with righteous fanfare

Unearthed from some tundra in a mountain pass is a woolly rhino of world-stunning class, an albino specimen fully intact with food in her guts and with young in her tract. Her size is diminutive she is a dwarf and with righteous fanfare was moved to a wharf and transported quickly lest her tissues thaw and we lose the residues trapped in her maw. Once probed measured sequenced to the nth degree will her pelt and nashorn once more day's light see. It's true she was pregnant when her life did end way up by what's now called as the Sharp Northern Bend where our river Yalung does make a quick right in its snowed-in valley – a curious sight. A shepherd did spy her while out on the vold and knew in an instant that her bones were old and called up the b'andzar to tell of the find then set off a few vagrant lamb-chops to find. Eroded by currents of the nearby stream whose banks with all manner of artifacts teem a landslide exposed to the wildlife around what had until then been trapped in frozen ground. Genetic material pried from her chest will allow researchers her time-line to guess and possibly reveal what caused her to shrink so that from the cup of her secrets we drink. Come by when she's ready and look on her size and stare into her round and sorrowful eyes and learn of her past in the great snowy time before our own species did learn how to rhyme.

​© americanifesto / 場黑麥

in her wisdom

There is a soothsayer whose verbage is true who lives in a cave without comfort or shoes or access to wi-fi or much in the way of modern distractions to consume her days. Her cavernous murky and well-hidden home is not hers to live in by herself alone but with her are strong men and girls who reside to make sure she's safe and fed and stays alive. The crone in her wisdom does not leave her lair and since she was 10 she has not cut her hair and her words resound in ears hearts and souls where they take a lasting and powerful toll. She speaks to all comers and won't turn away such persons as have not much money to pay – for all of the drachmas and other such mint are used just to suppot her soothsaying stint. She's spoken to paupers and to heads of state and opens to everyone her speaking-gate then sits back and closes her young lively eyes and sees through the shrewdest and most cunning lies. Her clients are housewifes old weary and weak the rich and the mighty the bold and the meek and hers are hard truths that now soothe and now sting that make people weep cry out rejoice and sing. So come with your question and one or two more and knock on the old lady's stout wooden door and sit for a moment to bask in the words of this old Grigovian truth-telling bird.

​© americanifesto / 場黑麥

heater for nigh

He'd been on a heater for nigh on a week and long was his successful brash winning-streak. His game it was poker his foes were a bunch of backstabbing gangsters who never skipped lunch his luck was as long as his skills they were deep but he made too many of the others weep and they started cheating conspired against this man who too few too far-apart friends. He cursed the high heavens when he started losing and soon turned to whiskey and other such boozing and spent his last dollar on drinking away the sorrow and anger of that darkened day. But not beer nor liquor could obscure the fact that his soul was constantly under attack from greediness and a foul yearning for more the likes of which have not been much seen before. Then after a week more of losing he sold a watch that was studden with diamonds and gold that he'd been presented with not long ago – quite desperate was he to have sunk so low. With bills and calls mounting to pay off his debts he wondered how much worse his poor life could get then choked on a porkchop one night at a bar and wandered outside but could not find his car for it had been repo'd and he had to walk and all the way home a dark figure did stalk. The fight it was over before it began and off into darkness the dark figure ran and the man bled out on a worn broken stair with holes in his stomach and blood in his hair. There was no memorial no persons mourning and bright shone the sun on the very next morning and his chair was filled at the poker game by another too-gready and -liquored up guy.

​© americanifesto / 場黑麥

bounty and plenty

Long has she watched over fair Grigovia – our welcoming mother bright Ma'atronya. She holds to her bosom great bundles of wheat and full cornucopia lie at her feet and a healthy child sits there on her lap who looks like he'd just woken up from a nap. First mentioned in the ancient Edda of Grie from one thousand thirty and two B.C.E. her rein's not been shaken by harshness or drought or when there was bounty and plenty about. With blessings and mercy she comforts the weak and few are the comforting words that she speaks but when they are spoken they can't be unheard for hers are some lasting and powerful words. In every home altar she takes up a space she helps us our problems with fortitude face she helps us remember what we've long forgot – that none of our efforts are ever for naught. We praise and uplift her on every full moon for hers is a fertile mysterious womb where dream hope and passion do enter and stay and go grow to fruition with each passing day. On the equinoxes we praise her once more by draping bright garlands from window and door by hugging each other and passing out food to each needy mother to each vagrant dude. Come join in the warmness of this quiet mother who loves and protects us like no one no other in this land of happiness this patria whose glory endures thanks to Ma'atronya.

​© americanifesto / 場黑麥

bovines and sheeps

Come outside my lovelies there's warm in the air and green tufts of life all around – everywhere! Our Massif of Yiptlong is coming alive with bees now emerging from their high-hung hives and birds now returning from their winter keeps and young being born to goats bovines and sheeps. Man Winter is crawling back into his cave, his white wispy beard and his long gnarled stave are dragging behind him for he's been left weak from making the landscape cold barren and bleak. The goddess of Springtime has taken his stead and soon to Man Summer she'll surely be wed and then we'll all bake under his restless eye that hangs in a tepid and sweltering sky. With thoughts of hot evenings and of hotter nights we turn our attention to conquering fright and vanquishing worry and hunger and pain and waking up from frigid slumber again the deep burning fires that keep our souls bright that wrap us in dazzling and near-blinding light. Air out the bed linens and sweep off the stair and weave a wee tulip up into your hair; rejoice at the coming of times filled with joy for each one among us – old young girl and boy.

​© americanifesto / 場黑麥

not a word

She knew not to wait or to look for a sign and therefore just sat there and soon was aligned to energies inside and those from without while her soul did shine and her spirit did shout. Her mouth though was silent she said not a word and moved not for thunder man spider or bird and let the impressions of life all around impact on her being with wind-gust and sound. Such was her devotion to just sitting there that she soon developed a shock of white hair that hung as a forelock down over her face revealing a hint of her majestic grace. Goddesses took notice and moved her to shield and used all the craftiness that they could wield to shelter her body from torment and pest and prolong the life of she whom they loved best. Time did wear upon her after many years but she had abandoned her cares and her fears and stepped without knowing back into the void from whence she at birth had been duly deployed. She joined then the pantheon that none can see and guards all such people who sit silently as she herself once did while she was alive and helps all such people to advance and thrive who take time to step away from busy lives who display the courage deep within to dive.

​© americanifesto / 場黑麥

her own self

Her visions were strong and her mind it was clear so much so that she could tell when earthquakes neared and when rains were coming and when they would cease and how Bengal tigers' anger to ease. She worked for circuses and for soothsayers but never revealed all of her deep layers but kept herself closed to those she didn't know and carefully throttled how far she would go with even her closest and longest of friends and learned mostly on her own self to depend. While out on a journey she met Nepal monks and found she could share all her secrets amongst those wise and sage masters of Being And Naught who'd long ago shed all their most selfish thoughts. She joined then up with them and fled to the East and calmed many angry and marauding beasts and then reached a temple build high on a peak where she then remained 'til her muscles turned weak and she duly perished and her body dried but her spirit lived for such things don't die.

​© americanifesto / 場黑麥

hope and promise

The virus made use of our customs and trade its inroads and success were too quickly made until a small council of wise people met to examine options we'd not thought of yet. This occurred way back in the thirteen hundreds when much of what was Europe lay about dead when blight war and pestilence were all around and piles of corpses stood heaped on the ground. This council of men and of women held court and discussed our nation's few and last resorts and devised a schema for saving us all from wizened old geezer to children still small. We must put these bodies at once in the earth and give all sick-houses a wide solemn berth and clean up our quarters and wash all our clothes and wear clean white kerchiefs before mouth and nose, is what this wise council did wisely propose. Grigovia's death-rate fell quickly and soon and ours was a widespread but still-cautious boon for we found some lands to the north south and east had been quite abandoned to weed-growth and beast. Our borders expanded as the sickness fled and within a fortnight we'd buried the dead and started to build on the lands that we'd gained while strength hope and promise did fill us again. With stubborn defense we held onto those lands from roving marauding and murderous bands that swept from the plains of Asia's wide steppe to break up and shatter upon our doorstep. The pest never came back for we did keep clean our bodies and homes and all places once mean and foul with effluvia trash and vomit and never again did we let or permit invaders of human or non-human sort to drive us to seeking few and last resorts.

​© americanifesto / 場黑麥

favor of Fate

When waking up early to see to the rites she found it important a candle to light not one on the outside but one within her in hopes she'd the favor of Fate would incur. Things took a turn upward and her life improved and many a visitor felt himself moved when looking upon the things she did sculpt carve paint regardless if depicting sinner or saint. Her works were bought up by some people with means and she found herself mingling in between and rubbing her elbows with those who could pay for her bold wide strokes and her well-crafted clay. She took then to drinking her rites set aside and let herself fill up with envy and pride and let herself slack in her morning routine until her hard soul was dark callous and mean. Fate then frowned upon her and caused her to lose the customers who'd once her works had perused and she lost a child to drink and to vice and hers was a bed of rough hay-bales and lice. She left for far shores on a fast sailing-craft whose deckhands were able whose captain was daft whose course was erratic as that of a bat which lapped up grain liquor from an open vat. A storm did confuse them and they lost a mast to a prolonged furious sudden wind-blast and they then washed up on tropical isle where they found brown faces and curious smiles. She took to her new home with passionate zeal and did quickly learn how to whip up a meal from coconut milk and a few broken nuts and soon were smoothed over her addictions' ruts. She took her a husband and bore him a son who was a bright beautiful artistic one and soon she discovered the routines she'd known that were once abandoned in her distant home and became a priestess who shared with her tribe her wisdom and grace 'til the day that she died.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

omen and idol

There was once a bird that from ashes arose of which have been penned many mountains of prose. We too have this legend of starting again of picking up oneself with the help of friends or gods or just solo as many still do who find themselves wishing to start over new. We call it the Nixpe, tell of it in tales and tell of its many and colorful tails as it from dire ruins of what was once had does ascend with calls bright shrill frequent and glad. As omen and idol the Nixpe does serve for it is a curious magical bird that from all the failed plans of mice and of men does emerge and emerge again and again. In our northern cities and those in the south does this ancient story fill many a mouth, from western Pyltagrad to eastern Gar Nuuzsh (whose people have roots in the great Hindu Kusch) do they speak of Nixpe whenever they hear that for a dear project the ending is near. To accept this cycle of death and rebirth requires the ego to lose its wide girth and tap instead into immutable truth and give up its concrete-filled immobile berth. When failure turns fun then this life is a gas and anger and hardship are simply bypassed for such greener pastures that broaden the mind and free it of memories best left behind. If something should burn down don't stand there and cry just give it one more solid and heartfelt try for everything built up will crumble one day – trust in the recurrence of wondrous Nixpe.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

cloudy or blue

Her beauty was manifest honest and bright – it darkened the daytime and lit up the night. She first was discovered at the age of ten by a group of talent- and model-scout men who'd witnessed her coming back home from the health with her flock intact and a bag in her teeth. The bag contained queenswort dandelion sage and her stony features did belie her age for she had been out in the meadows all week with her sheep the greenest green pastures to seek. The men had heard rumors of a maiden fair all long slender limbs and bright blond flowing hair and in this young shepherd their quarry did find with thoughts of her success (and theirs) in their minds. She agreed to come with them, left then her home, but she was not happy in Saõ Paolo Rome New York Berlin Shanghai (where fashion is king) but wanted to go back and do her old thing. She stayed made some money quit after a year her glamorous empty clothes-wearing career, returned to her parents and to the High Wold and her messy bleating long-yearned-for sheepfold. She married a farmer who lived down the road and of their sweet offspring more stories were told – of beauty and gracefulness, modesty too, and life lived under the skies both cloudy or blue.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

old man Grilgamesh

There's an ancient story concerning man-flesh – it's of course the tale of old man Grilgamesh. He'd sat masturbating for most of his life while pining for company (maybe a wife) to share with him his sodden bed made of reeds to comfort him daily and meet all his needs. His story is epic, his seed made us all, and boosted our numbers while our race was small, not yet well established upon this here Earth, this rapidly spinning celestial berth. There arrived then Ink'Du, whom Eshtir had sent to help some good people and give them defense except that wild Ink-Du and old Grilgamesh soon wove themselves into a tight friendly mesh. The high times that they had would have made strippers blush for from peak to valley the drunk pair did rush consuming and partying with all they had two arm-in-arm brothers with wide smiles glad. Eshtir she was pissed because Grilgamesh had spurned ignored denied her a place in his bed whereupon she'd sent down a mad raging cow that was meant to kill never to pull a plow. Ink'Du and his buddy did slay that bovine which caused Ink'Du's life-web to quickly unwind whereupon Grilgamesh did mourn for his mate and curse all the gods for his fallen friend's fate. He holed himself up in a far hidden place while his building projects were finished apace and realized that power was paltry at best whereupon a weight of woe fell from his chest. We humans are flimsy, he realized anon, We must not rejoice at the battles we've won but cherish the friends that we get in this life and lay down our weapons and tools made for strife; to build and to construct great cities and works to stop being assholes mendicants and jerks is all we can strive for in this life of ours so please do tread lightly always smells the flowers – too short are the rest of these remaining hours.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

our good health

From sands in the east to deep muck in the west from wide southern plains to its northernmost crest our land is gray taupe verdant ocher basalt but we love its soils whatever their pall. With swamp-rat mountain-goat plains-goose desert-fox as well as fine salmon (that provides us lox) in every corner and every place has our fine Grigovia always been graced. On hill and in valley stream river and tree do we find abundance that makes us wealthy not with heaps of money but with something else – with freedom and foodstuffs to keep our good health. We know to be careful and not take too much to harvest only what our own limbs can clutch to leave for the children who are yet to come such bounty and riches that cannot be won that are righteous blessings sent down by the gods who smile upon us and buoy our odds. All hail then the Watchers who dole out the goods who wander our alleys and flit through our woods who knock on our door-jams when we least expect who've been known to meddle and to interject their whim and their fancy on we who must die on everyone from magnate to little guy. Their end-goal is shifty their methods are slick they make the lame healthy the solipsist sick they're here for the long haul and shall be endured and praised with the kindest and softest of words. We thank them here now and with this simple text we know not to fear what must need to come next for we trust the judgment of those we can't see to maintain the balance twixt you him and me.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

faces of women

The first bills we printed in May, 1810, included the faces of women and men. There was brave Queen Pylta defending a moat upon the 100 talent banking note, then there was our maiden, fair Nuuzstathena, upon what was then the 10 talent drachma. We also have honored dames foreign and not who labored to improve all of mankind's lot, like Keller Luxembourg Frank Yiessht and Curie on much of our land's official currency. We urge now the E.U., the Ynki, the Rus, to celebrate people who have shaped for us the world as we know it the world that is ours for sharing their thoughts hopes dreams and working-hours. If not for the imprint of many a lass we'd likely be living without any class and lapping at puddles and holed up in caves and not much confronting the fault of our ways. Now pull out a fifty now cast you a glance and keep you that boner-farm tucked in your pants for all of those ladies that live on your cash will save and avenge you and that in a flash. So raise you a toast to the girl at your side, for she is the source of most all of our pride, for hers is a mighty and sharply-tuned brain that's saved us from ruin again and again.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥]

women at home

There was not a murmur of fear in their ranks as they reached the top of the enemies' banks. Dug into a river in their country's west were some of the bravest and some of the best that they had encountered in all of their days which prompted them to craft some devious ways. They'd trapped in clay jars many manner of bees that they'd duly harvested from nearby trees that they then sent flying from catapults crude which their foes found shitty unwanted and rude. With hardly a quiver and much hardy sand they then undertook the next step of their plan and blasted their foe without remorse or heed but with much deliberate and measured speed. They managed to rid him then off selfsame banks for which they received heaps of praise and much thanks from women at home and from allies afar who now recognize them for all that they are.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

from many trees

There was of a sudden a light in the sky that with a great speed through the heavens did fly that buzzed many rooftops and finally found an end to its travels in our marshy ground. The object was metal and dried up the turf and let up much steam from its not-too-deep berth for its had been a long wide trajectory and it had clipped many tops from many trees. As soon as it had cooled enough to be took it was swiftly loaded up onto a truck and hauled to a room at the Circle of Knowledge where it was then probed weighed examined and polished. Its secrets discovered its origins too it was forthwith set up within its own booth where children from near and experts from afar could come to marvel at this bright falling star. Since it had descended during the twilight it gained of the nickname Twixt Even and Night which was soon adopted Grigovia-wide to lift up our spirits and buoy our pride.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

bountiful foodstuff supplies

He'd stood on his doorstep and prayed there for rain and yet all his pleadings were offered in vain for to the wrong goddesses he'd made his plea – all hail the Steppe Mother, all praise be to she who causes her moistures to fall from the skies who grows our rich bountiful foodstuff supplies. Her gaze covers all the farms south of the Pass, from ones that grow grains to those that just make grass for feeding the livestock from which comes all meat, without which most mealtimes would not be complete. The Steppe Mother calls upon Grigovians to alter tradition and change up their plans and consume such items the Earth herself makes and stop eating chicken pig or bovine steaks. Great mountains of barley wheat corn oat and rice would become available and would suffice to feed all the people we have in this land if diets were switched to vegetarian. So stop putting animals into your stews and sample with recipies based on this new exciting and cutting-edge curriculum that sees all things living together, as one.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

bodies and hair

Sunk down in the marshes acidic and deep were found a few persons who appeared asleep. The chemical stew there had preserved their hides in such a fine fashion they appeared alive – with clothes on their bodies and hair on their heads to every appearance they did not seem dead. The fibers and leather that clung to their skin were carefully removed before did begin a thorough analysis of all their tattoos as well as their last meals, tooth-wearing, and shoes. Much insight was gained into their ancient rites and work it proceeded both daytime and night and some tools and weapons were found buried there that were still so sharp that they could split a hair. The remains and sundry are now on display in Grig's large Museum Of Then And Today that sits on the banks of the frothy Yalung whose doors they stand open to old and to young. Stop by for a visit, see with your own eyes, come gasp with delightful and pleasant surprise at all of the riches dug up from below that make up this solemn yet insightful show.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

his final days

A man of unshakable deep solid faith he refused to brush his teeth eat well or bathe. For more than a few years he lived in this way and cared not for lowly mundane day-to-day or what to his mind were mere petty concerns until of a sudden his insides did burn. It was an large ulcer that ate at his guts that made him act crazy mad psycho and nuts that made him to rethink his blind dedication to the thought that he could not be touched by such foul consternation. He then changed his diet and started to wash but could only sit back and suffer and watch as his past decisions did haunt and mistreat his every motion on endless repeat. He cursed then the god that he had once but praised and lived out in agony his final days and went to his rest still with spite in his soul – he who had let arrogance wreak its harsh toll.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

towering and wooden

There is a small forest on the edge of Grig that is populated by trees tall and big. The arbor has stood since time once began, since our founding persons did set forth this land and shelter by solemn official decree that no single saw-blade these trees would dare see. Their tops reach to heaven, their roots do run deep and many cool wind-gusts their leafy crowns sweep, there are many pathways that make curvy walks between their long towering and wooden stalks. They would make fine masts but we're far from the ocean and still rather enjoy the quick sweeping motion that they make when lapped at by squalls from the north that rush down and move all their limbs back and forth. We're glad they weren't made into houses or spears, that they have stayed standing these many long years, and hope that our children and theirs then in kind will share of the hopes that we hold in our mind to keep for the future – for prosperity – these unique majestic ancient mega-trees.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

tiniest and grandest

She is the fair Maiden Of What's Left Unsaid and there is no other can act in her stead. She governs and watches over honest minds and bears silent witness to all of our crimes and shelters the tiniest and grandest Truths that we dare not set in stone or prove with proofs. Therefore we must guard her weak small tender form and keep deep inside us the thought of her warm and not rush to speak about that which we think lest we cause an uproar or turmoil or stink. There are you see some things which much stay Unsaid which we dare not to escape the hole in the head that talks without ceasing and spills without pause pears of endless wisdom through hard-marbled jaws. So sew up the mandibles, pray do not speak, and zip up that suck-hole this day and this week, and keep it all closed up and sealed from within – for then a great prize you shall most surely win. The Maiden is gracious, respects sacrifice, and claims that mere silence alone will suffice to secure her blessing and countenance fair – not boasting or riches or suave debonair.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

all too little

Just three rows and bushels of corn were laid in before the white snowflakes to fall did begin. The young men had little to keep them afloat, a handful of acres, a small flock of goat, a stand of tall willows from which they could weave a basket or two in the darkening eve. What kept them all going however was that they had once been promised by a talking cat to be the recipients of vast treasure so much that they'd dare not its outlines to measure. They knew all too little, and much less than most, and trusted a cat (which not many can boast), and kept right on working through darkness and rain in hopes that their fortunes would turn round again.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

birds of spring

Soon there will be laughing the new birds of Spring with whom we shall dance and shout, frolic and sing. Their plumages will dot the lingering snow, their voices will lift and make our spirits glow, their long wintry silence now comes to an end – please do welcome with us our feathery friends.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥​

god of thunder

Oh great god of thunder whose deep peals now shake the souls of the innocent, making them quake and cry out for mercy and beg sue for pause – we welcome your coming and give you applause. You send the fast lightning that springs from your ax that all our tall buildings and trees does attack that delights onlookers and lights up the sky while with rains you wet our fields, leave nothing dry. The ancients they called you by different names, by Djophat and Thiruur and He Who Light Tames, which echo your majesty glory and might; they prayed for your blessings to help with their plight. Now we of Grigovia once more erect a shrine in your honor, ask you to protect our small mighty nation from all of the foes whose threat to our sovereignty day by day grows. All hail then this mighty and life-giving power whose force we now measure in kilo-watt-hours; please ask him to return to our tiny land and help us in making our valiant stand against foul imperialists, Ynki and Rus, who are e'en now planning their demon to loose.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

come quickly anon

Now up from the caverns come quickly anon – the battle for Grig is not over or won. Now take up your rifle now grab you a knife, now arm you your children your mother your wife, and send them forthwith to the trenches to fight through bright sparkling day and through long darkest night. Remove quick from each of those foreign devices the battery, hardware, and surveillance license allowing such spies as are used by Ynki to track what you're doing to watch what you see. Our dear hard-won freedoms for which we gave much must now be protected from forces that clutch and grab at and tear down our defensive walls – if we act together we'll prove we have balls. If not though mere slaves to the Ynki we'll be and chained to their whimsical senseless decrees and bombed by their airborne death-dealing machines – mocked, despised, and ridiculed, hated, demeaned. When we fight aggression both here and abroad we garner eternal ancestral applause and honor the sacrifice our fathers made when they and our mothers refused to obey the dictates of massed and imperial brutes whose aim was to poison our deep-tendriled roots. We've taken our case before United bodies and met with our enemies in their own lobbies and sued them for clemency mercy and peace to which they however responded like beasts and sent through the wires that connect us all a whole host of viruses – damn them their gall! So now to the ramparts we dutifully march in processions piercing our victory arch once more now for glory be sure to reload come one and all defend our humble abode.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

ten foreign firms

Full three score decades seven years in the past was Grig liberated from danger, at last. That was when the remnants of ten foreign firms were shown to our borders (those wide earthen berms). These foul corporate entities had until then diluted our waters and poisoned our fen had pulled from the earth many mountains of gold had enslaved our man-folk both youthful and old. These firms had headquarters in lands far away where most of their profits and our wealth did stay, they paid but a pittance to some greedy chaps who cared not if their siblings ate or collapsed. These rank politicians had worked with the Huns when for all of Europe their quest had begun, they used cruelly stolen and ill-begot gains to get re-elected again and again. Then after the cease of armed hostilities did our strongest legions return from o'erseas and promptly with fighting at home they began against these intrusions to take a brave stand. The Wellspawn is Watching; their bold slogans went, and: Pay Out A Living Wage Taxes And Rent; and: Hands Off The Yiptlong – It Is OUR Massif; to which many foreigners answered aggrieved with complaints and missives submitted to court and threats that they'd call in some nasty cohorts. Soon main streets and avenues across the land were choked up by babushkas who would then stand and block every truck carrying fine pay-dirt with limbs linked together and knives in their skirts. The drivers of these trucks were quickly replaced with others who had no affection for our nation's mothers but who were contractors both hard-faced and cruel who heeded not our own but a foreign rule. One driver got angry and mowed down a crowd was pulled from his cabin by women in shrouds was taken to a cell to sit and to wait for judges and lawyers to discuss his fate. He confessed to being a corporate spy and fingered some highly-placed government guys whom we drove from office the very same night to Justice's lasting and constant delight. Reforms were then passed to keep greedy thieves out, to bar them from entering this high redoubt, after which the people of Grig and the like did witness and revel in livelihood spikes which saw every citizen content and pleased to live lives devoid of poverty's disease.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

least to lose

There is an old saying among Yaelong tribes: do business with he who pays the biggest bribes then turn 'round and prop up those whose need is vast for then you'll be wealthy in honor and cash. In this way they've helped keep our nation this free, by using their caches of quick blood-money to nurture a friendship and love for the poor who will then too gladly repay them, in scores. The persons with least to lose have most to gain; their methods are simple and honest and plain; they make due with little and pick up used goods that the more affluent just toss into woods. When items that still have some utility are simply discarded sans ceremony their worth is then wasted unless they are saved by persons called cur wanker peon or slave. These then use such items in ways other won't, and see in them value that rich persons don't, and raid them for pieces to fix other things or strip them of parts to mend weld repair dings. This raw ingenuity is an ideal that's shared by the Yaelong for they also feel that in modern cultures and ones long ago when people got lazy they suffered the blows of foreign invaders who simply walked in to harass and murder neighbor sibling kin. The Yaelong they sleep often under the stars and avoid the confines of brothels and bars and wander the hillsides as if homeless too with burrs in their britches and stones in their shoes. In this way they scout monitor check the routes that could be exploited by bloodthirsty brutes who'd come in and take from the sons of this land the daughters and riches now Grigovian. To rid oneself of lust temptation and greed; to practice obeisance to the common need; to craft in the head-space a temple to Right – these factors will help us to maintain the lights that shine from within the torch of Liberty and stand as a beacon for mankind to see.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

weighty and fraught

One things that enables the Wellspawn of Grig to act with a power both outsize and big is a wide-spread system of social communes that meet in halls streets alleys and living-rooms. The people who volunteer in these small clubs are mostly good citizens, oftentimes shlubs – regardless they sit down together and talk, outlining conclusions with pen-ink and chalk. They discuss the needs of both neighbor and not as well as some issues more weighty and fraught with risks to the fabric of life in their 'hood; they seek not to do harm but the greatest good. They plan local gatherings, setting the dates, when all who live close-by can party 'til late and rejoice in living under such a plan that's open for everyone to lend a hand. There's traffic-controllers and those who make sure that social divisions do find a swift cure, there's people who roam through the dark streets at night who bring back lost children and help break up fights. The standards set forth by these ohmba'ahndjar allow us to be safe from foes near and far, allow us to stay closely bound to each other and care for our feeble and sick dads or mothers. We control ourselves and only call police when there is a serious social disease like racist attacks on minorities who appear to some simpletons foreign and new. Other than when great evil raises its head and threatens to make friend and neighborhood dead do we seek assistance from forces without; until then we figure our own business out.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

taken to test

Unearthed in a meadow not far from Brouhm Square was a tattooed mummy who'd still lots of hair. Some samples were taken to test whence she'd come, through high-tech machinery these were then run were peered at and prodded and sequenced until a whole new library the results could fill. They revealed that hers was a life short but clean, that she'd eaten well and possessed of the means to keep maintain protect her short-statured self for she did appear to have died in good health. Her DNA matched that of a local clan who gladly conceded to official plans that called for more studies of flesh kit and bone after which her remains would be returned home. She'd stumbled (on accident?) into a bog, did then get her ankle trapped under a log, was pulled deep down into the cold sticky ground, twas not till much later that she would be found. Among her belongings were tackle and bow, were flint-stone and snowshoe, a dozen arrows, a cloak made of rabbit fur, necklace and socks, and strange crystal fragments packed in a pine box. Her tattoos were those of some stars and a moon, three figures arranged in a telling cartoon, a deer without antlers and many straight lines that ran from her neck-bones down to her behind. Her hair shone like amber, might once have been black, her bosom was ample (she'd likely been stacked), her hips bore the tale of a child or two, and she wore a good pair of finely made shoes. After she had been scanned from head-crown to feet the Yaelong were told that the tests were complete; they picked her up gently, with due solemn grace, and laid her to rest in their most holy place.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

#WeTakingSwaziBack

There's an ancient symbol that few people see – it is the venerable, holy swazi; it's found on this Isle of the Gods (fair Bali) but not since the 40s in far Germany. In fact that Teutonic and rational state did long ago ban forbid defenestrate the swazi regardless of which way it turned because droves of innocents long ago burned. The symbol itself though did do nothing wrong, was used by a madman to whip up his throngs – they mounted it atop their tall wooden poles under which they murdered Slavs Jews gays and Poles. Since placing my boots though upon this dark ground I have on occasion seen swazis around and realized they were not the foul racist type – instead they were beautiful; fuck all the hype. It's known as swastika or sewastikasyu; it deals with awaking clean and brand-new; here it is ubiquitous, come have a look, then read learn about it in leather-bound books. The symbol is indeed a very old one and represents the crooked rays of the sun and represents rebirth and hope that some day our different-skinned children together will play. Now take back its meaning from racists and thugs and sweep its majesty from under the rug – foul Nazis debased it and made it seem cruel but theirs was a pitiful, life-sucking rule. The swazi is revered by Hindu, Buddhist; it brings about deep calm and spiritual bliss; it's not the property of hate-spewing hacks wherefore we hereby taking our swazi back.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

old angry giant

There stood on a mountain not far from her home an old angry cyclops who'd frozen to stone. One peak was his massive and man-crushing arse that was now not flesh and bone but rock and karst; another stark feature that reached to the sky was his dome-like forehead with its central eye. There was a long ridge made from his spinal tract that his rocky rump with his head did connect, upon which but foolhardy wanderers went – too many their blood and lives to it had lent. Regardless, the maiden – Lalu, to her friends – (she was a bit foolish) did not comprehend, the dangers and perils of fog and weather that lived in that high haunted wind-swept heather. She crossed the formation in one solid run then came to her senses (and nearly undone) when she saw the day's eye sink quickly below the high western mountains and their hats of snow. She started to shiver, remember a class that she had once taken as a pig-tailed lass, then found an outcropping that sheltered her some where she did then huddle and try to stay warm. Instead of just waiting in that spot to freeze she ripped up nearby moss and gathered some leaves and used them to make for herself a mattress so that on the rock the would not have to rest. To stoke up a fire was not an option and she had forgotten to bring her hand-phone – therefore she then prayed to the gods of her tribe and asked them to help her the night to survive. The message arrived in the eardrums of fair wise Nuuzstathena, who vanquishes fear, who sent out a legion of furry field-mice that swarmed upon Lalu and warmed her up nice. They crept in her pockets, invaded her coat, were thickest at ankles and kidneys and throat, and kept the young person alive through the night, but vanished as soon as they espied first light. The girl made it back home in time for breakfast, told all who would listen about her dire quest, then went to a temple where the Goddess lived where she many blessings and thank-yous did give.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

truth honor wisdom

A specter is haunting this steppe heath and wold – its outlines are shadowed its origins old. It's sprung from a foetid not-yet-barren womb and must be sent straight down to an earthen tomb to keep it from poisoning minds big and small or letting it sound out its beckoning call. We speak here of hatred and anger and woe that in hearts affected by sadness soon grow, that in hearts exposed to just one or two thoughts will spring up as quick as teenagers' spots. To combat this menace we gather discuss and talk about issues important to us, and talk about keeping our minds and souls free of racism and extreme relig'osity. Now read from a dozen or more holy books and search in the crannies and cubbies and nooks for Truth Honor Wisdom for Simplicity and rejoice in mankind's vast diversity. We urge all to do this and gently command the people of this fine Grigovian land to embrace each other regardless of creed with patient and loving, deliberate speed.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

fourth chakra hearts

Arise and be merry – the Goddess alights; she's come now to cure us of hate want and fright. We open our 3rd eyes and 4th chakra hearts; a few here are advanced, some stand at the start; it's crucial to know that all healing takes time, that decades of habit don't stop on a dime. To sacrifice daily of time wealth and love helps each one among us to rise up above the dictates of greediness sadness and fear which in modern cultures are always too near. We thus turn to One with a new agenda, to mighty and majestic Nuuzstathena; She teaches compassion and patience and care, for Hers is a glory merciful and fair. Sit therefore down quietly, utter no sound, but make the breath deep with the rump on the ground and curse not the vagrant or negative thought – instead keep the present with all that you've got. The anus should be loose not clenched or pulled up, the fingers and toes should be spread not balled up, then after a day or a month or a year you will start to notice the retreat of fear, the ending of dark thoughts and long sleepless nights, the dawning of clarity calmness and light.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥​

right to reside

Our meeting creeps closer, we're happy to say, the one that will allow all our people to stay within these tight borders of which we've grown fond, among vast rice-paddies and swaying palm-fronds. We twelve have been granted the right to reside here where our forefathers they struggled and died defending the honor of this tiny fleck that is with rich temples and fine shrines bedecked. The first delegation to land on these shores did come here to learn about the daily chores that all these proud people do without much fuss – mostly 'cause they want to not just 'cause they must. As soon as they got here they joined right on in, and taught a few youngsters to twist rope and swim, and married some daughters and some sisters too, and made a few babies (that's what people do). Then came the invasion by him nasty Dutch whose patience was little whose anger was much who tore out the hearts of the neighboring kings (the proud Balinese though would have no such thing). Our people they fought against Dutchie and Jap, with spear knife and rifle, with spring-loaded trap, and threw those foul outlaws back into the sea and hung up their entrails – like garlands – from trees. The Balinese people did not soon forget the wee contribution from Geriguv'yet and welcomed us back to this magical isle where we do believe we shall stay for a while.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

not a waver

There was not a waver that swept through their ranks for they had already prayed and given thanks to each of the gods that they'd known since birth – instead they just waited in silence and mirth. Then there came the signal and up they all sprang, a deep-throated cry was what most of them sang as they charged tore slashed at their most-hated foes while followed by many a murder of crows. A handful among them did perish that day but not before making the intruders pay for taking and raping western Pyltagrad (our boys sent those vermin to meet their foul god). So off with your head-wear and make not a sound for we are remembering, here on this ground, the sacrifice, honor, and valiant stand of brave and bright warriors who died for this land.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

brave harried handful

Outnumbered, exhausted, quite thirsty and hot, the brave Harried Handful examined its lot. We need to keep moving, the shortest one said, Lest we rise tomorrow not living but dead. I concur, said he whose roots lay in the East, We must make the top of that mountain, at least. Right-O, said the tallest, whose name was unknown, We rouse in five minutes our too-weary bones and follow the lead of our Eastern compat, with eyes like the fox and with ears like the bat. And soon they'd refilled from a swift little stream their goatskin and glass-lined and metal canteens; then obscured each footprint and other such trace that proved they had been in that watering place; leaped up, quit with sitting, and made for the peak; each took a turn helping to carry the weak. Halfway to the summit they heard much clamor erupt from the spot where they had been before, did not turn to look but kept creeping along, the noises below were those of a vast throng. As the sun was setting they arrived atop the cool windy mountain and made a brief stop to drink from their pouches and prepare for night when in a far valley they espied a light. The techie among them took out his own torch and flashed out a pattern, the darkness it scorched, the far light then blinked back a hurried response that the nerdy soldier translated at once: The foe is behind us and on our left side, we shan't on this mountain be able to hide, therefore to the source of that light we must speed – there await us friends with a some fresh ready steeds. They lit out and rushed to their comrades-in-arms who'd been holed up in an abandoned old farm, and finished escaping from possible hell each with his own harrowing story to tell.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

from further west

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

pile and heave

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

oh nameless Mother

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

in the sty

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

hill and woodside

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

sewing her clover

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on PAPIWA

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on craggy Iylianna

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

praises and majesty

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

gather and climb

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

most foul enemies

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

so curse not

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on Grigovian bread

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

and her ken

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

they know no

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

but rather resigned

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

things on time

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

mountains of riches

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

one still thirsting

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

and filling repast

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

Ħ-'Ɨº×ïǂш¡Ɏ¡шǂï׺Ɨ'-Ħ

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

of being alive

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

a grand parade

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

its raw volunteers

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

in her bones

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on Grigovian energy

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

warm cloudy flagons

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

upon fancy bedding

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

this fragment remains

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

and brightest night

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

the goddesses ten

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

Ganestryx, ant goddess

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

Ұ•Ψ¤_ƗƆïºɅȯɅºïCƗ_¤Ψ•Ұ

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

two great lands

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

in camouflaged boots

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

a crawling fright

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

such damnable stuff

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

fortune and love

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

under the hoofs

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

our many bees

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

blessed steppe mother

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

empty cocktail glasses

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

great holy Grigung

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

goat-flesh and cactus

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

battle and travel

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

before it began

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on the profleshional

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

© americanifesto / 場黑麥