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

perv-eyor par excellence

His past-time is naughty, it makes women sore, for he is a shameless and rude perv-eyor. He pervs out while walking or riding a bus, it is a compulsion, to do it he must. It starts with a fleeting glance that tends to linger, he watches eternal but won't lift a finger. It happens at airports and sidewalk cafés, it riddles his dream-scape and eats up his days. He hides his erections, this much he knows well, if he were to show them he'd land in a cell. Now pray for the error and fault of his ways, now hope that his habits don't become a craze. To some he is mendicant, egg-head, or nonce, to us he's a perv-eyor par excellence.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on robot buses

Silently gliding on thick rubber tires, our robotic buses don't have inner fires, instead they use batteries to get their power, which run all their motors and recharge in hours. Coached by algorithms that watch traffic move, these driver-less wonders their mettle have proved, by shuttling woman and child and man while following loosely their preordained plans. The buses serve capital, hamlet, and town, with punctual service they earn their renown, so if you've a distance to travel today, then use our bus service without more delay, regardless if dressed up in rags or a gown.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on her catliness

Bewhiskered and graceful and silent and fast, is our dearest goddess, the cat-like Oumbast. At hearth-side and gutter, from rooftop and stair, her friend felis catus now scampers, now glares, now curls up against us in one furry heap, now fills up its daytime with eating and sleep. We sacrifice entrails, the best and the last, to war-like, protective, and gracious Oumbast; her ointments we slather, her salves and creams too, they protect from diseases such as the flu; her vision we cherish, her watch day and night, she keeps away demons and lessens our fright. Now pet you a kitten now raise you your glass, and toast to magnificent Lady Oumbast.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

one-roomed abode

The posse had lost him, below the last pass, with speed stealth and cunning he'd slipped them at last. Now pushing through snow-bank now hacking through brush, our man reached the valley to which he'd just rushed. Therein stood a cottage, a one-roomed abode, with a well-made ceiling and outside commode. He paused for a moment, before going in, and called up to Mercy, but deaf to his cries, she'd just stepped outside, so great was his sin. Forgive me, forgive me, he cried out aloud, consumed now by memory's blackening shroud. A goddess she heard him, and sped there forthwith, to sample his essence and read of his shrift. This mortal is guilty, his path ends tonight, said Nuuzstathena, her countenance bright; his death will be painless, I'll do it alone, by morning his lifeblood will pool on the stone. She watched as he entered and tidied the room, then showered his essence with feelings of doom. My life it is over, he said without fright; for just as my victims I shan't see next light. He worked up a fire, and took off his clothes, and bathed himself fully from forehead to toes; then dressed himself lightly and strapped on his sword, then put out the fire and made for a peak, to prove himself to be a man of his word. As if he'd been flown there he climbed to a ledge, an outcrop of granite, a perilous edge. He stood there defiant and out came his blade, at which point a beam of light pierced through the shade, and blinded and dazzled and clawed at his eyes, the last glimpse of sunlight to brighten the skies. And just then sang Nuuzstathena her song, to rob him of feeling and see him along. With nary a whimper and barely a thud, he mangled his body and poured out his blood, and soon came to rest on the rocks far below, made free of his torment, consumed by the snow.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on tunnel-sprites

Come witness the mystery with us below, down under the howling wind and blinding snow. We're speaking of tunnel-sprites, mischievous things, who move by silently and fly without wings. Their presence we recognize in broken jars, in base-of-neck tickles and static-filled tunes, in portends foreboding and feelings of doom, in yellowish pricks of light that look like stars. Now unwary travelers they lead astray, to starve in a dead-end far from light of day, now turned-around toddlers they shower with care, and lead them to safety straight back to warm lairs. Their stories reach far back, to times long since passed, their legends are sung about and set in glass. To please the sprites heap up some fresh apple-skin, upon a cave's doorstep, where homesteads begin, and set out a saucer of honey and wine, next morning the serving-plates empty you'll find. The sprites can be brutal, but sometimes they help, if lost and in trouble just call out or yelp, then let go of worry, selfishness, and spite, close eyes and sit calmly and wait for a sprite. But if one is angry or jealous or crass, if planning to capture or disrupt the flow, of tunnel-sprite glory then this one should know, that these little creatures of minuscule mass, will quickly abandon, confuse, and confound, and leave one for dead very deep underground.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on natural defenses

Our redoubts are lofty, our tunnels are deep, we don't threaten lightly or snore in our sleep. Winds from the Arctic pole make the skin chill, often they sicken and sometimes they kill. Our children get lessons, they learn how to fight, they know deprivation, they see by star-light. We learn them in history, tactics, and art, the path of the warrior they take from the start. Now on to our landscapes, the ones that impede, the progress of burdened beast and mounted steed. Deep are the gullies and sharp are the crags, that slow down invaders and cause them to lag. Hampered by driving rains and sudden squalls, our enemies falter, our foes quickly fall. Our Dunes swallow parties, our Swamps and Bluffs too, our insects and vermin still carry the flu. To this add the labyrinths underneath Grig, the ones that have taken us lifetimes to dig, then throw in the weather and flora and such, and understand why no one dares bothers us much. You're welcome if you mean no innocents harm, we kick out imperialists who spin yarns. So long as you're honest, though, come as you are, to glorious, peace-loving Grigovia.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

when goddess appears

In fog-bank she wanders, sometimes not alone, she vanishes as soon as her job is done. She sits with the lonely and shelters the weak, her ward is the selfless, the humble, the meek. Her owl it watches, both old man and kid, it reports and wanders as Odin's birds did. Her tools are adze, keyboard, paintbrush, pen, and gun; she's stern, fair, and gracious – no stranger to fun. To praise her raise banners of scarlet and gray, then take in a beggar and ask him to stay; be kind unto others, to those who need help, think more of your fellows and less of yourself; then roast you thick thigh-bones – some bovine ones please – avoid processed foodstuff and meats mixed with cheese; keep your body healthy, get out for a walk; fear little, don't worry, make no time to sulk. These guidelines are helpful, they will take you far, all hail our dear goddess – fair Nuuzstathena. Huzzah.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on stable eyes

She walks with high purpose, through troughs lows and highs, her one simple goal is to have stable eyes. Her hearing is solid, her sense of smell true, she withers when others tell her what to do. She's dabbled with lenses and had surgery, her dream is for stable eyes to set her free. With them she would look upon sea sky and star, her gaze would affix upon things near and far. Today though her peepers they wander and jump, they sap her willpower and cause her to slump. She's loyal and honest and says No to guys, now all that is missing are some stable eyes.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on crackling cold

The choke-hold of winter now strangles our eaves, it's cracking our knuckles and making us sneeze. For refuge we venture deep into the earth, where tunnels and crannies provide us with berth. With tubers and preserves our redoubts abound, perishables keep best when stored underground. Most homes have been shuttered, their pipes drained and dry, tasks performed with diligence, not on the fly. The caves we make cozy, with wood-fires and such, we're easy to pleasure and don't ask for much. Please stop being stubborn and come down below, we promise you'll be warmer than in the snow. It is our tradition, it is tried and true, we've picked out a splendid cave carved just for you. Set up your belongings, with whimsy unfurled, down in geothermally-warmed underworld.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

finger the lard

Now raise up your middle – go easy, retard – now hold it aloft pointed straight at the lard. One finger can say more than many words do, a timeless old chestnut that's always brand new. If one is not enough then lift middles two, the object will get it – he will smell a clue. Abandon all worry and be glad not cross, for this simple lesson will cure you of dross: when life it gnaws at you and just seems too hard, then lift middle finger straight up to the lard.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on the prostitot

Long of slender, silken thigh, never will the virtue die of our dear darling prostitot. Proud her bearing, bright her smile, whose supple body was defiled by men of ruthless, wanton groping – for her future we are hoping. Now she walks the avenues, in tiny skirts and worn-out shoes, her features by the year less hot, we love our darling prostitot.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

broken ax gap

Come open those peepers and fetch me mine map, and I'll tell a tale of the Broken Ax Gap. It started in Reno long before your birth, when I was a vagabond drunken with mirth. And whiskey and rotgut and slow-roasted bones, with whiz-bang and chutzpah, with elephant stones. It was me and Eddy, the Billygoat Crew, who together know more than fifty men do. We'd step into harness and make for high ground, we'd climb just about any tall thing around. Then one day came word of a peak far away, whose very existence I rue to this day. Its name is Tall Hatter, in Utah it be, it ended the friendship of Eddy and me. His aunt lived near Zion, we rode to her digs, with sacks full of walnuts and apples and figs. We climbed smaller, lesser peaks (which were all crap), then filled bag and belly and made for the Gap. A wind it did howl, some flurries blew in, a swirling white madness that ate at our skin. I then said to Eddy, Come now, friend, retreat! but he could not suffer to ever be beat. While I scraped for shelter he charged on alone, forever to vanish – consumed by the stone. The lesson here, for young and old: be sound and steady, truthful, bold, eat your veggies, smile and praise, these now are your golden days. Huzzah.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

orbital research success

The Near Earth & Orbital Telemetries Bureau of the Grigovian Exploration League (GEL) announced today the successful completion of an autonomously-operating prototype three dimensional (3D) printer. Mounted to an orbiting platform owned and operated by GEL the 3D device last night fabricated replacement parts and simple robotic limbs useful in the on-the-fly repair and maintenance of most any currently operating human space programme, at a fraction of the normal cost. “It is a proud day for Grigovia's mission beyond the surface of the planet,” said Yundoyest Ghebt, deputy director of product development at Theoduct Systems Inc., a materials manufacturer in Gar Nuuzsh that helped develop the new printer. “We can print items that deviate only a few microns from available production values. Nuuzstathena be with us as we reach for the stars.”

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

oh uhrburger

Its logo is clock-face its flavor is grand, the uhrburger is what we eat in this land. It is sourced from free-range and organic stock, it is lamb and chicken and beef and pork hock. It's plated with peppercorn and sourdough bread, add sauerkraut and a thick leafy green bed. We find it delicious and eat it year-round, try versions from city and hamlet and town. With beet it's delicious with kale and slaw too, its textures are hearty – they build and feed you. It's high time for juiciness and strong flavor, so sample the tender chunky uhrburger. Huzzah.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on eating school

Now sign up for eating, now come to our school, we'll help you learn how to use food as a tool. The machines we're fixing are human bodies, we'll wake up the liver and flush the kidneys. We do this with brassica, walnut, and herb, cravings regulated and habits disturbed. Admission is open, tuition is free, it's paid for by luxury import goods fees. Come break your addiction, to fat and sugar, come learn how to make pickled plums in a jar. We don't use aluminum or cook with steel, we coach you to cherish, appreciate, feel. Good health builds on consuming foods fresh and whole, that wake up the body and ignite the soul. These plants they grow freely, right in your own yard, it takes conscious effort but isn't that hard. Our students get starter kits of seed and soil, complete but for sunlight and water and toil. Come learn about calcium and manganese, come learn how to cultivate and eat from trees. Our lessons are founded, in traditions old, we share them with pleasure, to us they are gold. We welcome all comers, who yearn to be free, who cherish their Happiness and Liberty. Please cancel that order, of bacon and meats, unleash your potential, say goodbye to sweets. Your system is majestic, powerful, true, if treated right it will supercharge you.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on molting carapace

This 'rapace is ancient, compared to my peers, I've lived in rust-buckets for nearly five years. A new one will scamper, it will shine and dash, I need to find funding – I'm lacking in cash. In debt to the lenders, I'll have to take work, I'll maim blast and tunnel, I'll stab with my dirk. The jobs will be nasty, my soul it will rot, I'll barely be able to keep what I've got. My son will inherit, the system I molt, which calms my deep worries but fuels his revolt. He claims he is ready, to join me afield, he's trained in our tactics, a gun he can wield. He's spent a small fortune, his implants are sound, he begs me to let him put boots on the ground. His mother is silent, she turns in her grave, if only she knew of the choices I've made. Sometimes I'm called monster, because of my deeds, I serve faceless bidders, I tend to their needs. The lifestyle is brutal, it fills me with glee, I am cut-throat mechanized mercenary.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on mighty Ohrus

Now ruffle those feathers now put on wool socks, now join us in honoring the equinox. The night is stupendous, the darkness is long, we fill it with visits and dancing and song. We miss old man Ohrus, the shepherd of light, whose rhythms compel us to batten down tight. His wanderings vary, he scours the earth, his disc in this season gives us a wide berth. His sister fair Luna, she shines night and day, her phases say Harvest now or Plant today. We know he's returning, that he'll warm us soon, we yearn for those golden rays that make things bloom. The evenings shorten, the days they expand, the springtime shoots will all too soon fill the land. Now tend to the fire, now bank up the coals, discuss with us present needs and future goals. We've stored enough bounty, to give lend and share, you'll want not your worries and cancel your cares. The warmth is returning, to grace each of us, so dress up a tree-bough – all hail great Ohrus. Huzzah.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

oh towering spires

Oh towering spires that ring now with song, oh majestic, basaltic, wondrous Yiptlong. You guide our endeavors, we lend you our eyes, your peaks and white snow-caps do blot out the skies. You stand there unmoving, eternal, and stout, your depths they embrace us, you are our redoubt. We mine you for metal, we take of your hide, we venture down fissures that rend you inside. Your waters are fertile, your minerals warm, you give us both springtime rains and harvest storms. You keep the unwanted outsiders at bay, you shelter the friendly and welcome their stay. From you spring forth rivers, that run east and west, we cherish your waters, we love them the best. We vow to protect you, from threats large and small, we've slashed our emissions and built windmills tall. Your waters are sacred, we need them to thrive, they help us feel joyful, triumphant, alive. We lift up our voices, with sentiments strong, and honor you father, who art the Yiptlong. Huzzah.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

Grigovian coat armor - 19 DEC 2013

 

(from left to right the symbols mean: spirituality [moon], creativity [pen], watchfulness [eye], learning [scroll], commerce [the Y, or yindt], independence [beast holding own tether], and victory [laurels]. the symbol in the upper left is from Grigovian folklore, the swirl on the right is to represent the Golden Spiral - and thereby the Golden Rule - that permeates all aspects of the universe.)

brave, laudable Yutu

Now douse your surroundings now look you for clues, oh softly alighting fair sister Yutu. The surface marks easy, please reeve with light touch, now taste with your earphones at strata and such. Sans company wander, the surface of lunar, the Ynki you follow, he whom Russo beat, a long march behind you – of rainbows is rumor. Your patroness kingdom – she lies at the middle – our knowledge you buoy, our heartstrings you fiddle, of wonder elixir is not hide nor hair, not ever returning, back at us you stare. We soar with you gazing up at the same star, your comrades, as always – love Grigovia.

huzzah*huzzah*huzzah

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

to Luna

Traversing the skyscape with a soothing glance, behold her majestic and proud countenance. She is our bright sister, she waxes and wanes, she loves us through conflict and laughter and pain. Her touch pulls the oceans, it tugs at our veins, her glory for weeks we shall not see again. Her time is not fleeting, she does not know rush, she bathes us in whiteness, sometimes she can blush. Without her there would be no life on this rock, for that we do thank her, our hurtling clock. Now lift up your sockets, and watch the progress, of our dear friend Luna, sweet mother – goddess.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

read-hard

He fights at his level, he maintains his guard, his test scores are low because he's a read-hard. Big words don't come easy, letters don't make sense, enraged by this lacking he'll gnash cry and flense. It's not of his doing, he is not to blame, maternal malfeasance did foul up his game; his mother ate nothing but sweets chips and junk, she cursed his brain circuits, she caused him to flunk. She failed in her efforts, a task poorly done, knew not of good eating or sound nutrition. Please help this young fellow, deal him a new card, he's not just a dummy, he don't just read-hard. His Spirit is massive, his goodness is great, he gives to the needy and rarely comes late. Solutions are easy – his food is to blame – it's damaged his thinking and made his mind lame. So feed him a carrot, an apple and chard, to jump start his learning and cure his read-hard. Thank you now for reading, you wonderful beast, whose thinking comes easy, whose eyes here do feast. Please heal yourself also, don't eat things refined – your stomach will thank you, your essence will shine. Mahalo.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

amah, the mystery

We see it in livestock from Pryaghdoyest, as well as in wooden goods carved in the west. It sparkles in glass made from the Great Dune Sea; it vibrates in fiddles played perched on the knee. We taste it in homemade stews like arght and tchuirff, we praise it when landlocked Grigovians surf. It always surprises, it's never too much, we're never without it – so far does it touch. The Uzbeks don't have it – a pox on their lands! – it cannot be purchased or squeezed out of glands. It guides now the actions of honest and brave, it blesses the virtuous – girl king or slave. It fuels and forgives us, it helps us know right, we live in its shadow, we dress by its light. To find it stop looking, to know it know not, it fits neither pigeonhole, cranny, or slot. Instead strike a balance, reduce what you need, want nothing but freedom from sickness and greed. By these simple guidelines you too might yet be, amah the all-powerful great mystery.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

valiant lovely Nuuzstathena

Gaze north on a clear night from eastern Nuuzsh Gar, and look for the light that floats but is not star. With keen eyes you'll glimpse it (rejoice! it's good luck) the maiden picks wisely – not any old schmuck. Have done then with seeking, cast no further glance: the goddess is quick to lash out with her lance. She doesn't mind peeking but hates those who stare, at her shining breastplate and resplendent hair. The winds are her vessel, in dunes she resides, she calls forth the new moon, comfort she provides. She curses the greedy, blesses those who share, has made great kings cower with her flashing glare. Her wards are the artists and weavers and they, who charge into battle their foes there to slay. Look not at her Gorgon's head that Hercule won, or you'll turn to marble-stone and weight a ton. Her trusty companion is burrowing owl, who rides the high thermals always on the prowl. She watches us mostly, touches here and there, sometimes she is brutal always she is fair. To praise her be crafty and industrious, avoid wasteful shortcuts and don't make much fuss. Her feast-day is one week past Mid-Winter's night – spend time with friends, eat well, right wrongs, light a light. She welcomes all comes, from near and from far, fair goddess, wise patroness: Nuuzstathena!

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

a winter rhyme

Snows sit silent, wood and plain, 'till Springtime frees their prisms. Fires rise up well-kept flues now warming bones now heating stews of darkened early evenings. With mittens thick and scarves tucked in the young ones screech and scamper, their eyes spread wide their souls alight at magical shape-shifting. Now hunker down now bank the coals for it is time for reading, and making friends and singing songs and ginger-bread-dough kneading. The winds will lessen, times will change, and soon we'll be to planting, now crack a smile now grab your mate for it is time for dancing. Huzzah.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

salvia arkhangelskiya blooms

With a green and brownish shoot that pushes through frozen soil to form a squat whitish blossom the plant species salvia arkhangelskiya has begun to bloom. White is the Yiptlong massif with its blossoms, white too is the Grigovian High Plain. Eschewing animal-assisted reproduction the species spreads instead its pollen on the strong and bitter winds that lash the region during the winter months; pollinated blossoms fall off within the day, the squat stalk soon shrivels, but the wide and hairy leaves last for at least a fortnight, during which time they contain the highest concentrations of micro-nutrients and beneficial trace-minerals. Pick them before the wind tears them from the ground and flings them into the high heavens, and make of them a tea to cure head-sickness or a compress for cut and burned flesh. When steeped and drank they boost the human circulatory system and help to flush the kidneys. Put them in the shoes to cut noisome odors and wash your rooms with their smoke, which neutralizes the air and chases away dark spirits. Praise be unto the Great Spirit for blessing us with this plant. Huzzah.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

soup saves solar

Building on years of research conducted at solar farms from Qatar to New Mexico, scientists at schools such as the Eastern Grigovian Technical College (EGTC) now store the sun's energy in thick stew. Unlike other solar reactors that sequesters the rays of Sol in molten salt, the Grigovian system uses rich broths filled with nutritious seasonal ingredients such as carrots, beets, leeks, parsnips, and garlic. Sociologists praised the decision to use edible liquids, saying that such systems could be used to both fight hunger and store sustainable energy. “It is delicious,” said Theggorast Yu'uyendt, professor of poverty studies of Pylta the Terrible University, while eating his third bowl of tchuirff and yellow curry goulash. A mobile version of the system is in development for use in areas stricken by natural disasters or wherever access to piping hot, tasty soup threatens to be disrupted. “The system was originally built to run on plain water,” said Y'annina Hourthogarst, 19, of University of Grigovia, Gar Nuuzsh, “but someone loaded it with an assortment of tasty tubers and healthy herbs, and it not only stored solar power more efficiently but via swift circulation and high heat made a delectable stew. Fascinating.”

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

yucca leaves shoot

With similarities including ones of climate and geological composition the Grigovian High Plateau hosts readily plants from America's Southwest. Amorphously clustered plots seeded with agave already parallel Highway 7 as it bisects the Glorious Republic from Iysh to Pryaghdoyest, and yucca stalks are joining them – a useful and hardy variety is the soapstone yucca; at least a dozen local cooperatives in Gar Nuuzsh are employed in pounding the soapstone's root for soap and shredding its bark for fire-starters. And the redolent evergreen shrub salvia arkangelskiya grows thickly throughout the Arid High Plateau and is closely related to salvia apiana, the holy bee sage. Local histories resound with stories of its healing abilities. Grigovia flourishes under the weight of liberty. Syntathena be praised, deep is the bounty of the land. Huzzah.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

Grigovia gives thanks

Adopting traditions made popular abroad, the people of the Glorious Republic of Grigovia today express their gratitude. They're thankful for food and bicycles, health-care and archery, rainbows and chocolate cake; they celebrate by sharing food with needy neighbors; they visit one another to say their thank-yous; they contribute to food pantries and charities, and assemble care packages that they then send to refugees of imperialistic overreach living in Turkey, Palestine, Europe, and North Africa. But unlike in the West, where wage slaves must show up at their jobs on a day called Thanksgiving or lose them, in Grigovia only emergency service personnel are allowed to work. Huzzah, then, for the gracious Banoyend, and let thankfulness reign.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

all accounts settled

For the fifteenth time since its self-liberation from the Union of Soviet Socialist States in 1988, the Glorious Republic of Grigovia balanced its national budget and imported exactly as much as it exported. “We consume no more than we make, our economy is modernizing rapidly, and our population is swelled with 20,000 refugees fleeing the crises in Syria,“ said Dr. Eleyina Uourendt, chief economist at the Grigovian Foreign Trade Council, a think-tank. “We are in a good spot, I think.” Researchers estimate that measures designed to dial back the nation's political and regulatory systems to levels conducive to the full exercise of Liberty have spilled over already into the economic sector, with a free market determining supply and demand in this Central Asian nation of some 4 million souls. “It is a lucrative and an efficient time to be doing business in Grigovia,” said Henri Rousseau-Riyennd, a French-Grigovian professor of macroeconomics at Pylta the Terrible University in Pyltagrad. “To us who call the Yiptlong home, the Global Recession is merely hypothetical.”

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

extra pocket invented

Building on the success of his Second Pouch line of sew-on sweatshirt additions, local inventor and entrepreneur Eugene B. Hsu recently patented the X-Tra Pocket. Critics denounce X-Tra Pocket a just a rectangular piece of cloth with a zipper sewn into one end that consumers buy and then sew onto the pair of pants of their choosing, and that if these seamstresses are already sewing bits of other cloth onto their clothes they can just as fucking well include their own zipper for a tenth of the cost, of which Mr. Hsu was having none. “We use only the finest zippers made using the highest quality materials,” the man said while typing away furiously on a battered laptop. “Plus, our zipper is configured to provide the consumer with efficient and noiseless access to the contents of her new pocket, therefore cutting down on the number of bags she has to carry and making her life more simple.” As part of a demonstration, the inventor yelled at a girl sitting at a sewing machine nearby in a language other than English. The girl shed a single tear and then quickly affixed using green thread an orange-colored X-Tra Pocket (complete with aggressively-styled logo and a prominently-placed copyright symbol) to a pair of maroon corduroy pants. Not wanting to further upset the visibly irate Mr. Hsu further, all in attendance clapped politely.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

greatly grounded Grigovia

From the marshes in the West down to the sands of eastern borders we of old and ancient blood do treasure all our soils. Rich in traces rare and true, mountain-ranges high and blue do hide the vastness of our wealth, we who share with all who need it, we whose skills are speed and stealth. Every sifting pans a mint now, every spadeful yields a trove, liquefied or still in nuggets, all are gifts from Yennd above. Now our mines do sing with labor, now they form a deadly tomb, years of toil wrought in iron, plentiful the earthen womb. Soil loamy, filled with promise, crops that leap to skies above, rich and endless is the feasting, livestock fattens in the stables, rain-soaked patterns paint the dirt. Oh fair Mother, endless giver, take this paltry offering, drink of blood and tears and sunshine, think of us when next you quiver, shaking mountain, bluff, and plain. Yours is mercy, rot and ruin, yours is fame and quick delight, you we praise now, Earthly mistress, see us through this one last night. Soon enough our bones we'll give you, soon enough we'll turn to ash, feeding then the creeping critters, we all merge with you at last. Keep us humble, founded, giddy, hold us when the skies turn gray, slay our doubts and ancient troubles, guide us on the smoothest way.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on mu'untha bright

Long she rises short she rides, she whose face now wax now wanes whom we all hope will sail again through inky even blackness. Here her face deep red does shine, there it sports an orange hue, as her cheeks with steady glowing through the shadows gladly pierce. Crisp the contours of her chin that one can follow with a glass, tracing patterns, mare to mare, from impact spot to ancient sea that surely she once cherished. Bright in day as through the night she trumps in power ocher Sol, shining always down upon us, never resting, never dull. How she does it we know neither, how her surface keeps on shining when her back is to the sun, how she does it in square rhythm, none can fathom, not a one. Cease with vexing thoughts and patterns and lay back to watch her work, spy her ferry shipwrecked souls straight back to harbors whence they came. In her glory she surpasses all the other bodies bright, for her tugging keeps our oceans and our rivers running right, oh elusive mu'untha darling, in your clockwork course of old, shelter with us hopeful mortals, silver-faced and always watching, never late and never due, always shining, always new.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

organic gardens grow

From Pyltagrad to Gar Nuuzsh, from Pryaghdoyest to Iysh, Grigovia blossoms and blooms. In the dead of winter, through the fiercest of wind, when the sun is barely shining, somehow the babushkas of the Banoyend coax life from the dark and the loamy soils. They eschew chemical fertilizers, using instead rotted leaves and manure; they do not weed but use ground cover, preferring to stop unwanted plants from growing instead of killing them after they have already sprouted. They are industrious and shrewd, resourceful and clever, humble and conscientious. If there is a better way to celebrate the Second Day of National Independence than by feeding oneself from one's own blessed soil, we have yet to discover it. Huzzah.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

white Nazi rapists

In an apparent effort to clear his own name and that of the NFL franchise he owns, Daniel Snyder announced plans to change the name of his Washington D.C.-based team to the White Nazi Rapists. “Polling shows that the new name is just about as unacceptable as its predecessor – the Redskins – which some indigenous tribes said offended them to the extent that the word nigger offends the black,” he said openly and without visible dismay at a press conference earlier this afternoon. “It is my hope that, as a Jewish person, using the word Nazi to describe the team I own will show my impartiality to racial slurs, and my general lack of racialist tendencies – it's OK to be racially insensitive so long as you're doing it against your own race, right? Furthermore, I wish to own a team called the Rapists, a term and a concept hated universally.” “This whole thing just went from bad to worse,” said Ray Halbritter, spokesperson for the Oneida Nation, which filed the objections that led to the current conversation about the use of objectionable names by professional organizations. “Not only do sports team continuously slander us and our fellow First Peoples by using names such as Chief or Brave or Indian, the ur-dick owner of a certain local team now appears to be doubling down on his absurdly senseless offensiveness.” During the press conference Mr. Snyder revealed a preliminary sketch of the logo for his newly renamed team, which shows a slack-jawed Caucasian man in a swastika armband holding a length of rope in one hand and a pipe-wrench in the other whose pants are straining to contain his visibly swollen member. “People freaked when a pretty girl kissed a nerdy boy in a commercial during the Superbowl last year,” said Kandace Franko-Jaice, spokeswoman for Protect American Values in Sports, a media-in-professional-sports watchdog group. “I can hardly wait to see what happens when they hear about the, uh, the Washington White Nah... until they hear about Mr. Snyder's plan to rebrand his team.”

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

yoga institute opens

Six months after officially declaring that access to yoga instruction is an essential right of Grigovian citizenship, the first dedicated yoga institute opened this week, in Grig. Built around the notion that persons who practice yoga properly tend to lead healthier, happier, and more productive lives, the Grigovian Institute of Yogic Studies (grinyost) is dedicated to training yogis from around the world to teach this ancient art to the Banoyend. Housed in refurbished warehouse space adjacent to the Yalung River and mere blocks from the newly refurbished Liberty Illuminating the World, grinyost offers a dozen large rooms for classes up to fifty people, smaller rooms for groups of up to fifteen, and private quarters for one-on-one training. The organization's main meeting hall can seat five hundred persons and accommodate well over two hundred fifty yoga practicing yogis. All rooms have wooden floors and access to fresh air and sunlight. The building is certified environmentally friendly, with the majority of its electricity coming from roof-mounted solar panels and wind turbines; it has a full acre of rooftop gardening space, an osmotic wastewater treatment plant in the basement, and in-house laundry service. The top-most floors have been converted into short-term, dormitory-style living areas for traveling yogis, and its location in Grig's main backpacking quarter means that visitors can access affordable lodging and lively entertainment without traveling more than a few blocks. As part of its incentive plan to attract skilled yoga instructors from around the world, the Glorious Republic of Grigovia is offering a year's worth of room, board, and airfare into and out of the country to the first one hundred qualified individuals to sign up the grinyost website. Thank you for reading, and huzzah.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

local caves reopened

Shuttered in the final days of Communist rule by bureaucrats fearful of looting, the Douyriyest Aandt cave system in eastern Grigovia reopened this weekend. Refurbished by a group of investors with financial help and guidance from the National Artifact and Treasure Restoration Loan Society (NATRLS), the caves are once again open to the public. Featuring many sights including the Wizard's Spire, a 50-foot-high stalagmite that glitters in the beam of a bright flashlight, Douyriyest Aandt is on this year's short list for the Treasures of the Banoyend, a regional list of protected landmarks, an its inclusion into the UNESCO system of World Treasures is pending approval with that body. “Although we do not have any of the size or sheer volume of, say, Karlsbad Caverns, in New Mexico USA, our caves are rumored to be the prettiest and most glittery in all of Central Asia,” said John Ulloyest-Randall, one of the businesspersons directly involved in the project. “The Douyriyest Aandt cave system is less than an hour drive south-east of Gar Nuuzsh; it and the Great Dune Sea make for excellent road trip opportunities.” For tickets to see the caves, please visit the website for Grigovair, Grigovia's regional airlines. Flights leave daily from Tehran, Tashkent, Damascus, Kabul, and Islamabad.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

eighth veil pierced

Following a centuries-old Grigovian tradition of feting any person who successfully locates and masters all eight Challenges of Skill & Mastery, the Glorious Republic of Grigovia today celebrated Yuoyest Uouiyind, aged 14, of Pryaghdoyest. Located each year at different spots around this landlocked Central Asian nation, each Challenge of Skill & Mastery can be reached only on foot or horseback, and participants have from All Hallow's Eve until Second National Independence Day on November 20th to locate and beat them. The final act of each Challenge is to symbolically pierce a veil, which in times past meant using a sword or dirk to cut a hole in a piece of hanging cloth but which today involves not cutting but hacking into one of several websites listed at the individual locations. Ms. Uouiyind is the youngest contestant ever to win the title of Skilled Mistress of Challenges; she studies neurobiology and mathematics at the Che Guevara Secondary School for Biology in her hometown in southern Grigovia. Reports speak of impromptu parades across Grigovia in the young lady's honor, although the state parade is scheduled for noon on this coming Saturday along the Avenue of the Victims of Imperialistic Oppression in beautiful downtown Grig.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

regional relationships reinforced

As part of a yearly tradition of walking mountain passes before winter snows set in, a group of Grigovian luminaries and elected officials visited its main border crossings. At the main border crossing into Turkmenistan, they met with delegates of that country's tribes-people and religious leaders, and shared in a great feast under canvas tents. At the main border crossing into Afghanistan, they were greeted by their Afghani neighbors with great kindness, and after another joyful feast exchanged gifts of silver and gold. And at the main border crossing into Iran they met with imam and Revolutionary Guardsman, scientist and scholar, some of the brightest and wisest of Iranian society. Long into the night, the neighbors discussed events in their region and around the world, pledging to bring their findings before their legislative bodies and stand strong in the face of Ynki imperialism. Talk turned to creating a common currency, and to strengthening cultural ties and jointly improving regional roads to facilitate regional trade. May the gods bless the Banoyend and their generous and peace-loving neighbors. Huzzah.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

new flag planned

Following the recent re-valuation of its currency and its improved opinion in the hearts of men the Glorious Republic of Grigovia announced it is seeking a new flag. Members of the public are invited to submit their own designs. The Grigovian Historical Society – for nearly 200 years the organization tasked officially with recording cultural variations in clothing trends and building styles and native methods of song and dance – has compiled a brief list of guidelines, saying that one should design a version of the flag after having pondered deeply the following words: crevasse, height, defile, dawn, meadow, tunnel, liberty, justice, resistance, defiance, joy, grace, alertness, pride, humility, impenetrable, shimmer, bronco, adapt, beauty, simplicity. To allow time for redesign and feedback, the finalists for new flag will be announced a week before Grigovian Second Independence, on 20 November. Please participate.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on curing SAD

For nearly a century, Grigovian researchers puzzled over the abnormally large numbers of depressed people living in deep valleys high up in the Yiptlong Massif. Some blamed the soured spirits on economics or politics or religion, but a few tenacious scientists began to see patterns in their data, patterns that cut across economic and religious and political lines. Was something in the water fouling the collective mood? they asked, and, Could the cause be genetic? Questions vanished with the discovery of Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), a condition brought about primarily by insufficient exposure to sunlight. In the wake of SAD, tanning salons in Grigovia's larger cities did a brisk business, but persons living in outlying areas remained depressed, sullen, withdrawn, and grumpy. Plans were drawn up to install artificial sunlight delivery units in public baths in regional population centers throughout Grigovia's higher elevations, but the projected maintenance and electrical costs involved were deemed too high. Then, however planners heard about a Norwegian town installing arrays of sun-tracking heliostats on the tops of the hills that used to shield it from the light of Sol, and they raced to set up copycat operations on Grigovian soil. The first bank of sun-tracking heliostats has been installed 15 kilometers north-west of Grig in the town of Phuir, where it now redirects, on sunny days, a constant stream of bright sunlight onto the town's central square. Local health officials indicate that, at least among the town's elderly persons wheeled out into the square on cloudless days, moods seem to be lifting. More on this story as it develops. Huzzah.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on wombPod

Banking on reports that show that the ages of children using digital media keep dropping each year, major worldwide electronics manufacturers began scrambling to capture one of the last growth markets – unborn children. “We are calling it the wombPod,” said Elaiyne-Rohz Hammerstein, chief marketing director for Apple Inc., North America. “Essentially, it is a tiny device installed in a minimally-invasive surgical procedure directly into the ear-canal of a developing fetus, whereby a parent can alleviate their spawn's boredom and provide it entertainment while it grows in the womb.” “Of course, Apple already snagged the best name,” said Aryujan Arundujan, lead marketing strategist for HeadsUP Inc., a portable digital electronics company. “But we plan to go a step further by providing an elastic mount by which to attach a screen to the front of the fetal unit's head, thereby providing it not only audio but also visual stimulation.” Moral objections to compromising the amniotic sac for anything less than a life-saving procedure were dismissed in light of the vast profit margins associated with young children becoming addicted to artificial stimuli.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

soup wins prize

At the bi-annual Grigovian Traditional Stew and Soup competition, a single recipe won the highest awards for Best in Show, Best Lingering Flavour, and Longest Staying Power / Greatest Nutritional Value. The soup – a borscht-like stew thickened with oil of czabtyip, suffused with organic vegetables, and riddled with chunks of braised goose-meat – was submitted by Uyiast Ouyend, a 94 year-old woman who lives in the hills north-east of Pryaghdoyest. She plans to use the prize money – 250 yind (roughly $500) – to upgrade her village's defensive perimeter and get a new trigger-assembly for her vintage SKS battle rifle.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

map of Grigovia

biodiesel program initiated

Citing concerns about the long-term feasibility, fundamental morality, and ongoing reliability of shipments of oil from Saudi Arabia and natural gas from Russia, the Glorious Republic of Grigovia began the process of shifting its motor-pools to biodiesel. “For too long we have ignored a fuel source that is renewable and that we grow here at home, preferring instead products sold by authoritarian regimes,” said Dr. Frederikka Velldoyend, Grigovia's prime minister. “With help from foreign and local experts and funded by sizable investment in the research and development of biodiesel technologies at our major universities, we expect Banoyend to have thrown off the yoke of foreign petrochemical by beginning of next decade.” One major stipulation of the Mandate for Energy Independence, or MAENIN, is that a majority of the plant material used to make Grigovian biodiesel come not from dedicated biomass but rather from waste such as rotten or spoiled or insect-ravaged crops, tree trimmings, construction and industrial wood-tailings, fallen leaves, and residential grass clippings. “Our preliminary research shows that the local timber and construction industries alone produce enough leftover wood scraps to provide biodiesel for half of Grigovia's government motor pool,” said Ryain Uloyenst-Hong, an American-Grigovian professor of applied sciences on sabbatical from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT). “Once we prove its feasibility and economy by converting our military and government vehicles to run on this native-grown fuel source, we plan to make it available across Grigovia,” said Theorovask Iyend, public liaison for the country's Interior Ministry. “In just a few years, at major fueling stations from Pyltagrad to Gar Nuuzsh, from Pryaghdoyest to Iysh, the Grigovian will be able to recharge or refill her vehicle with renewable electricity from solar and wind, imported gasoline, or local biodiesel. Huzzah.” Persons interested in brewing their own biodiesel should visit the Interior Ministry's website, where they will find detailed blueprints for building a biodiesel distillery, safety guidelines, and links to public funding sources. MAENIN is the newest phase in Grigovia's efforts to ween itself off fossil and non-renewable fuels. Over the past two years it has increased its energy production from geothermal and wind sources to cover 30% of national demand.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

Grigovian delegation recalled

Citing the official classification of drone strikes as crimes of war, the Glorious Republic of Grigovia (GROG) ceased diplomatic relations with the United States of America. “So long as Mr. Obama insists on the extra-judicial and illegal killing of persons in sovereign nations around the world, Grigovia shall view him as hostile to peace, freedom, and justice,” said Dr. Eiyast Hyuyend, foreign minister of GROG. “Our nation deals only with regimes that foster cooperation and compassion amongst peoples, not with those that use flying death-robots to wantonly destroy lives, hope, and peace.” Along with cessation of diplomatic relations GROG announced a nationwide boycott on trade with the American Empire. The Yundex, Grigovia's premier stock exchange, rallied moments at the announcement as local business scrambled to strengthen its solid ties with markets in Asia and Africa. Huzzah.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

the people speak

As part of its drive to rid itself of superfluous institutions, the Glorious Republic of Grigovia prepared to hold referenda during most of November in order to gauge its citizens' mood for sweeping societal change. “For months now, branches of the National Group to Reinstate Liberty (NGRL) situated around Grigovia have been scouring the most successful and most free cultures of past and present looking for methods to govern and regulate consensual human interaction in as unobtrusive a way as possible,” said Uontoyest Inndt, deputy director of NGRL. “After chewing over and filtering out those elements most likely to secure the Blessings of Liberty to the greatest number of people in a society, we are ready to present our findings to the Grigovian citizenry and allow them to decide how great a leap they are willing to take in their quest for freedom and equality.” Grigovia has shut down a number of its branches of government, among them most of the Taxation Bureau, the long-defunct Censorship Bureau, and the Bureau for the Control of Deadly Substances. Former government employees are receiving training to help them reintegrate into the civilian economy. Organs of government scheduled to stay open but slated for restructuring are the Department of Civil Defense, the Department of Education for Youth, and the Department of Bridges and Roadways. Citizens are invited to contact NGRL or comment on this article with additional suggestions for how it should proceed. Huzzah, and long live Liberty in the glory of gregarious Grigovia.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

currency recoupled

Acting in the knowledge that currencies not pegged to physical media tend to be unstable and inflationary, the Glorious Republic of Grigovia started the process of coupling the yind to valuable and useful metals such as copper, platinum, and titanium. “During the Soviet occupation of our country from 1953 to 1988 our currency was enslaved to Russia's ruble,“ said Ridtgarst Youlendt, spokesman for the Grigovian Mint. “And from 1990 until 2002 the yind was tied to the United States Dollar. Since 2002 it has been pegged to the Euro, but in a referendum the Grigovian citizenry cried foul of this arrangement.” The recent discovery – in old 18th century iron mines located in the north-eastern Yiptlong massif – of large reserves of platinum and titanium led the Grigovian people to call for greater independence from foreign powers in things monetary and military. “Just this year we destroyed attempts by the Rothschilds to take over the Grigovian Central Bank, and we are actively thwarting efforts by the United States of America to overthrow our own democratically elected government,” said Dr. Eleinah Turyendt, state secretary of finance. “With wise and patient measures we are confident in our abilities to hammer out the details of returning to the gold standard.” The change should be completed by November 20th, Grigovia's second official national independence holiday during which it commemorates its self-liberation from Persian rule in 250 B.C.E. Huzzah.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

Grigovian team deployed

At the behest of the Arab League and with the intention of helping end the civil war in Syria, the Glorious Republic of Grigovia sent a highly decorated team of veteran negotiators to bring both sides of the conflict to the table. “In addition to the team of negotiators, other Grigovian teams will be helping to patrol Syria's borders in order to prevent more Saudi Arabian black operations teams from launching any more gas attacks against innocent civilians,” said Heirdoyesst Ont, head of Grigovia's Foreign Assistance Board. Experts expect the war in Syria to end only when American, British, and Israeli intervention in the internal conflict also ends.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

gracious, grateful Grigovia

The time is upon us, the crops they are ripe, we Banoyend do give to Thankfulness hype. The larders are brimming, the silos are full, we're sitting on mountains of roots hemp and wool. The evenings come sooner, the days they grow short, come share of our bounty and fresh apple torte. The communes breathe easy, the comrades they rest, at least until month's end, 'till Thank-and-Praise-Fesst. Get ready for dancing, for games and much cheer, we're known for our fessting, by its light we steer. Our customs are rooted, in habits long true, we keep them unaltered, like a favorite shoe. Our mountains are craggy, our homes they are warm, so come by your lonesome, or in a great swarm. We welcome all peoples, regardless of race – or hairstyle, fashion sense, timing, or taste. Our buses are shiny, our planes are brand-new, we've tunnels aplenty, and fine hostels, too. So pack some stout britches and your biggest smile, our arms are wide open – come stay for a while.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥gracious, grateful Grigovia

Liberty shines anew

Under the vigilant eye of the country's leading metallurgic and molecular chemists, and funded primarily by generous financial contributions from average Grigovian citizens, a small army of technicians has started to apply layers of non-toxic chemicals to the exterior of Liberty Enlightening the World. The American government had sold her to Grigovia after de-funding its Park ​Service, and since then the statue has been carefully resurrected on Free Spit (formerly Mad Spit, for the insane asylum once located there), an island that rises from the Yalung River in the heart of cosmopolitan Grig. “All we need now is a good hard rain,” said Dr. Fiyennd Gharszt, who designed the witch's brew being applied to Liberty's copper panels. Once activated by water, the chemicals will turn her golden once more, a flashing shining goddess for all the world to see. “The water-activated compounds bind to any piece of oxidized copper, loosening it from the substrate at the molecular level and allowing it to run down the supple folds of our lady's flowing robes, where it will collect in catchment basins at her feet,” said Eleinna Hyourst-Rahdt, a former molecular biologist and current volunteer who manages a portion of the donated funds. While it is inevitable that some of the runoff will enter the sparkling Yalung River, Dr. Gharszt was adamant that it posed a threat to neither flora nor fauna and that it would in no way negatively impact farms or wildlife downstream. “We have been testing these compounds for months,” he said, “and in every scenario, the bits of oxidized copper separated from the molecules to which they were bound shortly after the bonding took place, whereupon they settled to the ground and were absorbed into the sediment without a noticeable impact on river grass or fishes. As it meanders through the moraine field north of Grig the Yalung naturally picks up its of tin, gold, and copper; our meager contribution will hardly matter.” Renovations to Liberty Enlightening the World are scheduled to be completed in time for the second the Glorious Republic of Grigovia's yearly independence ceremonies, on November 20th, during which it commemorates its self-liberation from Persian rule in 250 B.C.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

Justice arrives swiftly

As an unexpected consequence of the Tea-Party-orchestrated shutdown of the federal government of the United States of America, a segment of software that calculates the wages and benefits of that nation's Senators and Congressmen also reset. “We have tried rebooting the system dozens of times,” said Charles Ringelholder of the Congressional Budget Office (CBO), who oversees the payment of salaries. “And a number of different information technology specialists are currently trying to overwrite the existing code and debug the computers in question, but, still, the same results. It is strange.” Since the reset, the salaries of Congressmen and Senators have been adjusted to the level of the federal minimum wage, paying out as if they had worked 40 hours a week for 40 weeks (although statistics show they rarely work this much). Furthermore, all attempts by them to access their usual medical and health benefits have been denied, whereby they and their families have all been added to the rolls of MediCare. “This is an outrage,” said John Boehner, Speaker of the House. “I can't be expected to pay for my medicinal teeth-bleaching sittings and therapeutic tanning sessions, can I?! We voted to raise our salaries every year for, heck, I can't even remember how long, and to give ourselves and all our dependents access to the finest medical care and health insurance – all on the taxpayer's dime, mind you – and by golly we will have those privileges in addition to the vast power that comes from being an elected people's representative, or else we just won't come to work. Period.” Unconfirmed technical reports speak of a ghost-in-the-shell, a phantom bit of code that continues to bring Justice to bombastic beltway blowhards. Authorities have been quick to point fingers at a variety of different groups, from Russian and Chinese hackers to the Anonymous confederacy. Recent polling shows that an overwhelming majority of American citizens welcome this development, and hope that it is permanent.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

blowback mechanism debuts

Building on the success of its RPT line of personal defense weapons, the Pylta Regina Firearms Factory (PRFF) announced a new option for 2014. “RPT stands for Regina Pylta Terret,” said Thendogarst Oiylyindt, chief operating officer of PRFF. “Our slogan is, 'Easy enough, even for grandmother.' For good reason, too: our weapons are designed so that most any Grigovian – from 12 year-old member of the League of Youth Defenders to 90 year-old matriarchal block commander – can pick one up and following simple instructions drop fools from two hundred yards in defense of the motherland.” Similar to a certain popular Russian firearm, RPT rifles are designed to fire even if filled with sand, rusted shut, frozen, wet, or dropped from a 2-story building. “Our newest feature we call delayed blowback,” said Poli Daryoust while she was field-stripping and reassembling the first RPT models to emerge from the production line. “After bullet is fired, some of gas produced is stored in a chamber in the butt of rifle. When shooter is ready for next round to be chambered, she thumbs this button here, which cycles spent round out and loads another. This makes rifle more accurate compared to when fired in semi-automatic mode – for sniping situations – but of course eliminates folding stock.” Fully automatic mode is available only in the military version of the rifle; civilian models feature semi-automatic, bolt-action, and delayed blowback. Visit PRFF's official company website for more details, and happy wastreling.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

foodPAC - culinary rap

(the devices used to write, shoot, edit, and upload this video were charged using solar power)



text:

Picture me rolled up in an herb and cheddar blend – I got no love for dough-mixers, or for non-laying hens – they've got me wrapped up in foil, switching butter for spread, they know this roast's getting cold – its wrapping's undone. Now I don't wanna use a cheapo blender, I gotta fry at least a half a dozen chicken tenders. Some waiters always wanna feel the bread! Let's put those chocolates out instead, now we're gonna use these greens to make a bed, for salmon red. Now will I sieve – how will I sieve? Will cod forgive for all the steps I never took, to make it cook? Last slice to give, it's so hard to tie up these ribs, when sticky fingers stain the bib. Momma I'm turducken, my hoochie's a calzone, my homies is half-baked, yet most of 'em eaten, and gone. Farm-grown – finally ham! – still looking for ways to drip fat into the cracks of that baking-pan. Just picture me rolled in – flour and eggs in pots that isn't scalding, my outside's crispy, my inside's done, you know I dry up quick if all my stuffing's gone, my skin's been brushed, heart's baking, and my eggs is poaching, thinking up more ways to be frozen, just picture me rolled in…

I've got cheese, seasoned with salt from seas, cost a sous-chef a wad of peas. On this sheet, prepared, cooled, lie many fresh scampi, this ravished lunch crowd is primed and jumpy, so I've got to toss because I'm all out of that au-jus flavor, salad-spinning without a bread-bowl maker, so many pastry-bakers, pepper-shakers, from racks hanging, against some iron pots they're banging. So I'm lighting pilot flames, soup tastes lame, boiling ham hocks stew on an iron range. So much jelly, Brie, and gravy, honey from a swarm of bees, now I'm whisking up a half a dozen eggs into a light, and creamy, fluffy foam, pulling fresh roots that grow only in loam. Now the cook she's in her zone, not hearing no one, treating this kitchen as if it were her home. I'm beating the cream, broccoli's steamed, and hot-pockets bulging. That's hardly a teaspoon. Picture me rolled in…

I gotta find a bigger bin… for all these capers, because these cookies' straight suffering from a lack of baking papers. My cakes didn't rise, properly, so now I've got to get some yeast from a bakery. I've prepped some boneless, skinned chops, they're frying with all that they've got, sprinkle in some pepper, hot, put that chicken in a pot, all right?

I cooked some cutlets, they could have used a bit more mustard, we plate up grits most every weekend, and dough and flatbread, we can't be late again and let that one Korean food-truck commandeer our primo spot. I'll heat the liquor, and you can roast the entrails, this wicked crust will let us set up shop in retail.

Grooved spoons whip up mounds of butter – yeah, that tastes fine – it's smoothed without peanut butter, just using tines. Are you satisfied? Do you think this roasted duck or two whole hocks are bigger, you steam-pipe pot-jiggler? Just picture us rolled in…