A group of four American tourists (of mostly European descent) found taunting and attempting to urinate on a monument to Grigovia’s resistance to Nazism during the 1940s has been apprehended by elderly bystanders. The four had attempted to desecrate the ‘Heroes of Anti-Fascism’ stela in downtown Pryaghdoyest after consuming many liters of local beer at a nearby publick house. According to eyewitnesses they then stumbled out into the streets chanting ‘USA’ and uttering scatological utterances and derogatory terms for African-Americans. While singing a poor rendition of the Horst-Wessel song, half of the men raised their hands in a fascist salute while the others prepared to void their bowels.
A pair of former librarians came across the group as it was trying to mount the monument. Two of the men had dropped their pants, crudely exposing their genitals, at which point the retired women overwhelmed them physically then kept them subdued until police arrived. The men have been charged with attempted desecration of a nationally recognized memorial as well as Nazi sympathizing, the latter being a serious crime that carries the death sentence.
The men’s trial by jury has been set for two weeks hence.
“Given recent events in America’s southern state of Virginia, we believe that these men should not be sent home but punished to the full extend of our laws,” said Dr. Tharr Hannesst, state’s attorney for the southern district of Grigovia. “Given their violent public behavior as well as the files and reading materials we found in their hotel rooms and laptops, these men appear to be neo-Nazis. We learned in the past that Nazis, be they old or new, cannot be reasoned with - they must be destroyed.” Similar cases indicate that the Americans’ execution will commence by drowning.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
americanifesto.com | updated Tuesday, Thursday, Sunday
18 August 2017
16 August 2017
haiku 15 August 2017
Houses of cardstock
Collapsing in unison.
Why this suffering?
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
Collapsing in unison.
Why this suffering?
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
14 August 2017
foreigners gain liberty
In what some are calling a dire blow to America’s cultural heritage, the White House today approved a controversial deal to sell the property known as Independence National Historical Park to a consortium owned in part by investors from Saudi Arabia and Macau. “We’re excited to maximize the profit potential of our new investment,” said Ibn Faik alMaz’zoud, spokesperson for the consortium, speaking from the steps of the former government property, in downtown Philadelphia. “Entrance fees to the site will rise in accordance with increased security and a shared desire to keep out all but the best and most economically-viable visitors.”
Other historical sites up for sale are the Gettysburg battlefield in central Pennsylvania, George Washington’s birthplace in Virginia, as well as Battery Park in New York City. Various monuments in country’s western states are being considered for increased ore and mineral extraction, to the delight of lobbying groups and mining companies hungry to profit from the sale of soil-bound resources, which since the nation’s inception have belonged to all Americans, equally.
“We can’t have this stuff just sitting around costing America money,” said a White House staffer speaking (leaking) on condition of anonymity. “The more we can shift upkeep, tour guiding, maintenance, hauling, and extraction tasks to corporations - foreign or domestic, it’s all the same - the more cash America will have on hand to do things like launch cruise missile strikes on Syrian villages and give tax breaks to wealthy citizens.”
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
Other historical sites up for sale are the Gettysburg battlefield in central Pennsylvania, George Washington’s birthplace in Virginia, as well as Battery Park in New York City. Various monuments in country’s western states are being considered for increased ore and mineral extraction, to the delight of lobbying groups and mining companies hungry to profit from the sale of soil-bound resources, which since the nation’s inception have belonged to all Americans, equally.
“We can’t have this stuff just sitting around costing America money,” said a White House staffer speaking (leaking) on condition of anonymity. “The more we can shift upkeep, tour guiding, maintenance, hauling, and extraction tasks to corporations - foreign or domestic, it’s all the same - the more cash America will have on hand to do things like launch cruise missile strikes on Syrian villages and give tax breaks to wealthy citizens.”
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
11 August 2017
Child Pioneers adulthood ritual
As planned beforehand, the ritual lasted into the early morning hours. The Grigovian Child Pioneers being rotated periodically out of the Circle of Judgement so as to be allowed to catch their breath noticed fewer and fewer lights shining in the shimmering cities dotting the valley below. While in the circle, they carried heavy weights and tried to dodge thick ropes dangling from wooden structures overhead that were being swung at them by their instructors. The day before, they had been on the move for nearly the entire period of daylight, stopping only for a short lunch during the hottest part of the day. The day before that, they had learned skills of archery, knife-fighting, and some hand-to-hand grappling and striking moves.
Before they knew it, the hands of the clock had passed two after midnight, at which moment they were ordered to get in line and shut their eyes. Instructors then tied blindfolds to their faces before leading each young person, one by one, into a large tent erected nearby. Once all of them were seated on blankets inside, the instructors started banging on drums and chanting in an ancient Grigovian tongue while one of them, dressed all in black with a frightening mask tied to his head, walked around growling at the children and yelling at them to sit up straight.
Adulthood rituals are no laughing matter, and the organizers of Grigovian Child Pioneer Company 2.2 (W), Pyltagrad City / Village of Border Heights, knew their business. Properly preparing children - especially boys - for the rigors and expectations of adulthood was a task the nation had learned not to leave up to chance, or happenstance. After days of strenuous exercise and patient coaching from their leaders, the boys and girls were near the breaking point, physically and emotionally. Joining the Child Pioneers was not mandatory, but a majority of Grigovian parents encouraged their children to do it, mostly because the benefits far outweighed the possible drawbacks. Sure, some kids broke bones, occasionally, and almost all had to deal with scrapes and bruising, but these annoyances were a small price to pay for a lifelong sense of purpose, identity, and self-respect.
The drums fell silent, and the children were told to remove their blindfolds. In the corner, they saw the masked man lurking, his face illuminated by a handheld torch, which frightened them slightly. He laughed at first a cackle, which quickly became more human, and kind, whereupon he removed his mask and threw back the folds of the tent, bowing forward to usher the children outside. As they emerged, their leaders applauded them and handed each child a black bandana as well as a cup of hot herbal tea sweetened with local honey. After being informed that they had passed their tests and could now join (with their parent’s permission, of course) the ranks of the Teenage Pioneer divisions, the eleven and twelve year-olds limped off to their tents, where they were soon sleeping soundly.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
09 August 2017
ones not uniform
The forest was broad and wide, a nearly uniform collection of pines swaying in wind and breeze. Stretching, it seemed, from sea to shining sea, the forest covered fertile and sandy ground, rocky shores and freezing wastes alike.
Here and there stood clumps and clusters of trees unlike the others, however, ones not uniform, ones with different types of bark and shapes of leaf or seed. Ones that responded differently to different types of weather. Ones that had different ideas about whether or not the land should be covered with one kind of tree, mostly. Ones that saw each tree in the forest as an individual unto itself, not as a member of a distinctive or pre-ordained race.
Outwardly, the pines tolerated those not uniform. Inwardly, the pines secretly hoped that soon - as soon as possible, in fact - the different trees would die off and let a gently swaying pine grow where they’d once stood.
Then came gnawing beetles, pine-tree-eating insects that tore through those uniform stands what stretched from sea to shining sea, eating away at their trunks, devouring their crowns, infesting their roots, causing much havoc and destruction. Afterward, the few pine trees left standing were ones surrounded by or living next to those trees of different types, whose leaves and seeds weren’t uniform. ‘Now we know the importance of diversity,’ the pines agreed, their voices soft as verdant needles falling. ‘Let us all live densely together, we trees of different types, now and forever more, until the starlight fails.’
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
Here and there stood clumps and clusters of trees unlike the others, however, ones not uniform, ones with different types of bark and shapes of leaf or seed. Ones that responded differently to different types of weather. Ones that had different ideas about whether or not the land should be covered with one kind of tree, mostly. Ones that saw each tree in the forest as an individual unto itself, not as a member of a distinctive or pre-ordained race.
Outwardly, the pines tolerated those not uniform. Inwardly, the pines secretly hoped that soon - as soon as possible, in fact - the different trees would die off and let a gently swaying pine grow where they’d once stood.
Then came gnawing beetles, pine-tree-eating insects that tore through those uniform stands what stretched from sea to shining sea, eating away at their trunks, devouring their crowns, infesting their roots, causing much havoc and destruction. Afterward, the few pine trees left standing were ones surrounded by or living next to those trees of different types, whose leaves and seeds weren’t uniform. ‘Now we know the importance of diversity,’ the pines agreed, their voices soft as verdant needles falling. ‘Let us all live densely together, we trees of different types, now and forever more, until the starlight fails.’
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
07 August 2017
her fellow deities
A thousand voices cried out in dismay, only to be suddenly silenced. A thousand hopes died, suffocated by some hasty, errant tweeting.
There was little that Nuuzstathena could do to lessen suffering in America; hers were the people of Grigovia, and of Gar Nuuzsh; she was honorbound to stay by their side.
Here she rocked a baby, there she soothed heartbreak, all the while holding space within her bosom for him Ynki, whose pleas and lamentations ricocheted throughout the firmament, upsetting gods and goddesses alike.
‘Is there no hand left to dry their tears, no force that might help them escape the darkness they have brought upon themselves?’ Nuuzstathena asked her fellow deities during the heavenly council she’d convened.
‘You know as well as we do, Nuat,’ said a floating, sticky cell-phone dripping with sickly effluence, ‘that Americans are stubborn and excitable people who will run against walls until they break through or fall down.’
‘The imbalance will right itself in due course, fair goddess,’ assured her an impossibly skinny, shadowy figure who was shaped like a door ajar. ‘Ignore it, if you can.’
A coalition of merciful goddesses agreed to share the burden of Ynki grief - but only from afar, and only as long as it threatened to snap the world-tree’s trunk.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
There was little that Nuuzstathena could do to lessen suffering in America; hers were the people of Grigovia, and of Gar Nuuzsh; she was honorbound to stay by their side.
Here she rocked a baby, there she soothed heartbreak, all the while holding space within her bosom for him Ynki, whose pleas and lamentations ricocheted throughout the firmament, upsetting gods and goddesses alike.
‘Is there no hand left to dry their tears, no force that might help them escape the darkness they have brought upon themselves?’ Nuuzstathena asked her fellow deities during the heavenly council she’d convened.
‘You know as well as we do, Nuat,’ said a floating, sticky cell-phone dripping with sickly effluence, ‘that Americans are stubborn and excitable people who will run against walls until they break through or fall down.’
‘The imbalance will right itself in due course, fair goddess,’ assured her an impossibly skinny, shadowy figure who was shaped like a door ajar. ‘Ignore it, if you can.’
A coalition of merciful goddesses agreed to share the burden of Ynki grief - but only from afar, and only as long as it threatened to snap the world-tree’s trunk.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
04 August 2017
merry sticky Xmas
A troupe calling itself the Washington D.C. Icebound Extreme Dancers (IED) is looking for a venue to house its production of the wintertime tale of Ebenezer Scrooge, from Charles Dickens’s ‘A Christmas Carol’. An adult-only, x-rated take on the classic childhood favorite, the IED production is being shopped around under the working title of The Explosive Redemption of Ebenezer Splooge.
Marketing the production has proven difficult, given Americans’ dislike for public mentions of sexuality and a nearly universal lack of interest in watching ice-skating people have sex. IED is open to the community’s suggestions, and concerns.
Despite a handful of lawsuits, the troupe insists that the production is not porography but high art.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
Marketing the production has proven difficult, given Americans’ dislike for public mentions of sexuality and a nearly universal lack of interest in watching ice-skating people have sex. IED is open to the community’s suggestions, and concerns.
Despite a handful of lawsuits, the troupe insists that the production is not porography but high art.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
02 August 2017
‘manly’ car unveiled
In an apparent effort to stand out in a market saturated with look-alike models that readily conform to government standards for comfort and safety, ### ### announced today the 2018 release of the ### Torment.
Featuring front and rear bench-seating made from jagged plywood, a steering wheel and stick-shift of shoddily welded pig-iron, no seatbelts, no airbags, and a front dash covered with hastily cured fiberglass panels, the Torment is expected to attract consumers looking to eschew comfort for a sense of backwoods ruggedness. A leaf-spring suspension and supercharged V12 engine round out the two-door Torment’s ensemble, ensuring it has too much speed and too few safety measures to keep its driver or passengers alive for long.
Buyers of the Torment will be required to sign a waiver excusing ### ### from any and all liability. For customers interested in treating wounds caused by the vehicle, the deluxe Torment T1 model comes with a first-aid kit made up of a packet of fast-setting tar, a wooden applicator stick, a single roll of cotton bandages, and a jar of castor oil.
[The manufacturer’s name has been removed upon request. (This is a work of satire.)]
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
Featuring front and rear bench-seating made from jagged plywood, a steering wheel and stick-shift of shoddily welded pig-iron, no seatbelts, no airbags, and a front dash covered with hastily cured fiberglass panels, the Torment is expected to attract consumers looking to eschew comfort for a sense of backwoods ruggedness. A leaf-spring suspension and supercharged V12 engine round out the two-door Torment’s ensemble, ensuring it has too much speed and too few safety measures to keep its driver or passengers alive for long.
Buyers of the Torment will be required to sign a waiver excusing ### ### from any and all liability. For customers interested in treating wounds caused by the vehicle, the deluxe Torment T1 model comes with a first-aid kit made up of a packet of fast-setting tar, a wooden applicator stick, a single roll of cotton bandages, and a jar of castor oil.
[The manufacturer’s name has been removed upon request. (This is a work of satire.)]
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
31 July 2017
haiku 30 July 2017
Before the fist night
Was over, he’d given up
Principles hard won.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
Was over, he’d given up
Principles hard won.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
28 July 2017
transgender soldiers wanted
The all-volunteer armed forces of Grigovia (www.gov.ggv/fightforfreedom) invite any Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Queer, or Curious (LGBTQC) people to join in our mission of making the world a safer place for all peace-loving individuals. We firmly believe that every living person has both great inherent value and a vital role to play in combating the base scourges of quasi-religious terrorism, imperialist warmongering, as well as terrorist and racist tactics and rhetoric employed increasingly by various world leaders.
Gender-reassignment and other services tailored to the needs of LGBTQC soldiers will be provided without question or hesitation. As per a recent study by Rand, transgender warriors make any fighting force better. Shame on anyone who says differently.
Pay no mind to persons angry and full of hatred. All are welcome in Grigovia, where love and freedom abound.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
Gender-reassignment and other services tailored to the needs of LGBTQC soldiers will be provided without question or hesitation. As per a recent study by Rand, transgender warriors make any fighting force better. Shame on anyone who says differently.
Pay no mind to persons angry and full of hatred. All are welcome in Grigovia, where love and freedom abound.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
26 July 2017
economics encourage emigration
Following nearly a decade of un- and underemployment, more people are now leaving than are entering the United States. “I had a decent job and a seemingly secure future before the Great Recession hit in oh eight,” said Randal E. Cummings, a machinist from the South. “Then the Fed just up and gave - no-strings-attached - two or three trillion dollars to the banks failing due to greedy and shortsighted practices, however. By doing so, the Fed stole wealth from the masses and gave it to already rich bank executives, who in turn gave themselves raises and million dollar golden parachutes. That just broke the American spirit; this place hasn’t been the same since.” Most of the nations to which the Ynki are relocating sit in Europe and Asia, where strong societal and political controls discourage the election of autocratic blowhards, and where citizens are engaged and informed enough to fight back against government corruption.
Researchers indicate that more people are emigrating from the U.S. than in any year since the start of the Great Depression, another time when banks stole billions from average Americans. “What with all our wealth siphoned off and an orange asshole in the oval office, it’s time to seek greener pastures,” said Yolanda M. Smithey, mother of three. “Land of the free, home of the brave? More like: Get on your knees, you foolish slaves.”
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
Researchers indicate that more people are emigrating from the U.S. than in any year since the start of the Great Depression, another time when banks stole billions from average Americans. “What with all our wealth siphoned off and an orange asshole in the oval office, it’s time to seek greener pastures,” said Yolanda M. Smithey, mother of three. “Land of the free, home of the brave? More like: Get on your knees, you foolish slaves.”
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
24 July 2017
legal lèse leche laws
Wisconsin became the first state in the U.S.A. to ban all imagery, speech, or writing that appears or seems to appear to criticize milk or its derivatives. A special Madison prosecutor will oversee all cases relating to criminal libel committed against any type or preparation of cheese, ice cream, milk, and yogurt that is based on cow’s milk. The minimum penalty for committing such an act will be no fewer than five (5) years in a state prison.
Wisconsin authorities are working with Internet providers to restrict access to websites that provide anything but positive information in support of the dairy industry as well as its delicious and nutritious products. Any Wisconsinite who notices that a neighbor or friend is consuming less than his or her full daily allotment of milk is required by law to report said individual to the local police department. “A cornerstone industry, dairy production and processing will be protected at all costs, be they environmental, ethical, legal, moral, or sundry,” said deputy governor Harris B. Schildhand, a former dairy industry executive. “Henceforth also banned are the production of milks or cheeses made using soy, almond, rice, or any other non-dairy material.” The minimum penalty for producing one gallon of a non-dairy milk will be one year in prison.
According to an official statement, milk and its derivatives are among the best foods available. In no way does cow’s milk (which was designed by Mother Nature herself to make small cows grow big and strong) negatively affect the gut bacteria or overall health of the average American man, woman, or child. There is no such thing as a cow’s milk allergy or an intolerance to cheese, ice cream, or milk. Anyone who claims otherwise is lying. Every cent of the billions of dollars invested in lobbying for increased milk and cheese consumption has been money well spent. Remember: your government is watching you, so drink your milk, today, or be sorry, tomorrow.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
Wisconsin authorities are working with Internet providers to restrict access to websites that provide anything but positive information in support of the dairy industry as well as its delicious and nutritious products. Any Wisconsinite who notices that a neighbor or friend is consuming less than his or her full daily allotment of milk is required by law to report said individual to the local police department. “A cornerstone industry, dairy production and processing will be protected at all costs, be they environmental, ethical, legal, moral, or sundry,” said deputy governor Harris B. Schildhand, a former dairy industry executive. “Henceforth also banned are the production of milks or cheeses made using soy, almond, rice, or any other non-dairy material.” The minimum penalty for producing one gallon of a non-dairy milk will be one year in prison.
According to an official statement, milk and its derivatives are among the best foods available. In no way does cow’s milk (which was designed by Mother Nature herself to make small cows grow big and strong) negatively affect the gut bacteria or overall health of the average American man, woman, or child. There is no such thing as a cow’s milk allergy or an intolerance to cheese, ice cream, or milk. Anyone who claims otherwise is lying. Every cent of the billions of dollars invested in lobbying for increased milk and cheese consumption has been money well spent. Remember: your government is watching you, so drink your milk, today, or be sorry, tomorrow.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
21 July 2017
haiku 20 July 2017
It won’t go away
The fabric of self-doubting.
Learn to sap its strength.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
The fabric of self-doubting.
Learn to sap its strength.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
19 July 2017
haiku 18 July 2017
I must remember
That these days are all I have,
That they are precious.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
That these days are all I have,
That they are precious.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
17 July 2017
haiku 16 July 2017
He avoided vice
As long as his luck allowed.
It caught up with him.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
As long as his luck allowed.
It caught up with him.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
14 July 2017
another bad witch
A bad witch named Baya lived on the edges of the Web, near its darker fringes. In her yard were cute things, puppies and goslings that, seeming innocent, attracted youngsters.
She quickly infected the minds of children who strayed inside her home, however. On her outspread apron were embroidered images that young people weren’t supposed see, moving pictures of people doing naughty things to each other. The pictures got stuck in the kids’ minds, making them callous and adult at an early age - too early, many argued. Baya changed her address frequently, for she lived in a moving house. On taloned feet it picked its way carefully through the tangled mazes of web domains, always one step ahead of the angry parents following it.
One child, a precocious and prepared young lady, saw what was going on and, as she fled from the bothersome images, dropped behind her a few bits of rotten code. The discarded virus soon took over Baya’s home and brought it crashing to its knobby knees. But much damage had been done to others, many young minds ruined.
And, soon enough, another bad witch took Baya’s place.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
She quickly infected the minds of children who strayed inside her home, however. On her outspread apron were embroidered images that young people weren’t supposed see, moving pictures of people doing naughty things to each other. The pictures got stuck in the kids’ minds, making them callous and adult at an early age - too early, many argued. Baya changed her address frequently, for she lived in a moving house. On taloned feet it picked its way carefully through the tangled mazes of web domains, always one step ahead of the angry parents following it.
One child, a precocious and prepared young lady, saw what was going on and, as she fled from the bothersome images, dropped behind her a few bits of rotten code. The discarded virus soon took over Baya’s home and brought it crashing to its knobby knees. But much damage had been done to others, many young minds ruined.
And, soon enough, another bad witch took Baya’s place.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
12 July 2017
local inventor steamrolled
Facing intense and sustained pressure from the XYZ Corporation out of Wilmington, DE, local Maryland inventor Mr. D. caved to demands. (As per the request of the involved parties, all names have been changed in or removed from this piece.) Instead of continuing to promote and distribute the ingenious device he came up with to efficiently tackle something every American male faces every day, namely (omitted), Mr. D.’s invention is now the property of XYZ. The corporation manufactures and distributes a number of devices men use to (omitted) their (omitted). Their devices, however, have a higher cost and are less efficient than that of Mr. D.
Rumors indicate that Mr. D. received a one-time payout in the high six-figure range to sell the patent and production rights to his device. XYZ claimed that it would start redistributing Mr. D.’s invention as soon as its various overseas manufacturing streams had had time to adjust, and the appropriate number of domestic workers had been fired to recoup the payout costs. Mr. D. promptly set about renovating his parents’ dilapidated row-house.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
Rumors indicate that Mr. D. received a one-time payout in the high six-figure range to sell the patent and production rights to his device. XYZ claimed that it would start redistributing Mr. D.’s invention as soon as its various overseas manufacturing streams had had time to adjust, and the appropriate number of domestic workers had been fired to recoup the payout costs. Mr. D. promptly set about renovating his parents’ dilapidated row-house.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
10 July 2017
haiku 9 July 2017
There’s nothing sacred
About hoarding lots of cash.
To thrive, share freely.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
About hoarding lots of cash.
To thrive, share freely.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
07 July 2017
man’s universe implodes
Accustomed to believing everything told to him by the one television channel he thinks tells the truth, local resident Chester T. Whipplebutton suffered a severe reaction to unexpectedly hearing two conflicting points of view. Symptoms of his reaction to the apparent contradiction included a dramatic spike in blood pressure followed by a skin rash similar to hives and a mild stroke.
The incident occurred early last evening during a scheduled commercial break interrupting his favorite news-entertainment show. During the break, the television showed one advertisement for a new menu item at a fast-food chain that claimed it had the tastiest and most juicy burgers. Immediately afterward, however, aired an advertisement for a different fast-food chain in which it, too, claimed to have the tastiest and juiciest burgers. A firm believer in the rule of mutual exclusivity and having trained himself to only believe one idea, notion, or concept at a time, Mr. Whipplebutton entered a state of catatonic shock that has left him in critical condition.
Recent emergency-room statistics indicate a rise in cases similar to the one detailed above. Experts suggest that filter bubbles and saliency biases are partly to blame for Americans’ inability to hold two or more conflicting thoughts in their minds simultaneously.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
The incident occurred early last evening during a scheduled commercial break interrupting his favorite news-entertainment show. During the break, the television showed one advertisement for a new menu item at a fast-food chain that claimed it had the tastiest and most juicy burgers. Immediately afterward, however, aired an advertisement for a different fast-food chain in which it, too, claimed to have the tastiest and juiciest burgers. A firm believer in the rule of mutual exclusivity and having trained himself to only believe one idea, notion, or concept at a time, Mr. Whipplebutton entered a state of catatonic shock that has left him in critical condition.
Recent emergency-room statistics indicate a rise in cases similar to the one detailed above. Experts suggest that filter bubbles and saliency biases are partly to blame for Americans’ inability to hold two or more conflicting thoughts in their minds simultaneously.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
04 July 2017
asshole bloggers honored
An exclusive crowd of Internet trolls, gaslighters, and shit-posters gathered today at a prestigious hotel in Washington D.C. for the first annual Donald J. Trump Internet Bullying Awards (IBA). In attendance were some of the most vitriolic living persons to ever log onto Facebook, 4chan, Reddit, Twitter, and Tumblr.
Many award recipients - fearful of being confronted in real life for their Online shenanigans - chose to attend virtually rather than in person, watching the event through encrypted connections and sharing their opinions in dedicated, invite-only chat rooms. The award for Most Dramatic Drive to Suicide went (in absentia) to M. C., a young lady recently convicted for apparently convincing her former boyfriend to kill himself.
The award IBA was set up in honor of America’s 45th president, himself a shameless gaslighter who spends his time not focused on solving the nation’s economic ills or defeating Daesh (ISIS) but on trolling journalists and his fellow minor celebrities with hate-filled, fake-news shitposts. Mr. Trump was nominated for the prestigious Online Bully of the Year award, losing however to a racist teenage virgin from West Virginia.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
Many award recipients - fearful of being confronted in real life for their Online shenanigans - chose to attend virtually rather than in person, watching the event through encrypted connections and sharing their opinions in dedicated, invite-only chat rooms. The award for Most Dramatic Drive to Suicide went (in absentia) to M. C., a young lady recently convicted for apparently convincing her former boyfriend to kill himself.
The award IBA was set up in honor of America’s 45th president, himself a shameless gaslighter who spends his time not focused on solving the nation’s economic ills or defeating Daesh (ISIS) but on trolling journalists and his fellow minor celebrities with hate-filled, fake-news shitposts. Mr. Trump was nominated for the prestigious Online Bully of the Year award, losing however to a racist teenage virgin from West Virginia.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
03 July 2017
sway the vote
“It’s an eyesore, a blight on our city, which not many of our citizens enjoy,” said an older council member who’d received a handful of complaints from his affluent neighbors. “Therefore, I propose we keep allocating funds to get rid of it.” A few of his younger colleagues knew that it drew people to the city and gave it an authentic and inimitable character. They disagreed with him, but there were too few of them to sway the vote.
And, so, New York City joined a thousand other municipalities across the United States and fitted out squads of workers with paint rollers and long-handled scrapers. They loosed the workers on up-and-coming parts of town, giving them license to paint over, deface, scrape off, and otherwise remove the vast collections of street art that had theretofore covered otherwise blank and underutilized street poles. The workers attacked ten thousand and one unique examples of cunning artistic expression deemed mere trash by a group of disconnected bureaucrats who cared not for the creative potency of Big Apple denizens.
The workers scraped and sprayed and rollered, destroying countless pieces of the city’s unique cultural heritage. Adding insult to injury, the city council had not even had the decency, poise, or foresight to at least take pictures of said priceless works of art before having them trashed. In the wake of the art desecration squads, the city lay bare, raped of its color, efficiently monetized, franchised, and sterilized for the benefit of profits-hungry corporations. New York City’s street-side art museums are dying at the hands of her elected officials, and the world is a less beautiful place for it.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
And, so, New York City joined a thousand other municipalities across the United States and fitted out squads of workers with paint rollers and long-handled scrapers. They loosed the workers on up-and-coming parts of town, giving them license to paint over, deface, scrape off, and otherwise remove the vast collections of street art that had theretofore covered otherwise blank and underutilized street poles. The workers attacked ten thousand and one unique examples of cunning artistic expression deemed mere trash by a group of disconnected bureaucrats who cared not for the creative potency of Big Apple denizens.
The workers scraped and sprayed and rollered, destroying countless pieces of the city’s unique cultural heritage. Adding insult to injury, the city council had not even had the decency, poise, or foresight to at least take pictures of said priceless works of art before having them trashed. In the wake of the art desecration squads, the city lay bare, raped of its color, efficiently monetized, franchised, and sterilized for the benefit of profits-hungry corporations. New York City’s street-side art museums are dying at the hands of her elected officials, and the world is a less beautiful place for it.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
30 June 2017
Ynki emigrants arrive
The first wave of persons fleeing political and societal oppression in America has arrived at Krukov International Airport outside cosmopolitan Grig. Seeking asylum from the heavy-handed and anti-democratic policies being enacted by the administration of D.J. Trump, the former Ynki gladly relinquished their citizenship and took up oaths of freedom and responsibility under as well as loyalty to the Glorious Republic of Grigovia.
With cries of joy in their throats, the new citizens immediately moved into the well-maintained communal housing option of their choice. After a stroll in one of downtown Grig’s many public parks, they enrolled in classes designed to help them understand their latent artistic or creative potential and harness it to make their world a better, brighter, and more beautiful place.
When asked what they missed most about America, the emigrants responded, overwhelmingly, with: “Little.”
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
With cries of joy in their throats, the new citizens immediately moved into the well-maintained communal housing option of their choice. After a stroll in one of downtown Grig’s many public parks, they enrolled in classes designed to help them understand their latent artistic or creative potential and harness it to make their world a better, brighter, and more beautiful place.
When asked what they missed most about America, the emigrants responded, overwhelmingly, with: “Little.”
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
26 June 2017
haiku 25 June 2017
Not for the first time
His roomies broke the house rules.
Then, they cried croc’ tears.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
http://www.americanifesto.com/liesmith/june-25th-2017
His roomies broke the house rules.
Then, they cried croc’ tears.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
http://www.americanifesto.com/liesmith/june-25th-2017
23 June 2017
haiku 22 June 2017
The skies turned light green
As he was riding back home.
Wind blew; cold rain fell.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
As he was riding back home.
Wind blew; cold rain fell.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
21 June 2017
no one knows
In a new (but ancient) twist on television crime dramas involving unsolved murders, a leading broadcaster is hoping to lure devout Christian viewers with a series of shows called “No One Knows.”
In each episode, the body of a murdered person will be found in field. None of the leaders of the surrounding towns will know who killed the person, whereupon they’ll get together in a nearby valley where there is a stream but no crops. Having already selected a young male cow that has never worked from the herd of the village closest to the field where the body was found, they will break the cow’s neck. Then, the assembled leaders will wash their hands over the dead cow and say, “We had no part in this murder, and we don’t know who did it.”
The show’s producers have indicated that each segment will feature a new valley location, and that a varying cast of star-studded male actors will play the village leaders. Spoiler alert! For anybody who wants to not actually watch the series and find out whether or not at the end of each episode the Christian god Yahweh forgives the town leaders for a murder they didn’t commit, read Deuteronomy 21 from the Bible’s Old Testament.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
In each episode, the body of a murdered person will be found in field. None of the leaders of the surrounding towns will know who killed the person, whereupon they’ll get together in a nearby valley where there is a stream but no crops. Having already selected a young male cow that has never worked from the herd of the village closest to the field where the body was found, they will break the cow’s neck. Then, the assembled leaders will wash their hands over the dead cow and say, “We had no part in this murder, and we don’t know who did it.”
The show’s producers have indicated that each segment will feature a new valley location, and that a varying cast of star-studded male actors will play the village leaders. Spoiler alert! For anybody who wants to not actually watch the series and find out whether or not at the end of each episode the Christian god Yahweh forgives the town leaders for a murder they didn’t commit, read Deuteronomy 21 from the Bible’s Old Testament.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
20 June 2017
someone else now
We left early Sunday morning, just after dawn. The drive to the station was uneventful, and we arrived with a half hour to spare before our train departed. Each of us had a few discs with him, enough to play at least 18 holes. I ate first, and so they kicked in for me first, but one of the other guys ate more and therefore felt a heavier initial surge. Thankfully, we weren’t in the quiet car, because our giggles came on strong enough to make heads turn. By the time the train reached the City of Brotherly Love (and Sisterly Affection), our pupils were dinner plates greedily sucking up stray photons. We climbed up into the 30th Street station and paused briefly to marvel in wonder at its vaulted ceiling and vast marbled-clad spaces. Mere feet from the doors to the outside, the other two decided they needed to find a restroom, whereupon they went to relieve themselves. I waited for them in the hallway near the bathroom and pretended to peruse a restaurant menu while the world around me quietly exploded.
Then we were out in the wind and in the sun with our phones out trying to open applications and figure out how to get visual maps and audio guides going that would lead us to our first destination - the Sedgley Woods disc golf course. We walked, of course, following the river until we hit a police roadblock at a major intersection. At that point we turned north and left the course of the river, climbing a hill and following a shady tree-shaded trail that lead along crumbling old walls. At the top of the hill, in the middle of a field, sat a lone camping tent, which we decided not to enter. Then we almost got killed crossing a major road intersection that didn’t have a pedestrian crosswalk, climbed another hill, made a left, and arrived at our destination. We hadn’t barely figured out how to approach the first tee yet when we met a pair of local guides, two gentlemen who were smoking cabbage and knew the lay of the land. After playing 27 short holes together on the wooden urban course, we took their advice and went for fried chicken at the gas station across the road, which we ate with them, breaking bread together on a rotting park bench under a struggling tree.
With not a minute to spare we arrived at our second destination, a hip brewery in Fishtown. After touring it, I went out to photograph graffiti while my friends stayed inside and kept drinking. Once I was finished we exited into the hot afternoon sun and started for a gin distillery nearby. Along the way we ate more, of course, finishing the bag. At the gin mill we were sipping death in the afternoon when the second round kicked in, prompting us to head for the next brewery. And then the next. The day got sweaty, what with one of us hauling around two filled growlers and another of us trying to enter each abandoned building we passed along the way. We were having a bit of trouble fitting into society but finally made it back to the station with fewer than five minutes to spare, only to find that our train was delayed indefinitely. It left 45 minutes late, long enough for us to fully appreciate each contour of a gorgeous marble panel named The Spirit of Transportation (1895), by Karl Bitter, and for me to get a girl’s contact information.
She’s seeing someone else now, by the way.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
19 June 2017
on weighty measures
The Office of Weights and Measures closed its doors today after many years of exemplary service ensuing equity between buyers and sellers. The federal agency stopped functioning due to budget cuts imposed by the administration of Donald J. Trump, cuts that seemed to specifically target such agencies and offices that act as middlemen between consumers and producers. “What a glorious day it is today, now a few days after my birthday, which was last Tuesday,” said Mr. Trump while signing the paperwork that halted funding for the Office and others like it. “No longer shall draconian Washington insiders dictate to the American how much milk can be in a gallon, or how many inches should be in a yard. Now, the people can decide for themselves what’s right, and true.”
Wholesalers rejoiced at the news and immediately began to rewire or retool their scales so as to maximize their own profits at all cost. Car manufacturers changed the distance of a mile from 5280 to 528,000 feet and began claiming that their cars can go a half a million feet on just a quarter pint of gasoline. A million high-school sophomores simultaneously took to social media to claim they had meter-long penises.
Small-town consumers who don’t own or aren’t willing to haul a set of scales to the grocery or hardware store will likely bear the brunt of the relaxation of weight and measurement regulations. Rumor has it that both the Federal Exchange Commission and the Government Accountability Office are up next on Trump’s chopping block.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
Wholesalers rejoiced at the news and immediately began to rewire or retool their scales so as to maximize their own profits at all cost. Car manufacturers changed the distance of a mile from 5280 to 528,000 feet and began claiming that their cars can go a half a million feet on just a quarter pint of gasoline. A million high-school sophomores simultaneously took to social media to claim they had meter-long penises.
Small-town consumers who don’t own or aren’t willing to haul a set of scales to the grocery or hardware store will likely bear the brunt of the relaxation of weight and measurement regulations. Rumor has it that both the Federal Exchange Commission and the Government Accountability Office are up next on Trump’s chopping block.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
16 June 2017
dreamstate writing 15 June 2017
A female companion and I went into a towering house of glass to play her favorite game. Its top two floors had metal siding on them but the stories below them, where her game was located, had glass walls. We slid along glass-bottomed and rainbow-walled sky ramps in time to the game’s music while I struggled to read along with the conversations transcribed onto a LCD screen tethered to our face. My companion then flipped on her back and cranked the game’s speed up so fast that everything on the screen went blurry. I shot off the track and fell past many loops of sky ramp before hitting the forcefield at the bottom of the gaming chamber, which looked like an onyx expanse of outer space but was really a big, bouncy net.
While my companion was racing along the sky ramps, I explored an area below the central chamber that was walled off with tall glass panels. Various computers and screens were set up there, with different games loaded onto them. Into the area’s far wall, this one made of drywall, was built a control booth in which two men sat monitoring screens. They glanced at me when I came in but didn’t say anything as I walked around looking at the other games on offer. One of them featured a black-haired woman clad in black leather who was fighting hordes of football-sized scrabbling aliens with a complex and heavy-looking pistol in each hand. Finding little of interest, I went outside.
It was daytime and I was standing on a slope of grass. Behind me was the towering house of glass. To my left across a flat, fenced-in field the size of a football pitch was a sinkhole that had recently opened into a low hill, a circle of reddish-orange soil full of large rocks. In front of me, but on the other side of the chainlink fence, was a building bisected by an old carriage run, a portal from which a group of screaming schoolchildren came running. One child, a girl wearing a puffy jacket and scarf of dark colors, ran over to the sinkhole and started kicking at snowdrifts that had accumulated there. I saw then that both the field and the slope were covered with what looked like a thin layer of frost, or ice. At that point I realized that some of the children had made it as far as where I was standing, and that one boy had in fact grabbed my right leg and was yanking it toward him. Surprised and shocked, I kicked, sending him flying. I watched him hit the slope, bounce, and come to rest in a clump of arms and legs. He was groaning and complaining but not seriously injured.
He kept talking but I started to back away from him, rounding the towering house of glass until it was between me and the frost-covered slope. Looking up I discovered that most of the glass was gone and that the sky ramps had rusted badly, their rainbow walls and glass bottoms gone. At that point I entered a door at the bottom of the tower to my right. I found myself in the darkened basement of the tower and immediately started to climb a central flight of stairs. The walls and stairs seem to have been recently painted white, and bags of white rags or clothing littered every step and platform, with only a small area cleared through them. I reached a higher storey and went through the white door. Inside, I started hitting buttons on what looked like waiting elevators but what turned out to be the light-switches for a row of gleaming walk-in showers set deep into the darkened walls. I was heading for the next flight of stairs when I awoke.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
While my companion was racing along the sky ramps, I explored an area below the central chamber that was walled off with tall glass panels. Various computers and screens were set up there, with different games loaded onto them. Into the area’s far wall, this one made of drywall, was built a control booth in which two men sat monitoring screens. They glanced at me when I came in but didn’t say anything as I walked around looking at the other games on offer. One of them featured a black-haired woman clad in black leather who was fighting hordes of football-sized scrabbling aliens with a complex and heavy-looking pistol in each hand. Finding little of interest, I went outside.
It was daytime and I was standing on a slope of grass. Behind me was the towering house of glass. To my left across a flat, fenced-in field the size of a football pitch was a sinkhole that had recently opened into a low hill, a circle of reddish-orange soil full of large rocks. In front of me, but on the other side of the chainlink fence, was a building bisected by an old carriage run, a portal from which a group of screaming schoolchildren came running. One child, a girl wearing a puffy jacket and scarf of dark colors, ran over to the sinkhole and started kicking at snowdrifts that had accumulated there. I saw then that both the field and the slope were covered with what looked like a thin layer of frost, or ice. At that point I realized that some of the children had made it as far as where I was standing, and that one boy had in fact grabbed my right leg and was yanking it toward him. Surprised and shocked, I kicked, sending him flying. I watched him hit the slope, bounce, and come to rest in a clump of arms and legs. He was groaning and complaining but not seriously injured.
He kept talking but I started to back away from him, rounding the towering house of glass until it was between me and the frost-covered slope. Looking up I discovered that most of the glass was gone and that the sky ramps had rusted badly, their rainbow walls and glass bottoms gone. At that point I entered a door at the bottom of the tower to my right. I found myself in the darkened basement of the tower and immediately started to climb a central flight of stairs. The walls and stairs seem to have been recently painted white, and bags of white rags or clothing littered every step and platform, with only a small area cleared through them. I reached a higher storey and went through the white door. Inside, I started hitting buttons on what looked like waiting elevators but what turned out to be the light-switches for a row of gleaming walk-in showers set deep into the darkened walls. I was heading for the next flight of stairs when I awoke.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
14 June 2017
undead parasitic lifeform
At a symposium of sociologists, economists, and political scientists that met in a ramshackle ballroom located near the seedy part of Las Vegas boulevard, an undead parasitic lifeform was recognized, debated, and correctly named. Long bearing the incorrect label of Federal Reserve System, the symposium identified it as an Indebtedness Generation Scheme Designed To Reduce The American People Under Absolute Despotism, or InGeSc-DeRePe-UnMoDe.
By keeping the American People in a state of constant indebtedness to a privately held organization that legally controls the supply of their money, the Federal Reserve System is one of economic and financial enslavement that requires no walls, guards, or bars. Instead, each second of every day, this unconstitutional and anti-democratic zombie parasite has been sucking out the country’s lifeblood for nearly 110 years, draining it of liberty and ruining justice for all.
Shortly before the end of the symposium, a combination of armed police and military forces forcefully entered the building under the pretext of fighting terrorism. After each attendee was shot to death, the ballroom was set alight and allowed to burn to the ground, leaving few if any traces of what had transpired.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
By keeping the American People in a state of constant indebtedness to a privately held organization that legally controls the supply of their money, the Federal Reserve System is one of economic and financial enslavement that requires no walls, guards, or bars. Instead, each second of every day, this unconstitutional and anti-democratic zombie parasite has been sucking out the country’s lifeblood for nearly 110 years, draining it of liberty and ruining justice for all.
Shortly before the end of the symposium, a combination of armed police and military forces forcefully entered the building under the pretext of fighting terrorism. After each attendee was shot to death, the ballroom was set alight and allowed to burn to the ground, leaving few if any traces of what had transpired.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
09 June 2017
“That’s right,” says drunk woman
Burlington, VT - In an apparent attempt to keep herself involved in recent conversations with the family of her son’s wife, Geraldine A. Carey, 62, feigned interest by saying, repeatedly, “That’s right.” Everyone in earshot, from her children to her grandchildren, could tell that the elderly matron had no fucking clue what anyone was talking about and was just waiting for an excuse to pour herself another three fingers of ice-cold vodka.
As the family reunion progressed and the alcohol content of her blood increased, Geraldine said “That’s right” in response to people making well-thought-out and educated statements about the fragile state of Internet security, the ongoing war in Syria, the possibility of liquid oceans on Jupiter’s moon Europa, as well as the likelihood that her second-eldest daughter is gay. Few persons present dwelled consciously upon the woman’s repeated use of the aforementioned phrase, preferring rather to ignore her rantings.
At one point toward the end of the day, the youngest brother of the son’s wife, a fellow named Steve, brought up the topic to his sister while the latter stood wiping down wine glasses. Refusing to look at him, she shook her head and tried not to cry. Much to the relief of children and grandchildren everywhere, a recent unofficial poll conducted by the Blomkwist Center for Family Research shows that 85% of alcoholic American grandmothers are starting to prefer “Uh huh” and “Oh really” to “That’s right.”
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
As the family reunion progressed and the alcohol content of her blood increased, Geraldine said “That’s right” in response to people making well-thought-out and educated statements about the fragile state of Internet security, the ongoing war in Syria, the possibility of liquid oceans on Jupiter’s moon Europa, as well as the likelihood that her second-eldest daughter is gay. Few persons present dwelled consciously upon the woman’s repeated use of the aforementioned phrase, preferring rather to ignore her rantings.
At one point toward the end of the day, the youngest brother of the son’s wife, a fellow named Steve, brought up the topic to his sister while the latter stood wiping down wine glasses. Refusing to look at him, she shook her head and tried not to cry. Much to the relief of children and grandchildren everywhere, a recent unofficial poll conducted by the Blomkwist Center for Family Research shows that 85% of alcoholic American grandmothers are starting to prefer “Uh huh” and “Oh really” to “That’s right.”
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
07 June 2017
haiku 6 June 2017
On some level, dreams
Are merely a distraction
From reaching silence.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
Are merely a distraction
From reaching silence.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
05 June 2017
haiku 4 June 2017
He watched them frolic
Without undue concern, their
Bellies full of booze.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
Without undue concern, their
Bellies full of booze.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
02 June 2017
haiku 1 June 2017
His alarm clock rang.
He offered sacrifices,
Then went back to bed.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
He offered sacrifices,
Then went back to bed.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
31 May 2017
haiku 30 May 2017
Dear hacker-spammers:
Pleas target corporations.
Leave small fry alone.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
Pleas target corporations.
Leave small fry alone.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
29 May 2017
haiku 28 May 2017
Surrounding oneself
With friends who do not practice
Will lead one astray.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
With friends who do not practice
Will lead one astray.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
25 May 2017
haiku 25 May 2017
Encourage an act
And it will soon become set
As if in concrete.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
And it will soon become set
As if in concrete.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
24 May 2017
haiku 23 May 2017
As knowledge widened
Upon a new foundation
Confusion vanished .
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
Upon a new foundation
Confusion vanished .
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
19 May 2017
haiku 18 May 2017
Is it, then, just a
Random coincidence that
We would meet at all?
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
Random coincidence that
We would meet at all?
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
17 May 2017
haiku 16 May 2017
Squirrels live in the walls.
Or are big rats nesting there?
Something moves, unseen...
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
Or are big rats nesting there?
Something moves, unseen...
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
15 May 2017
logs of milk
The elephants paused to drink, ripping bark off of nearby trees. Men with guns had been chasing them for days, and the giants could not afford to dally.
The male’s tusks gleamed in the moonlight, meters-long logs of milk-white ivory. With a look of his weeping eye he conveyed his plan; with a flick of his trunk he caressed the face of his young calf before charging back, the way they had come. His mate lifted her trunk in farewell, then trotted off along a path of hard-baked clay.
The calf watched until its father’s shadow melded into the background of night, then turned to follow its mother. Soon - too soon - the mother heard the sounds of angry trumpeting, and sustained gunfire.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
The male’s tusks gleamed in the moonlight, meters-long logs of milk-white ivory. With a look of his weeping eye he conveyed his plan; with a flick of his trunk he caressed the face of his young calf before charging back, the way they had come. His mate lifted her trunk in farewell, then trotted off along a path of hard-baked clay.
The calf watched until its father’s shadow melded into the background of night, then turned to follow its mother. Soon - too soon - the mother heard the sounds of angry trumpeting, and sustained gunfire.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
12 May 2017
on taxing horses
In keeping with efforts to make up for taxes that are no longer being collected due to technological innovation, the U.S. Congress is debating a novel solution. Colloquially known as Horse Obsolescence Recovery Sequester Enactment, or H.O.R.S.E., HR-23.9947 (F) will require motor-vehicle-owners to pay a tax on each ‘horse’ of ‘horsepower’ their car or truck can muster.
“Not that long ago,” said Thorsten Hilddebrandt, congressman from New York (D), “one would have needed to employ scores of groomsmen and stable-boys to keep two hundred horses healthy, strong, and ready to go at a moment’s notice. With modern automobiles, however, all of those jobs and tax revenues vanish.” An apparently bipartisan issue, H.O.R.S.E. seems to be gaining traction on both sides of the aisle. “The tax burden must fall equally, no matter if people choose to drive a car or ride a horse,” said Barbara D. Geirhoff-Ferd, a Republican congresswoman from Florida. “Taking care of horses was a good, taxable job for many unskilled and lower-class individuals. America can no longer afford to let people who drive cars not shoulder their fair share of society’s burdens.”
Unsubstantiated rumors indicate that laws will soon be passed to steeply tax a wide array of cell-phone applications that take taxable jobs away from human calculators, map-makers, telephone-switchboard personnel, camera operators, board-game makers, notepad and pencil manufacturers, FM radio broadcasters, astronomers, filmmakers, and many others.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑
“Not that long ago,” said Thorsten Hilddebrandt, congressman from New York (D), “one would have needed to employ scores of groomsmen and stable-boys to keep two hundred horses healthy, strong, and ready to go at a moment’s notice. With modern automobiles, however, all of those jobs and tax revenues vanish.” An apparently bipartisan issue, H.O.R.S.E. seems to be gaining traction on both sides of the aisle. “The tax burden must fall equally, no matter if people choose to drive a car or ride a horse,” said Barbara D. Geirhoff-Ferd, a Republican congresswoman from Florida. “Taking care of horses was a good, taxable job for many unskilled and lower-class individuals. America can no longer afford to let people who drive cars not shoulder their fair share of society’s burdens.”
Unsubstantiated rumors indicate that laws will soon be passed to steeply tax a wide array of cell-phone applications that take taxable jobs away from human calculators, map-makers, telephone-switchboard personnel, camera operators, board-game makers, notepad and pencil manufacturers, FM radio broadcasters, astronomers, filmmakers, and many others.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑
10 May 2017
dreamstate writing 09 May 2017
This dream happened before I woke up to meditate:
I was touring the site of an ancient settlement. Giant, grass-covered earthworks covered the mountainside plateau upon which I and the others in my tour-group were walking. Man-sized stone stelae stood about, here and there. We came upon what seemed to be an inhabitant of the place who was wearing a poncho and a wide-brimmed hat. As we watched, he bent down and used a dustpan to scoop up bits of colored stone that had fragmented off a nearby stela. The monolith was roughly square in shape, its corners and top slope-cut in the manner of an Asscher or radiant diamond. The fragments were painted in dark colors, red and ochre.
I looked closer and saw that the rock seemed to have expanded from within, its entire outer layer covered with tiny cracks through which shone a sublayer of brilliant white. To me, it looked as if the rock were an animal shedding its skin, that the painted bits which littered the ground around it had served their purpose and were being discarded.
The local man was trying to sell the bits of rock to us, to which I chose to respond in anger. As I berated him verbally, I became aware that I and the other people in my group were sitting at long tables in a roofless laboratory of some kind. A wall at the front of the room was made of glass, one to our right was painted light grey. The hawker was doing chemical experiments of some sort on the fragments while still trying to convince me and the others to buy them. All of the other people in our group had their backs turned toward me and appeared to be staring at the glass wall. The way the others were not looking at me gave me the feeling that my efforts to yell at and berate the man in the wide-brimmed hat were a waste of time, a counterproductive effort.
This dream happened when I crawled back into bed get warm again after meditating:
I awoke to find that I had been sleeping on a wide expanse of masoned sandstone that seemed to be on top of a bridge or tall building. Beneath me was a comfortable bed piled high with blankets and pillows. Above me was the sky. I realized that my perch was not as high as I had thought and that other people were nearby, which caused me to worry about the location of my belongings. To my right behind a wall of glass were brick houses built next to a road that led up a steep hillside. One of the houses was covered with the most awesome graffiti I’d ever seen. I tried to get my phone out to take a picture of it but couldn’t bring my hands up to do so.
In the dream, I sat up in bed, craning my neck to check on my belongings. I saw them together off to the side, lumped into a pile of clothes and bags, bundles of coat-hangers, old exercise equipment. Upon standing up to gather my things I discovered I was naked, which caused me a bit of concern. Once dressed more fully I walked over to tidy up my possessions. I was stuffing clothes into bags when I saw that some of my things were in a glass-walled room that I could only access via a short flight of stairs. As I was heading toward the room I walked past five men standing on the corner of the sandstone ledge. Standing in front of the four clad entirely in black was one wearing lighter tones and a hat, who said “Shakaloha” back to me when I passed him by and flashed him the surfer’s gesture.
After I had tidied up my things I went back to bed, concerned however that there was a pedestrian walkway just on the other side of a stone wall behind my head. A person leading a dog came down the sidewalk toward me. For some reason I wanted to hide from her, but knew I could not.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
I was touring the site of an ancient settlement. Giant, grass-covered earthworks covered the mountainside plateau upon which I and the others in my tour-group were walking. Man-sized stone stelae stood about, here and there. We came upon what seemed to be an inhabitant of the place who was wearing a poncho and a wide-brimmed hat. As we watched, he bent down and used a dustpan to scoop up bits of colored stone that had fragmented off a nearby stela. The monolith was roughly square in shape, its corners and top slope-cut in the manner of an Asscher or radiant diamond. The fragments were painted in dark colors, red and ochre.
I looked closer and saw that the rock seemed to have expanded from within, its entire outer layer covered with tiny cracks through which shone a sublayer of brilliant white. To me, it looked as if the rock were an animal shedding its skin, that the painted bits which littered the ground around it had served their purpose and were being discarded.
The local man was trying to sell the bits of rock to us, to which I chose to respond in anger. As I berated him verbally, I became aware that I and the other people in my group were sitting at long tables in a roofless laboratory of some kind. A wall at the front of the room was made of glass, one to our right was painted light grey. The hawker was doing chemical experiments of some sort on the fragments while still trying to convince me and the others to buy them. All of the other people in our group had their backs turned toward me and appeared to be staring at the glass wall. The way the others were not looking at me gave me the feeling that my efforts to yell at and berate the man in the wide-brimmed hat were a waste of time, a counterproductive effort.
This dream happened when I crawled back into bed get warm again after meditating:
I awoke to find that I had been sleeping on a wide expanse of masoned sandstone that seemed to be on top of a bridge or tall building. Beneath me was a comfortable bed piled high with blankets and pillows. Above me was the sky. I realized that my perch was not as high as I had thought and that other people were nearby, which caused me to worry about the location of my belongings. To my right behind a wall of glass were brick houses built next to a road that led up a steep hillside. One of the houses was covered with the most awesome graffiti I’d ever seen. I tried to get my phone out to take a picture of it but couldn’t bring my hands up to do so.
In the dream, I sat up in bed, craning my neck to check on my belongings. I saw them together off to the side, lumped into a pile of clothes and bags, bundles of coat-hangers, old exercise equipment. Upon standing up to gather my things I discovered I was naked, which caused me a bit of concern. Once dressed more fully I walked over to tidy up my possessions. I was stuffing clothes into bags when I saw that some of my things were in a glass-walled room that I could only access via a short flight of stairs. As I was heading toward the room I walked past five men standing on the corner of the sandstone ledge. Standing in front of the four clad entirely in black was one wearing lighter tones and a hat, who said “Shakaloha” back to me when I passed him by and flashed him the surfer’s gesture.
After I had tidied up my things I went back to bed, concerned however that there was a pedestrian walkway just on the other side of a stone wall behind my head. A person leading a dog came down the sidewalk toward me. For some reason I wanted to hide from her, but knew I could not.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
08 May 2017
haiku 7 May 2017
A hard lesson to
Learn is that I’m not allowed
To Appoint myself.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
Learn is that I’m not allowed
To Appoint myself.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
05 May 2017
haiku 4 May 2017
Thousands and thousands
Oh, so many written words.
What good comes of them?
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
Oh, so many written words.
What good comes of them?
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
03 May 2017
north of Altadena
When I first reached the high-mountain campsite, it was just me and the host. He was in Ranger digs but his badge said volunteer. He was a troll, or as close to a troll as any person I’ve ever seen.
Looking up periodically from the book I was reading, I’d find him lurking behind a tree, his car, or the cinder-block outhouse, facing my way but never really making eye-contact.
He’d ignore hikers clearly in need of guidance but then harangue anyone who managed to track him down with a stump speech about his ‘hybrid’ religion, which boiled down to him mentioning, repeatedly, things like heaven, and heavenly father, and Jesus.
Talk of how all religions contain the golden rule.
Praise of a life lived in virtue, warnings about one lived in sin.
An email newsletter for his non-profit.
He’d address men as ‘brother’ in what seemed to me an unconsciously racist manner. He was an Internet troll come to life. He even looked like a troll, all chubby and red-faced, his hair so blond it was almost white.
After the first day, I learned to simply walk away from him whenever he got to talking. I felt bad about treating him like that, but I had recently started practicing being conscious and respectful of my own time - even if it meant hurting a few feelings, here and there.
The site next to mine was occupied when I crawled out of my tent on the morning of my third day.
A couple of attractive girls.
A few cool dudes.
I helped them get set up. We became friends quickly.
The drugs we’d brought soon became communal property. Except for the troll stopping by randomly every couple of hours to remind us of rules we weren’t breaking, the day progressed smoothly.
Things took a turn when one of the girl’s boyfriend showed up with a sack of cocaine in one pocket and a handgun in the other.
A bunch of us were enjoying an early evening campfire, laughing and telling stories, sparking blunts, snorting lines, sipping beers. A cellphone was playing upbeat music.
“Hey, man,” the campsite host said to me, yelling over from the road before walking uninvited toward us. Someone grabbed the bong and hid it from view. “I’d like to talk to you about what we spoke about yesterday, about the futility of existence.” I stood up and headed him off a dozen feet from the paraphernalia-strewn picnic table, enduring his sophomoric rant for long enough that my beer got warm.
He kept looking past me while talking, staring at the bikini-clad young ladies dancing near the fire. As soon as they realized he was watching, they put on shirts and sat down in a protective huddle.
I eventually removed him by backing away from him until we were standing next to his tent.
After the third such intrusion into our friendly congress, the boyfriend said, “If motherfucking Bobby Hill comes over here again for no reason, trying to creep on my girl and her friends, I’ll… fuck… I’ll kill him.” I glanced over at the troll and couldn’t help but laughing out loud - his resemblance to the son in TV’s ‘King Of The Hill’ was uncanny.
The boyfriend had arrived drunk that morning and hadn’t stopped drinking, since. During a dinner of burnt sausages and cold beans, he had placed his automatic pistol on the table in front of him.
The sun was just starting to set when the mountain above us caught fire, blocking our only exit route. We had enough water and food to last us for a couple of days, and our campsite sat near a running stream in a moist hollow. This knowledge, and the stupefying drugs, calmed our fears.
Often, when fire destroys a region’s upper vegetation, its fauna escapes the flames by heading downhill. Soon, the underbrush around us was thick with small animals, rodents fleeing and snakes crawling past us, headed for the nearby stream. Then, the animals got bigger. We saw a desert fox. A small herd of deer. A mountain goat. The rising plume of smoke caught the sun’s dying rays, scattering them downward to bathe our campsite in a fading, ethereal glow.
“I hate to break up the party, but everyone has to get ready to evacuate,” the troll called over to us from the road, adjusting the straps on his oversized hiking backpack. Pots hung from it, clanking loudly. A radio sat at his waist, crackling. Although there was still light in the sky, his headlamp was turned on full blast, causing those of us facing him to wince.
“My friend just texted me that the only road out of here is blocked, bro,” the boyfriend said, yelling drunkenly over his shoulder. “So relax. Nobody’s leaving here anytime soon.”
Bobby Hill stood there for a moment, shocked.
“I said get ready to move out,” he hissed through clenched teeth, his voice shaking with rage. He stepped over the rocks that bordered our campsite. As his light played over the ground in front of him we could see that his hands were balled into fists.
The boyfriend fluidly shifted position to face him, picking up the pistol in the same motion. He fired three shots, two of which hit the troll in the torso. Bits of cloth shot from the backpack as the rounds exited Bobby’s body and kicked up tufts of dirt on the embankment behind him.
Before any of us could speak, a brown bear came crashing through the underbrush near the cinder-block outhouse. The apex predator turned our way and focused in on the troll, who was stumbling backward, geysering blood, and making a strange, burbling, screaming sound.
Behind the bear came two cubs scampering.
She hit Bobby in the chest with a massive paw, knocking him clear out of his backpack, then pounced. As we ran for the nearby food pantries that were big enough to fit a full-grown human and strong enough to resist a bear attack (according to the manufacturer’s sticker), she started to chew his face off, throwing chunks of meat back at her mewling cubs.
In the shelter next to mine was the boyfriend. He was breathing heavily but didn’t seem too upset.
“Is everybody alright?” he shouted, once the sounds of dragging and snarling had stopped and the night had once more grown silent.
I cracked the door to my shelter and peered around carefully.
“I think we’re good,” I said. “As far as I can tell, she’s gone.”
The boyfriend crawled slowly from his own pantry.
“This shit stays between us, right?” he said, getting to his feet and wiping dust off of his pants with the hand not holding the pistol.
The troll’s backpack was still there, but his body was gone. The boyfriend followed the trail of Bobby’s blood with a tactical flashlight attached to his sidearm. It led downhill, disappearing into the stream’s gloomy, gathering shadows.
We looked at each other, then shrugged.
“All I saw was the bear attack,” I said, whereupon the boyfriend tucked the pistol into his waistband, threw his arm over my shoulder, and walked me back to the picnic bench.
“I knew you were the homie,” he said to me.
Everyone had a good laugh as we cracked open fresh beers and the boyfriend cut up thick lines of blow. Then he stood, gathered up the three spent shell casings, grabbed Bobby’s backpack, and spent the next hour carefully burning every bit of it and its contents in a distant fire-pit.
“As long as we make it out of here alive,” his girlfriend said, “you guys wanna do this again, uh, next month?”
I was the first to nod.
[This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or individuals is purely coincidental.]
© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥
Looking up periodically from the book I was reading, I’d find him lurking behind a tree, his car, or the cinder-block outhouse, facing my way but never really making eye-contact.
He’d ignore hikers clearly in need of guidance but then harangue anyone who managed to track him down with a stump speech about his ‘hybrid’ religion, which boiled down to him mentioning, repeatedly, things like heaven, and heavenly father, and Jesus.
Talk of how all religions contain the golden rule.
Praise of a life lived in virtue, warnings about one lived in sin.
An email newsletter for his non-profit.
He’d address men as ‘brother’ in what seemed to me an unconsciously racist manner. He was an Internet troll come to life. He even looked like a troll, all chubby and red-faced, his hair so blond it was almost white.
After the first day, I learned to simply walk away from him whenever he got to talking. I felt bad about treating him like that, but I had recently started practicing being conscious and respectful of my own time - even if it meant hurting a few feelings, here and there.
The site next to mine was occupied when I crawled out of my tent on the morning of my third day.
A couple of attractive girls.
A few cool dudes.
I helped them get set up. We became friends quickly.
The drugs we’d brought soon became communal property. Except for the troll stopping by randomly every couple of hours to remind us of rules we weren’t breaking, the day progressed smoothly.
Things took a turn when one of the girl’s boyfriend showed up with a sack of cocaine in one pocket and a handgun in the other.
A bunch of us were enjoying an early evening campfire, laughing and telling stories, sparking blunts, snorting lines, sipping beers. A cellphone was playing upbeat music.
“Hey, man,” the campsite host said to me, yelling over from the road before walking uninvited toward us. Someone grabbed the bong and hid it from view. “I’d like to talk to you about what we spoke about yesterday, about the futility of existence.” I stood up and headed him off a dozen feet from the paraphernalia-strewn picnic table, enduring his sophomoric rant for long enough that my beer got warm.
He kept looking past me while talking, staring at the bikini-clad young ladies dancing near the fire. As soon as they realized he was watching, they put on shirts and sat down in a protective huddle.
I eventually removed him by backing away from him until we were standing next to his tent.
After the third such intrusion into our friendly congress, the boyfriend said, “If motherfucking Bobby Hill comes over here again for no reason, trying to creep on my girl and her friends, I’ll… fuck… I’ll kill him.” I glanced over at the troll and couldn’t help but laughing out loud - his resemblance to the son in TV’s ‘King Of The Hill’ was uncanny.
The boyfriend had arrived drunk that morning and hadn’t stopped drinking, since. During a dinner of burnt sausages and cold beans, he had placed his automatic pistol on the table in front of him.
The sun was just starting to set when the mountain above us caught fire, blocking our only exit route. We had enough water and food to last us for a couple of days, and our campsite sat near a running stream in a moist hollow. This knowledge, and the stupefying drugs, calmed our fears.
Often, when fire destroys a region’s upper vegetation, its fauna escapes the flames by heading downhill. Soon, the underbrush around us was thick with small animals, rodents fleeing and snakes crawling past us, headed for the nearby stream. Then, the animals got bigger. We saw a desert fox. A small herd of deer. A mountain goat. The rising plume of smoke caught the sun’s dying rays, scattering them downward to bathe our campsite in a fading, ethereal glow.
“I hate to break up the party, but everyone has to get ready to evacuate,” the troll called over to us from the road, adjusting the straps on his oversized hiking backpack. Pots hung from it, clanking loudly. A radio sat at his waist, crackling. Although there was still light in the sky, his headlamp was turned on full blast, causing those of us facing him to wince.
“My friend just texted me that the only road out of here is blocked, bro,” the boyfriend said, yelling drunkenly over his shoulder. “So relax. Nobody’s leaving here anytime soon.”
Bobby Hill stood there for a moment, shocked.
“I said get ready to move out,” he hissed through clenched teeth, his voice shaking with rage. He stepped over the rocks that bordered our campsite. As his light played over the ground in front of him we could see that his hands were balled into fists.
The boyfriend fluidly shifted position to face him, picking up the pistol in the same motion. He fired three shots, two of which hit the troll in the torso. Bits of cloth shot from the backpack as the rounds exited Bobby’s body and kicked up tufts of dirt on the embankment behind him.
Before any of us could speak, a brown bear came crashing through the underbrush near the cinder-block outhouse. The apex predator turned our way and focused in on the troll, who was stumbling backward, geysering blood, and making a strange, burbling, screaming sound.
Behind the bear came two cubs scampering.
She hit Bobby in the chest with a massive paw, knocking him clear out of his backpack, then pounced. As we ran for the nearby food pantries that were big enough to fit a full-grown human and strong enough to resist a bear attack (according to the manufacturer’s sticker), she started to chew his face off, throwing chunks of meat back at her mewling cubs.
In the shelter next to mine was the boyfriend. He was breathing heavily but didn’t seem too upset.
“Is everybody alright?” he shouted, once the sounds of dragging and snarling had stopped and the night had once more grown silent.
I cracked the door to my shelter and peered around carefully.
“I think we’re good,” I said. “As far as I can tell, she’s gone.”
The boyfriend crawled slowly from his own pantry.
“This shit stays between us, right?” he said, getting to his feet and wiping dust off of his pants with the hand not holding the pistol.
The troll’s backpack was still there, but his body was gone. The boyfriend followed the trail of Bobby’s blood with a tactical flashlight attached to his sidearm. It led downhill, disappearing into the stream’s gloomy, gathering shadows.
We looked at each other, then shrugged.
“All I saw was the bear attack,” I said, whereupon the boyfriend tucked the pistol into his waistband, threw his arm over my shoulder, and walked me back to the picnic bench.
“I knew you were the homie,” he said to me.
Everyone had a good laugh as we cracked open fresh beers and the boyfriend cut up thick lines of blow. Then he stood, gathered up the three spent shell casings, grabbed Bobby’s backpack, and spent the next hour carefully burning every bit of it and its contents in a distant fire-pit.
“As long as we make it out of here alive,” his girlfriend said, “you guys wanna do this again, uh, next month?”
I was the first to nod.
[This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or individuals is purely coincidental.]
© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥
01 May 2017
dreamstate writing 29 April 2017
I settled into my seat at the end of a row of stadium-like seating, near a wall. As far as I could see up and down the curving white tunnel in which I sat, the other seats were filled with people of all ages, races, shapes, and sizes, some of whom glanced at me, making eye-contact. I had the feeling that we were all waiting for a big concert to start, although I could not see a stage or screens in front of us.
At some point I stood up again and walked down the stairs to a flat surface farther below, where I performed some dance moves whilst hovering a foot off the ground. I overheard someone say that the show would be delayed, after which I walked into a massive hall filled with escalators made of dark glass lit up by neon blue lights that were transporting people every which way - sideways, longways, up into the ceiling and down through the floor.
I left the massive hall, stepping out onto a balcony and leaning over the railing in front of me. I jerked back quickly, however, for I could not see the ground below, so faint were the floors below me illuminated. With me on the balcony was a large, dark-skinned figure clad in blue who tended to stay out of my direct field of vision. After a bit of searching I found a railing that stood above a balcony one storey lower, which caused me less fear even though I could still see the many dimly lit floors below but not gauge the height of the building in general.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
At some point I stood up again and walked down the stairs to a flat surface farther below, where I performed some dance moves whilst hovering a foot off the ground. I overheard someone say that the show would be delayed, after which I walked into a massive hall filled with escalators made of dark glass lit up by neon blue lights that were transporting people every which way - sideways, longways, up into the ceiling and down through the floor.
I left the massive hall, stepping out onto a balcony and leaning over the railing in front of me. I jerked back quickly, however, for I could not see the ground below, so faint were the floors below me illuminated. With me on the balcony was a large, dark-skinned figure clad in blue who tended to stay out of my direct field of vision. After a bit of searching I found a railing that stood above a balcony one storey lower, which caused me less fear even though I could still see the many dimly lit floors below but not gauge the height of the building in general.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
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