime snow that covered our mountains and enemies too, who watched as their fingers turned dark shades of blue, then watched as their digits went black and fell off and consumed their horses or ate from their troughs. The Goddess appeared at one morning's first light and spoke to us, saying, Don't give up the fight but fall on your enemies during this night dressed up as crazed demons awaken their fright. The Munguls were weakened by cold and disease, they broke with a sickly and half-hearted ease, we drove them straight down to our great river's banks where we took a moment to give sincere thanks. With swords in our clutches and light in the sky we stood up and sounded a great battle-cry, then rushed at the ranks of our once-mighty foes, destroying their spirit while they wept and froze. They begged us allow them to run from our lands, they stepped on their weapons and threw up their hands, we marched them immediately to our border with pride in our bosoms and fine marshal order. To honor the wisdom of 'Thena divine we built of some rockfall a victory shrine right there on the border at the very spot where Mungul invaders our people forgot. The shrine is still standing these many years on, we go once a year at the first light of dawn with handfuls of flowers and flagons of wine, we would love to see you there – join us next time.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

our many bees

We do love our many bees because they pollinate our trees and all our flowers – blooms and such – without them we would not have much. Endlessly they flit and wander, here and there and even yonder, spreading life and love around so that our plates with food abound. Bright they are in mood and color similar to but few others for they drink from mountain streams and built mud hives in rafter-beams. When they come to share our spaces we rejoice and thank the Graces, Nuuzstathena, and Thriae, goddesses of work and play. To help bees sow plants of your own deeply into the spongy loam, add some bone-meal and much water, teach your son, nephew, or daughter, that the bees are our allies and not just stinging things that fly. Pesticides and toxic poison leave alone – this things please shun – for they kill things large and small that benefit us, one and all. (Brought to you by Friends of Bees (Grigovia edition), help us save our tiny friends and join us in our mission.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

blessed steppe mother

Our own modest steppe-land is not like another – watched over, protected, by blessed Steppe Mother. She shelters all animals under her wing and cares for the smallest and biggest of things, for field-mouse and springbok and furry cave-bat, for lizard, mosquito, and tiny sand-cat. Her colors are azure and ocher and gold, of her glory is in old stories much told, she makes all the grasses and midget trees bloom with dazzling blossoms and miniature plumes. Her watch never wavers through daytime and night, her justice is brutal and sudden and Right, her worshipers leave very few lasting traces to prove that they've been to the offering places. Her voice can be heard in the strong piercing winds that blow away evil and erase our sins, that race down the Yiptlong so steep and so high, as soon as the summers begin to turn dry. So come seek her presence, it is always near, it makes the soul vibrate and brings men to tears while women and babies just laugh with delight quite devoid of sorrow and empty of fright.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

empty cocktail glasses

We people of these great Grigovian lands are here and now taking a heels-dug-in stand. The foe we are facing has lots of foul faces, it's practiced in private and in public places, it robs us of Happiness and makes us lazy, drives women to madness and men to be crazy. While most persons like it in bits at a time to quaff at some whiskey or lap up some wine there are many others who booze to excess then wake up to find that their life is a mess. We're offering workshops and after-dark classes to any who get lost in their cocktail glasses, who want to lead lives filled with love, joy, and calm, who would like to sample a different balm. The meetings are nightly, in towns near and far, no need to get fancy just come as you are, it is our intention to provide assistance to anyone seeking to go the full distance. Together we can beat this wasting disease that drives many people down onto their knees, when they just as well could be standing up tall with faces exhibiting ruddier palls.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

great holy Grigung

At three thousand one hundred forty two meters our most holy peak is this country's sun-greeter. Higher than all other mountains around great Grigung she rises straight out of the ground and stretches her summit up into the sky, the bright rays of morning she is first to spy. Sent down from her cloud-swept and snow-covered summit fall cool rushing waters with dashing swift plummet that nourish our rivers and fill up our streams, to climb her is every Grigovian's dream. Much like to Mount Fuji or Gunung Agung are the countless praises that we've to her sung, she ignites our passions and lifts up our hopes with craggy defiles and perilous slopes. To us she is more than the House Of The Gods, her majesty strengthens us against the odds that greet us and meet us day in and day out, she helps us stay centered and drains us of doubt. Her outline it graces our largest bank-note, we're often heard with her sweet name in our throats, beloved by natives and people far-flung is our dearest mountain – great holy Grigung.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

goat-flesh and cactus

We few humble people of the northern Iysh would like to share with you a regional dish. It's composed of goat-flesh and tender cactus that live in the Dune Sea not too far from us. The meat is first simmered three days on a fire of wood that is brought down from regions much higher, from up in the foothills of the Yiptlong steep where grow many forests and perhaps some sheep. We toss in the cactus at the very end, then add to the mixture a strong herbal blend of wheat-grass and parsley and fennel and clover, pull pots from the fire and let them sit, covered. These pots are then buried for nearly ten days, to keep them from rusting we make sure they're glazed, we dig them and lift them with care from the soil whereupon we enjoy the fruits of our toil. The meat is quite tender and bound in a jelly that leaks from the cactus and slicks to the belly, the herbs lend a flavor not sour or sweet that makes the concoction quite nearly complete. Some factions then bake on a sourdough crust but most of us reach for utensils and just dole out the admixture to earthenware plates and eat it until hunger-pangs do abate. If you'd like to try it then now is the time, we've brewed many barrels of sweet honey-wine, to share with our neighbors and all our friends too, leave tonight, act swiftly – we're waiting for you.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

battle and travel

When once came a rajah to us from the East we soon lay before him a welcoming feast. There were but few followers left in his train whose garments did not bear the horrible stains of battle and travel and many weeks spent asleep in the open with nary a tent. They'd fled from the Munguls come down from the plains, as our friendly rajah with patience explained, left all their belongings as booty and plunder and vanished while all that they'd known burst asunder. They wanted to pay for the things they'd ingested – we refused and refused but they just insisted – it was not their money or jewels we wanted but all of the knowledge their brain-pans yet haunted. With learning the wisest among them were brimming, in wisdom and genius we all soon were swimming, to honor common generosity we all got together and planted a tree. That plant is still growing in Queen Pylta's Park, it shelters both scholar and brightly-plumed lark, it's kept getting bigger these two-hundred years, since we fed the rajah with lamb-chops and beers. We still welcome people from far Hindoostan, there are exchange programs for woman and man, so sign up to take part in one of your own or just fill a backpack and start off alone. There is room for all sorts and types in our land, to learn about graphics and mammary glands, about astrophysics and effluvia, with welcome all persons to Grigovia.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

before it began

Our ancestors stuck like a thorn in the side of many empires that lined up and tried to make us and force us to work as their slaves, to give up our freedoms and die in their graves. It started with puny Iksander the Great, who showed up one morning but didn't stay late, who called off his action before it began, who witness our magnitude, turned tail, and ran. Then came many Persians, Xerxes and Mehmed, who likewise when seeing their mountains of dead, decided that our dear small patch of earth was not for their taking and had little worth. The Byzantines themselves did not even dare, to venture to within a day of our borders but wisely retreated behind stone and mortar while making great claims about not being scared. Of Ottoman cavalry there was once rumor but that threat we excised like doctors a tumor and sent all those horsemen back home on their feet to tell to their master brave tales of defeat. The British and Russians we also made flee with fear in their livers and blood in their pee, to highness and leader, to lordship and czar, they made heartfelt warnings from us to keep far. Now these days we stand tall and do what we can to protect our country from Americans who violate all of the standards and norms that meet the world's children the day they are born. We've measured the bloodthirstiness of our foe, from this our own soil we shall not soon go, these threats to our sovereignty we too shall meet with steadfast devotion and methods discreet.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on the profleshional

Immune to the lure of a priestly confessional she is the consummate, hardy profleshional. Taken to earning some bread on her back hers is a prodigious but plasticized rack. She takes local currency, euros, and dollars, she's loads of addicted and regular followers paying to bed her both daytime and night, like moths they are drawn to her subtle, red light. Starting mostly likely before time began her ilk has provided much pleasure to man, to soldiers and sultans, to peons and kings, she fancies much makeup and big hoop earrings. Known to cop, student, accountant, and sailor she conveys much pleasure to people who nail her, just make sure to wrap up that jimmy for sure before you're expose to her heady allure. To find her hit Bangkok or fair Amsterdam, don't go there with girlfriend of long-term madame, if there is one lesson this poem should teach, it is not to ever bring sand to the beach.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

through selfless devotion

The girl caught a fever while tending to sheep and falling high up in the meadows asleep. Through selfless devotion to each in her flock she'd built up a vast and deep love-karma stock so much so her actions the Goddess did please who saved her from death during a sudden freeze. The maiden awoke to spy frost on the ground where hours before only flowers she'd found and straddled above her with short-sword unsheathed was vast Nuuzstathena stood there on the heath. A wolf was approaching, his nose in the dirt, he looked up and glanced at the bight flashing skirt that girdled the loins of our Patroness fair whose green eyes were flashing amidst her dark hair. The beast turned and vanished with palpable hurry, his footfalls churned frozen mud into a slurry, the flock then came shivering back to her side as Nuuzstathena for the young girl cried. The tears of the Goddess rained down from on high – 'twas nary a thundercloud seen in the sky – they landed and mingled in eye, mouth, and nose of that blessed child who lay there and froze. The magical fluid soon entered her system and filled her with fortitude, honor, and wisdom, while deep in her body the blood it did boil with such intense heat that it softened hard soil. Now during this time of great bodily danger the maiden thought mostly of getting to manger the weakest and lowliest sheep in her care, about her own peril was barely aware. To teach her the Goddess then filled her with visions of methods for healing deep social divisions, for bringing together such humans as might prefer to be angry and constantly fight. Her missions accomplished the Goddess then sped and left Erya Rovend asleep on a bed of bright and green heather in a sea of frost, the young girl who'd gained much at so little cost. To see her just stop by New York's own U.N., where she stands to battle tyrannical men, and fills our Grigovian hearts with such pride, young Erya upon whom the Goddess once cried.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on archipedoptosaur ulricherii

It lived many millions of winters ago and has lain a few years just under the snow. It was first discovered by two Yaelong boys who kept mostly quiet despite profound joy; they'd spoken but briefly with a village elder who had built around it a permanent shelter. Named archipedoptosaur ulricherii, this small, flightless dinosaur lived below trees and built complex shelters with only its feet, Ulrich was the first boy its fragments to meet. What was once obscured has become a sensation, it's bringing much glory to our land-locked nation, now experts and researchers flock here in droves, enjoying Grigovia's vast treasure troves. We've fossils and artwork, food, dance, and song too, we are never bored as there's so much to do, if upon this reading your interest is piqued then come to Grigovia, stay here for weeks.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

tea for centuries

Please meet us out under the bainnoyendt tree – you're welcome to join our tea ceremony. We've known tea for centuries as the Silk Road did venture to pass by our humble abodes, we steep and we brew it, we treat it like gold, we maintain traditions preserved by our old and sage-like grandparents who live with us still, we'll never allow them old-folks-homes to fill. First comes some tea tasting, that is how we start, then follow fine pastries and dried figs and tarts, whereupon we fill all the teacups again and toast to the majestic Goddesses Ten. Try any and all of the wonderful flavors from spicy to earthy to ones that are savory, ones that make sleepy and those that are bland, ones that enliven the lymphatic glands. Some teas are quite bitter and others are strong, they keep up the drinker all day and night long, they're used by ship-captains and people on watch, they gain with time flavor, like any good scotch. So come when you're ready to sit back and chill, we've many more cups atop saucers to fill, this is one decision you won't soon regret, hold onto your ponies – you've seen nothing yet.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

all ancient rows

The walls of the temple do resound and glow with each of the old songs of power we know. We're calling to all of the Goddesses Ten and asking them kindly to heal and to mend the schisms that plaque us and cause us to weep, that rob us of honor and long, blessed sleep. Their teachings provoke us to let go of grudges, to forgive all errors and missteps and fudges, to stay in the present, the here and the now, to clear from our memories all ancient rows. With them we can manage to keep our thoughts righteous, to speak only kind things to those who might fight us, to maintain our truthfulness and not to waver when tempted with rich and delectable flavors. Our bodies are made but for a short-term stay, our spirits just renting this weak, mortal clay, that's composed of star-dust and suns long burnt out, that's given to sicknesses – cancer and gout. In truth we're eternal, we shan't know an end, so lay down your arms and come hug us, dear friends, and share with us a peaceful moment or four, and praise with us patroness – matron or whore.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

hollow and brook

The deserts are fertile, the mountains are green, the rivers are rushing – with fishes they teem. The steppe-land is verdant, the marshes abound with leaves in the treetops and vines on the ground. In every valley and crevasse and nook, in snowbank and furrow and hollow and brook, are coming alive many manners of thing, from plants with root networks to insects with wings. It is not our duty to ask who or when did populate meadow and rock-face and glen, with vibrant and incessant diversity, it's ours but to praise all these things that we see, and some of them that from the eyes often hide, occluded by greediness, sadness, and pride. So up with the voices and let the tones ring, it's not so much what but how often one sings, with voices uplifted and honest and bright, alive with the Spirit both daytime and night.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on paver panels

As part of its efforts to be independent the powers that govern Grigovia splendidly OK'd a program to repave most roads with panels that carry electrical loads. These panels can capture the rays from the sun, convert them to power for everyone, they heat up in winter to keep the roads clear, allowing us safely upon them to steer. In summertime when the sun's rays are most full, and panels experience maximum pull, they shuttle on wires the juice they have won, to run our refridges and fans and air-cons. In shape they are that of a full hexagon, they're coated with substances, a special blend, that keeps them intact and allows them to mend, such cracks, dents, and fissures that mar them with time, there's little can foul them but harsh, caustic lime. For more information and to take a peek, peruse these here documents that have been leaked, then watch as your electric bills fall and plummet and sound aloud praises from the highest summit.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on finding trash

While expanding Grig's subterranean mass transit system, the Rapid Person Transport or RPT, workers recently discovered the remains of an ancient settlement near the banks of the Yalung river. “In just the last few days we have found a trash pit, a burial grounds, a ceremonial or religious center, and signs of possible human sacrifice,” said Dr. Eidyon Prunggan, director of research for the Grigovian National Museum. “Preliminary evidence suggests this site is from the period of Grig's second period of growth into the areas surrounding the river, which occurred around 220 Common Error.” Instead of completely rerouting the path of the metro in order to avoid the site, the IV Engineering Battalion of the Grigovian National Defense Force, which designed and is spearheading work on the expansion, has announced plans to add a museum to a nearby underground station, with the intention of house there the discovered artifacts and reconstructed architectural remains.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

the Yiptlong blooms

Summer is arriving, please come when you can, great wonders wait for you in glen and mountain. Where in snowy seasons people slide and ski are now blooming meadows, a green landlocked sea, it's ideal for trekking and all things outdoor, for biking and climbing and oh so much more. There's waterfalls, caving, and hang-gliding too, the whole Yiptlong massif stands open to you, the lodgings are many and don't cost a lot, the locals are friendly and share what they've got. It's legal to set up one's camp anywhere, to dally awhile without fret or care, upon the low grasslands or on the high steppe, on sun-blasted rock face and places wind-swept. Each roadway runs parallel to a footpath, where mounts and bike riders pedestrians pass, upon which not one motor-vehicle goes, to these swift contraptions the footpath is closed. Our spires, escarpments, and lake country too, will give any visitor enough to do, Grigovia gladly extends her welcome, to all and to many, to everyone.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

mass of gray

Caught up in the middle of outside confusion the man settled on just one single conclusion: that it was his duty to well harmonize the mass of gray tissue stuck behind his eyes. He was not sure whether to take or start fighting the hurled accusations constantly alighting upon his own psyche where they'd never to stick, where they'd never make his emotions get sick. He lifted his eye-sockets up the Goddesses, filled his soul with their love and smelled their tresses then steeled himself forthwith for unending battle – at least till the day when he'd sound his death-rattle. Long was his Happiness, deep his devotion, to spirit and ancestor, Mother and ocean, to Truthfulness and to what he saw as Right, with these things he struggled, though, daytime and night. In time he lost surety and most conviction while making improvements in posture and diction, on some of his words those around him did choke, while laughing straight at him and not at his jokes. This, then, was his destiny, purpose, and lot, to sit alone, silent, unblinking, and not to let the distractions of mortal existence assist in or dampen his steady persistence in search of elusive and shadowy clues that lead to the great and unknowable Wu.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

nothing to lose

Oh Goddesses help me to clear out this dross, to mourn for my vast gentle innocence lost, to forgive those people who harm and abuse, to know that I've truly got nothing to lose. I now count my blessings, and cherish my health, I'm learning to be kind to and love myself, for that is the purpose of life, I have found, all that one must learn prior to bedding down, in a piney box six feet deep underground. Please carry me, Ladies, along this my path, and stay for the moment Fate's powerful wrath, for I am your servant, your ward, and your son, a dastardly fool if there ever was one. Huzzah.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

portals that point

A feast-day is coming to honor the goddess who keeps our hearts healthy who constantly blesses the whims and the actions of all of us mortals as we made decisions and venture through portals that point us toward riches or into harm's way – her touch is far-reaching, this much we can say. Therefore in the last week of this month of June, shed all of your worries and concerns and gloom, pour out some libations and raise up a song, to that blessed goddess who knew all along, the errors and joys that we'd see on our way, all hail Nuuzstathena, who brightens each day.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on flying kites

Bright kites how they flutter, on wind draft and breeze, they rise to the heavens with visible ease. They serve many purposes, more than just show – they hamper and confound, they disrupt and slow all but those rank warplanes that fly really high, that fuck with our airspace and peer through the sky. The flying of kites started out as a game, it was once just child's play, merely a jest, but now that the Ynki's foul tyranny grows, this pure, simple hobby is serious business. Kites come in all colors, that make the rainbow, they help bring sweet blessings to us down below, for they are an avenue up to the gods, to help hapless mortals who stumble and plod. Join a kite flying club, or found one new, to raise a bright kite is the cool thing to do, you'll defend the nation and coddle the powers that shelter us humans through all of our hours. This is our tradition here in well-planned Grig, hoist aloft a flying-thing, not small but big, and watch as your fortunes and Happiness grow, so long as the earth it turns and the winds blow.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on burning sandals

This footwear's infected, it burns my dermis, I suffer its damaging, poisonous kiss. It's just on the right side, the left foot is fine, at one point I'd stepped on a shiny-leaved vine, or brushed up against a patch of poison oak, that promptly with oils my sandal did soak. I have tried to wash them, with liquid and bar, the next step I think will be clear vinegar, to cancel the compounds that ravage my skin, but if that too fails they'll go into the bin. It is just not worth it, to suffer and cope, to wash and to scrub them with vigor and soap, to try and eradicate chemical traces that lurk in the foam and hide under the laces. Last night I moved into a seedy hotel, these sandals they irritate and itch like hell, the dollars I spent renting a door that closes I could well have used to buy new shoes and clothes. That is in the past though, I have no regrets, I've learned not to hanker or worry or fret, therefore I will change out these horrible shoes, and cease with my endless and woebegone blues.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on crafting temples

There's not much more to it, I daresay I've found, than sticking a bit of wood into the ground, or erecting monoliths, small though they be, or hanging some rolled-up twigs onto a tree. Grigovian goddesses take what they can, knowing that all the best efforts of man do sometimes fall short of the outcomes intended, for they only care that the homefront's defended. The goddesses fancy not churches or pageants, priests droning on and on chasing down tangents, sycophants, hangers-on, gem-stones or gold, groups of new converts or ones getting old. All our fair maidens, the Goddesses Ten, who shelter the lowly and brighten our ken, are simple to pray to and easy to please, preferring us standing to down on our knees. It is hard to battle and drive away foes, when wearing too fancy or delicate clothes, so leave off with fashion and don something that you don't care gets torn, ripped, or covered with scat. To please them be watchful, and ready to act, against us the odds will most surely be stacked, so open those peepers and keep your hand steady while praising their greatness, always at the ready.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on abounding goddesses

Grigovian goddesses, everywhere, in meadows and treetops and under the stairs, so many that even the priests can't keep track, fair beauties who make up for what humans lack. They simply keep coming, and showing up new, which leaves us poor mortals but one thing to do: accept them and puzzle out some of their ways, then set aside for them their own holidays, then keep up with sacrifice, prayers, and chants, while wearing our jackets and cravats and pants. We preen and we dress up, we wear well-made threads, lest goat tractor sibling should one day fall dead, struck down by a goddess, her confidence flawed, whom we'd never worshiped, who'd not left us awed. We labor to please them, we do all we can, we hang fragrant garlands and strike up the band, we hope though that one day there may be enough, that we might get back to our business and stuff. We love them regardless, we're glad that they're here, the new ones and those that have blessed us for years, we'll lift to the heavens vociferous praise, until our last moments, the end of our days.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on making progress

The foodstuff is rotten, the hull springs more leaks, we've been at this voyage for too many weeks. Our compass was shattered, there's no land in sight, the stars help us navigate during the night, in daytime we mostly just jostle about, afflicted by scurvy, Bell's palsy, and gout. We pray for salvation and women in dresses, all made up and perfumed with dangling tresses; the ropes are all fouled and the rudder's a mess, at least though we're making some decent progress. If you find this message then please do send help, the last land we sighted was St. Maarten's Isle, from there to the west we've been drifting a while, at least for a fortnight plus one or two days, through downpour and cloud-bank, through strong winds and haze, we're all sick of staring at waves and sea-foam, and desperate to find a safe way back home.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on Amahamor

Hear now of the splendid goddess, she who heals those deep love-wounds, she who cares for saddened brides and likewise for heart-broken grooms. Hers are many charges, she works day and night, to mend and to bandage, to put things back right, to help lovelorn people find solace and pride, to get them back on their feet, looking alive. Find comfort in knowing that things aren't so bad, that you are worth loving (not hopelessly sad), that love comes to all of us, wealthy or poor, that one of its victors is Amahamor. So light her a candle and send up a prayer, and ask that Amahamor always be there, to lift and to shelter you from high above, while you play the treacherous game we call love.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

grigs own aprodit

There is an old story, I know just a bit, about an old goddess, Grig's own Aprodit. Brought up in a valley immune to stray gazing she'd learned about friendship and animal grazing from an older shepherd-girl who stealthily could run across rockfall and swiftly climb trees. (This older companion could easily be, her shape-shifting highness, the fair Athene.) While seeking a lamb-chop swept off in a gale, our young Aprodit left her protective vale, got waylaid by wood-fellers, knotted and roped, abused with foul language and sat on and groped. 'Enough,' she said calmly, 'release me anon.' Her captors they jeered though, made laughter, and fun. She gave no more warnings, she'd treated them fair, she summoned her courage and focused her glare, then with a quick gesture she cut through her ropes while grasping a tiny blade found in her coats, then leaped up and threw off her mantles and norms, revealing to mankind her beautiful forms. So awestruck and smitten were all the men there, that past and amongst them she moved without care. Taking in her new-found station she uttered a proclamation: 'There you tremble, little shits, amazed and awed at Aprodit, she whom you tried to rape and torture, kill and maim, feed to the vultures, who now stands before you strong, cursing you to love her form while night is long and days are warm – know no love from any other, not from sister, friend, or mother.' Cursed they were the foolish fellers to short lives consumed by fits, lost in amour, pining always, for radiant Aprodit.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

consider now Dah'zhou

Consider now Dah'zhou, who tends to the fate, of persons who snooze a lot and sleep in late. Her role is not major, she mostly stays in, for we in Grigovia find it a sin, to lounge and to slumber, to waste away days, to wake up hung-over, all curdled and dazed. Her culture is friendly, as is her one rite (perform it alone, just before bed, at night): clean up your area, tidy the room, then set aside cellphone and worry and broom, and take a few moments to calm yourself down, and start breathing deeply from anus to crown. While breathing and sitting then think of your day, of all of the labor and comfort and play, be thankful and grateful and say then aloud, with countenance lifted and voice strong and proud: 'Today is now over, tomorrow awaits, I'll spend it quite happily manning the gates, defending the homeland and neighbor alike, from mountain to valley, from rooftop to dike, or painting a picture, or writing a song, please help me, oh Dah'zhou, to wake up 'ere long, to welcome her majesty, rose-fingered Dawn, to spring to my labors and never complain, until to my slumbers I return again.”

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on Kloacarla

Kloacarla was her own name, no one knows from where she came, just that she fouled a public pool with yellow squirts and solid stool. Many days have not gone by, since Kloacarla – neither shy nor slow to act – had emptied out her nether tract into a peasant's pleasant hut, with silent moans and door wide shut. Should she wander back again, to shit on us, our town and friends, we'll ambush her from hidden boat and strangle her in foetid moat.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

head held high

It is often that I find that happiness springs from the mind, that slowing down and breathing twice can transport me to paradise; that then I'm filled with oxygen – which buoys hopes and uplifts men – to live in peace then I'm allowed, with head held high and straight and proud, without much need or carnal yearning, abandoning theretofore learning.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

ours is hope

Greetings on this frigid morning, welcome now these solar rays, ours is hope and happy thinking, ours is confidence today. Gone are all the fears that plagued us, they can reach us nevermore, gone as well is discontentment and such things that hurt and bore. May the goddess Nuuzstathena shelter you and yours and ours, basked in morning's golden fingers she calls forth the Springtime flowers as well as bees that hum and sting, keeping balance is her thing. Light tonight at sun's departure many flames – a candelabra – say a word and keep in mind, her highness, lovely Nuuzstathena.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on common goal

Come wander in ocher, come bask in our sol, come join in our culture and share in our goal. It is monumental, enormous, and vast, it is a confounding and difficult task, that we take upon us through daytime and night, that we see as worthwhile and proper and right. We want independence, from intrigue and stress, from envoys and spies coming from the US, from unions and currencies destined to fail, from outside influence and petty hate-mail. We could seal our borders, imprison dissenters, turn into tormentors of soul and body, instead we'll stay open, keep welcoming strangers, while sounding this heartfelt decree: Do now unto others as you'd t'yourself do, get rid of possession but pant shirt and shoe, keep breathing and reading and chew up your food, stay moving, speak kindly, be helpful not rude; a torment is coming, shelter it with us, we mind our own business and don't make much fuss, if though invaded we'll rise up in synch, much faster than even computers can think, and drive out the forces that cause us all harm – our midwives are lethal, our grandmothers armed, our people are ready to fight to the death, until of our foes there are but few shreds left. Huzzah.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

today in BKK

Soaring towers all around, my feet are weary of the ground that punished them all morning long, the tuktuk drivers – how they thronged – enticing me to take a ride while just today the PM cried when high court rulings sent her sprawling, these mean streets may yet see brawling. I know not the creed or god of any pro-regime death squad that roams about this sweaty place, that waves its flags and yellow kerchief, here the mood is thick with mischief. Roadside stands serve the best food although the seating can be crude, broken stools and shaky tables but the cooks are quick and able, serving up thick beef-broth stew that dribbles down and stains my shoe. Bright possessions dot my room, my heart is clear of dross and gloom, for I now learn to love myself, which trumps dollar, yen, bhat – all wealth. A German maiden helped me hope, encouraged me back up the slope which I had slipped and skidded down, soon vagabond reclaims the crown that he'd abandoned long ago, with ruddiness his cheeks now glow. In Lombok she rejected me, her friendship now is all I see, but that is something I will cherish until such time as I shall perish, liberate of life's blood, face-down in cold and frozen mud. There is a blister on my toe, my pace won't be slowed for I shall wander, taking stock, of this great city, olde Bangkok. Maddening, her headlong pace, who shelters millions in her bosom, what a fierce but gentle race that sprawls from Bearing west to Chit Lom.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on leaving Kuta

I hold fast till the last day, refusing kids who beg and pray and badger me both day and night to buy a bracelet – brown, black, white? Then comes Mary, eight years young, whose pitch is crass, incessant, fun, who won't believe I'll buy one soon, whose mushrooms, “Take you to the moon”. I give her less than she asks for, I claim that I am very poor, I take her small and flimsy thing, she says “OK, better than nothing”. We leave fair Kuta before nine, our engines haul and buck and whine and drag us through the darkened hills, we take much care and do not spill. A storm has slicked our moon-lit path – great burst of light, a booming wrath – but now the night is calm and cool, a taxi driver hits his brights, can't seem to pass us on the right, we slow way down, give up the fight, I curse and yell that he's a fool. Great mounds of dirt cover the lanes, force us to slow way down again, as if from nowhere they appear, with naught to warn that they are near. Then I spy a red barrow whose owner causes me much fright, who interrupts our steady flow, out in the street – no warning light. We get waylaid by crafty men; they sneak us past the ticket pen; they bribe police and harbor boss; ours is not sting or pang or loss, for they defraud their government to feed their kids and pay the rent. No berth awaits us once aboard, no slightly bowing deck steward, we settle down right on the deck, avoiding many sticky flecks. Bali greets us pleasantly when something drops down from a tree and hits me square upon the head; I don't complain for I'm not dead. We make good time and maintain speed, for hurry there is never need, a road-side cop tells us to slow, I speak his tongue – he lets us go. I climb in through the side window, where only weeds and gravel grow, I have no keys for the front door, we settle down upon the floor, sleep for one hour, then awake, as violent screams the walls do shake. There's spitting blood, hurled accusations, this has been a strange vacation, full of laughs but violence too, oh fair Indo – I love you.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on highest hopes

Nearly home but barely there my hopes are highest in the morning, when the thoughts of yesteryear descend on me without fair warning. Swiftly they transport me back to times when I thought myself great, hide from me the brutal truth of what I have become of late. Such is life and such is longing, for the things that cannot be, stay the hand and still the sadness, born anew each day is me, there's no fun in self-destruction or in hanging from a tree. Quick to laugh and swift to punish, is the goddess of the mind, she but asks that I abandon all the things I've left behind – all the moments, dreams, and fancies; all the want and broken trust; all the greatness, heartbreak, beauty; gluttony and complex scheming; petty hatred, wanton lust. Raise the spirit, send it soaring, to the gates that never close, sing about it, paint a picture, craft a poem, write some prose – this one life is swiftly fleeting toward things that cannot be grasped, I must learn to be here – present – to let go and not to clasp. Holding on can deepen worry, strangle life, and breastfeed Fear, I prefer to keep the moment, focused just on what is near. Here now ends this solemn poem, writ for me and me alone, now I sit with heart unshielded, contemplating rock and stone, studying each moment's breaking, deep in blood and nail and bone.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

in Kuta Lombok

I went to town to look around and took in many things: I saw one cow – don't ask me how – and one bird with brown wings. It sang a song both loud and strong to flee its cage it sought, wreathed in a cloud of burning trash – sad things mankind has wrought. The ride this morn was swift and fleet we slept perhaps three winks, in captain's berth we sampled mirth, the ferry did not sink. Now through this cabin we explored while sleep into our brain-pans bored, we looked in cubby; cranny; nook; as wave and sea the vessel shook. There was the book by Chairman Mao – his lesson, guide, and rule – three fancy shirts, a dead cockroach, some bits of foam, a toilet brush, the AC vented cool. Then through the hills and sopping fields our caravan did wander, in search of places rich in surf from here to there and yonder. We quarter in a spartan room, the basics they are present, my company is quick to laugh – indeed she is quite pleasant. The waters glint with plastic junk, so much it can't be counted; now off to rest, to try this bed, with consciousness dismounted.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

land of Thai

Now I've reached the land of Thai, ask myself – You came here why? – walking down an endless street, wondering just who I'll meet. Pingpong shows and midget strippers, I just got a pair of slippers, so my feet won't roast alive when temperatures reach 35. Women grab me, I say – No, drop my arm and let me go – muscles strain and tug and flex, I refuse to pay for sex. Ladyboys and topless dancers, I call out but no one answers, heart and mind they flee from me, racing back to fair Bali. Now I trod this sweltered turf, wishing I were in some surf, paddling to clear the crests, giving it my very best. Here is madness, here is pain, massive struggle, little gain, I must simply keep in mind, the one that I left behind, hope that she'll embrace me yet, godheads laughed the day we met. Now to have my muscles pounded, so that I'll be calm and grounded, when it's time to test my stock, which is always in Bangkok.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on breaking leashes

Leashes break and hearts are mended, cultures mix, language gets blended. Tides they rise and fall in rhythm, twixt our friendship is a schism, yet we make a fancy feast, dehydration is a beast. Batur rises from the mist, I drive fast when I am pissed, she is silent, gets the gist, drop her off – she won't be missed. Waves are ridden, whitewash deep, drags me down to endless sleep, I shall miss these Bali days, can't begin to count the ways, cherish every minute here, where the breaks are fast and near.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on puppies' screaming

Nighttime comes and puppies whimper, right outside – feet from my head – I give them some milk and water, begging them to go to bed. Morning breaks and I'm exhausted, many trips have crushed my mood, taking care of tiny doggies, tending to a mewling brood. I wax up my surfboards well, making sure my foot will stick, then it's off to Pantai Berawa, scratching though an oil-slick. South of us is naught but water, then the snowy Antarctic, mine are waves that build and tumble, filthy water makes me sick. Bali magic all around me, dogs abound but where's their shit? floating on a three-finned long-board, I just wait and watch and sit. Oh the lovely island women, they take care and treat me well, up the coastline I will travel always searching for the swell.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on going nowhere

Our driver arrives exactly 4 hours late, at 10 pm, after the Spanish couple had flaked on us. We regretfully inform the man that we must cancel our trip, and pay him 500,000 rupiah for one day's car rental even though we never set foot in the car. We are greatly disappointed with the Spanish, who were the whole reason we agreed to go on the trip, as we could have split the cost between 6 people instead of just 4. Our driver says he will shower and change and then send us text message so he can lead us down to Kuta for make party. As soon as he leaves, we realize he had left the front gate open and allowed our host's new puppy – Kaya – to escape into the night. Exhausted from waiting hour after hour in the heat, we comb the neighborhood on foot and moped, calling the dog's name and searching rice paddy, ditch, unlit homestead, and trash-heap. After a solid hour, the German next door pokes his head over the wall and says, “Are you looking for a dog?” What joy, what joy, the prodigal pup has returned! We call the driver, tell him we go make party after all, and follow him to a lush compound down the street, where we quaff drinks and make friends with local surfers, Putu and Awi and others. At 1 am, our convoy of 3 bikes heads south-east, taking back alleys and flying between ancient city walls, our scooters low on petrol, running on fumes. In Espresso Club, I sing backup vocals on Paradise City by Guns & Roses, elbow-to-elbow with the Singaporean headman. For an hour, a wasted-drunk New Guinean aboriginal man with long dreadlocks rakes his fingernails across my sunburned back, grabbing and pinching Martin's forearms so hard they start to bleed, screaming in our ears in his native and incomprehensible tongue. Security tells him to calm down twice but does not kick him out, even though Martin has already sworn at him in Czech and very nearly knocked his block off. The aboriginal realizes how angry he is making us, and so for a while he tries to appease us with gifts proffered from a small black hand, cigarettes and crumpled 2000 rupiah notes, warm beers and handshakes, scraps of trash and an empty packet of rolling papers. We finish eight rounds of Jungle Juice and then head for the local surfer hangout, meet girls, talk and dance with them, fall in love, meet different girls, and deal with the ensuing jealous confusions. The lights come on in the dance club and I realize with horror that I have dropped my keys. I turn to the first broom-wielding employee and ask him if he found a set; he pulls them out of his pocket. The other workers start chanting “100,000! 100,000!”; my friends join in, and I hand over my last big note, which I will regret later when the Malaysian professional ballroom dancer with braces on her teeth tracks me down on the street but won't ride back to Changgu with me, as she feels I am too drunk to drive. For what it's worth, I am a millionaire in Bali.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

---

I retreat to warmer climes will update this when there is time

on Early Spring

The days they grow longer, the evenings wane, and outside the winds now grow warmer again. We've just had the festival of Early Spring, at which we the hopeful did dance shout and sing, and frolic and wrestle and fall into heaps, and tear through a banquet then go off to sleep. Our numbers weren't many – attendance was low – we worshiped fair Oestre in spite of the snow, we bathed in the moonlight and sang out in verse, we shook off the cobwebs of our wintry curse. Now off to our regular lifetimes we go, with bright beaming smiles that aren't just for show, all merry of spirit and buoyed with love, feasting on manna that falls from above.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

Cїĥī×-ш.ĦƸǂƟ¤ȱ¤ƟǂƷĦ.ш-×īĤЇƆ

enamored of flavor he increased his heft, and after his serving there was nothing left

on the calfity

Trust in your ears and believe in your eyes, this fine hollow leg is made solely for spies. It works best with persons, who are one leg down, if not though our surgeons are the best around. The risk it is worth it, the rewards are vast: imagine not having to just use the ass to hide and to contraband things of import, through dim vacant harbor or bustling port. The mission is crucial, as is its success, our products get ratings like Super and Best, they won't warp or splinter – this we guarantee – so order your very own new calfity. Its shinbone is hollow, so slide in some files, then walk on it for a good half dozen miles, then stuff some more goodies where no one can see, a flexible and fillable cavity, located right there on the leg's backward half, where most homo sapiens paw at a calf. Come in for a fitting, please do it today, our supply of calfities dwindles away. Impress your enemies, confound your friends, make every moment a means to your ends, but know that we only take serious guys, not persons whose stories are founded in lies. We do not take credit, just cash hard and cold, gems and stones and of course metals like gold, we're allies and confidants in the spy game, Darkmaster Outfitters of Grig is our name.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on being ready

To be wise and watchful, to weather each storm, to keep bellies full and small fingertips warm, to stand up to chaos with confidence large, is the foremost yearning of persons in charge. They shop with us at one of our many spots, they buy hiking backpacks and flare-guns and pots, they heap up their shopping-carts until they're full, they come to us whose factories are local. We are The Suppliers, or Supp'lo for short, we fabricate items for hunting and sport, our things are long-lasting and good quality, they're made down the road and not over the sea. For all of our products are made here at home, they're cut from our forests and raised in our loam, and mined in our mountains and cured in our air, we're insured and bonded and pay wages fair, so don't get goods made in far Nigeria, or rely on gas shipments from New Russia, but come view our line of goods, then shout Huzzah!, and support our bountiful Grigovia.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

whore-o'-scope

Some men grasp and tickle, others paw and grope, the sly ones however use a whore-o'-scope. They boot up their laptop, they go lock their door, they massage the hollow tube under their core, they squeeze and they fondle it, until it's spent, they wonder aloud where the daylight has went. Some women prefer it, when men stroke alone, that way they don't have to endure lusty groans, or look upon mountains of moist manly meat, or pleasure boys only to watch them retreat. I download and stream it, I fill up hard-drives, it quickens my pulse and makes me feel alive, I wish to escape it, its contents forget, but nothing so far has been able to let me stand up and leave it for good far behind, through each waking moment it laps at my mind. What looks like The Answer is more like a slope, please help me get rid of this foul whore-o'-scope.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on stellar beauty

Behold ye the comely and paint-less visage, of our local beauty, the lovely Tahlahdg. She comes from a proud line of capable tarts, her sweat tastes like honey and she never farts, her timing's exquisite, her knowledge is great, her skin looks like parchment and she's rarely late. She's been groomed and fitted, her outfits are neat, her training has made her a person complete. Her eyes how they sparkle, and light up the night, she's not had a drink yet but finds this all right, her passions are oil paints, hacking, and cars, she's almost too perfect, as bright as the stars. We find her quite lovely, we know she'll excel, at all the activities she does so well, we'll fête her and make a big deal of her gifts, until a young stallion should conquer her rift.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on useful undies

Our garments are more than just stitching and thread, they obviate duty and hassle and dread, they cover the body, not too loose or tight, make water from urine nearly overnight. They don't absorb feces but feel free to pee, whenever the urge to should overcome thee, your fluids will enter a sandwiched-in pouch, that flexes whenever you bend walk or crouch, which uses osmosis and deep filtration, to produce fresh water from human urine. After 30 hours the filters are done, from foul wasted fluids clean moisture they've won, to access it peel back the outer leg-cuff, then flip up the nozzle and pour out the stuff, that keeps all things going, awake and alive, without which we humans cannot long survive. A blow-valve allows you to shoot out the junk, the oozing and noisome and yellowish gunk, the crap that your kidneys had pulled from the blood, which smells like a cow grabbed and drowned in a flood. We put all our garments, through rigorous tests, to make sure we ship out nothing but the best, our products are guaranteed top of the line, so wear them in orbit, surgery, and mine. Thanks for your attention, alas we must go, not off to the toilet but to the next show, good-bye now to gentleman, child, and lady, you're all free to wander and go have a pee. Adieu.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on thermal exchangers

Our thermal exchangers, pull power from soil, increasing net leisure, decreasing net toil. They work because temperatures deep underground, differ from those of the air all around, which causes trapped fluids to move out and in, which makes then a turbine built within to spin. This turbine's a motor, that rotates swiftly, it makes non-polluting electricity. We didn't invent it, but our type is grand – it powers communities across our land, it lights up our cities and hamlets and towns, its ease and efficiency are world-renown. Small ones are built into every new home, buried, forgotten, but never asleep, they recharge big batteries and mobile phones, they cool down our foodstuffs yet don't make a peep. To install them dig up a long and deep trench, then lay in some pipes of corrosion-less steel, adjust for the rate of drop, don't yet back-fill, go slowly and tighten each nut with a wrench. Now drop in a power-box to match your needs, and check every foot of pipe for cracks or bleeds, and check your connections – make sure they are sound – then bury the pipe six good feet underground. A portion stays outside, exposed to the air, built into a crawl-space or under the stairs, to feed precious energy into your wires, without fuel deliveries or noxious fires. Components are costly but tax-breaks abound, it's cheap now to make your own power from ground. So call up your regional government rep – to most this one seems to be the hardest step – then measure an area fifteen by three, an open space made clear of trees and debris, then sit back and watch as your system's installed, tasting of freedom and glad that you'd called.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

swift she sallied

Swift she sallied, sped, and dove, while we few from up above, watched her wrest and pull and heave, quick to save and slow to leave, one by one she dragged them clear, from the wreckage laying near. How they'd come to rest below, none of us will ever know, we just saw their fuel on fire, paused our journey to inquire, if our help they could well need, then with dash and brash and speed, Nuuzstathena did her deed, suddenly she was just there as if she'd sprung out of the air. Each and all she moved away, from the shadows into day; from the long and blessed slumber back to lives of hope and wonder; from a burning, metal grave those forsaken souls she saved. With a light and healing hand, she with joy and love began, to mend the wounds that were sustained, fixing bone and soothing pain, soon the rescue was complete, then she vanished fast and neat, once again into thin air, praise her graceful, golden hair, and the wings upon her feet.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on laden grasses

In certain conditions, when snows fall just right, the high wind-swept valleys they suffer a plight, a curse and a blessing, a confluence grand, attracting sight-seers from far and near lands. After a good helping, of light but steady flakes, so thick and dark and insular that bamboo bends and breaks, we venture out and pierce the veil, the surface tightly sealed, with snow and stalk and biting leaves, throughout with ice congealed. The shield reveals, a gate well hid, into the inner hall, we enter quick, our voices hushed, our footfalls too – come one by one not two by two – be still, don't rush, the footing's slick, in this bamboo cathedral.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on brave Yuzsillet

He fought off the Muskov, in 1805, he is the main reason our nation's alive. With musket and hand-ax, with daring and brash, he drove away evil and saved our fair Grig, in many small actions and one final clash; we honor him with the fleet Yuzsillet jig. He poured out his lifeblood, defending the pass, that runs through the mountains, which range tall and vast, which make up the backbone of all that we know, to which we for pleasure and resources go. This hero now celebrate, cherish, and fête, that fine local warrior, brave Yuzsillet.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on curable wants

Our doors they stay open, through hail wind and dust, we offer the services that addicts trust. To help cure addictions we delve to the root, we use lots of talking and leave nothing moot, we guide our lost siblings straight back to the light, we do it with love and not insult or slight. We serve up home cooking, we grow our own food, which we use to regulate temper and mood, there's no refined sugar, no soda or junk – these injure the body and therefore are bunk. For persons who wonder if they can get well, if they might escape their own personal hell, we tell them – Come yonder and stay for a while, we'll help you to turn that frown into a smile, to enjoy your life again in every way, to do it not next week but starting today. Huzzah.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on mighty Oumbast

Her whiskers now etch at now taste from the soul, her power is mighty and does not grow old. She works from the shadows, she shies from the light, her lives they are many, her footfall is slight. Her texture is moonlight and nightfall and dusk, she smells like rose petals tinged slightly with musk. Her fans they are legion, her cult it still grows, her temples get fashioned from palm leaves and snows. She loves to be petted, and to be picked up, come bask in her glory and drink from her cup. Although she is patient there's no time to lose, so cease with your slumber and strap on some shoes, so come to our party – we promise a blast – rejoice as we celebrate Lady Oumbast.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥