Iktomi touches all

Spread Iktomi wide and well from windy peak to sodden dell that web you weave to bind together atom-groups with spindly tethers keeping all in concert woven in a way that time’s still proving. Chaos theory shows it’s true the influence of what you do with tiny strands spread near and far connecting each and every star. Bless his presence praise be told of his great gifts both new and old much thanks to Iktomi let’s speak - for ‘van der Waals’ and the force ‘weak.’

© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥

⌶+￬.=ī¡⥞¤⥟¡ī=.￬+⌶

there’s not much a fellow might strive for in life than knowing his artwork and love will survive

an intolerant quirk

Americans of Bigoted and Racist Inclination (ABiRacIn, pronounced ‘aberration’), a confederation of white-supremacist with thousands of splinter-cells nationwide, held its final cyber-meeting of 2016. Organized by subgroup leaders in primarily rural areas of the American South and Midwest (with new cells opening throughout the Mid-Atlantic), ABiRacIn aims to intensify and perpetuate tendencies present in the Americas since Christopher Columbus set foot on Hispaniola in 1492 - hatred, greed, and a thirst for human blood. “We Americans of European Descent, we white people, are the only ones who deserve to receive the bounty of this great land,” said Harold Theodor Thomas Hammrsmeed, the group’s co-founder, at a press conference held afore the columned portico of his decrepit estate in southern Georgia. “We built this great land, we farm this great land, our forefathers fought and died for this great land, which means we and we alone ought bask in the fruits of America’s blessings. It doesn’t matter that coloreds whose skin-tones are slightly darker or more tan than ours worked as hard or harder to make this country rich and powerful; it doesn’t matter that the good soils we plant with grain to keep beef cheap, the tall mountains we tear apart in search of our beloved coal, were for millennia watched over and protected by red savages; the white man was, is, and forever shall be the only man who matters.” Emboldened by the election of Ronald Stump, who clawed his way to the presidency on a splintery plank of anti-immigrant and Islamophobic rhetoric, ABiRacIn has recently emerged from the shadows of the dark web, holding press conferences and staging rallies in small towns across the Ynki heartland. Labeled a hate group in 2003 by the Southern Poverty Law Center, ABiRacIn has voiced loud support for a right-wing activist recently selected to be incoming president Stump’s senior policy advisor.

© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥

Grigovia offers asylum

The Grigovian Office of External Affairs this morning announced an expansion of its immigration efforts geared toward Americans who are now (or will soon be) seeking political asylum from the upcoming reign of president-elect Ronald Stump. A candidate long on promises but short on policy, Stump - who rose to power on a gravy-train of petty but virulent white supremacy - appears to pose a threat to independent freethinkers such as journalists and artists as well as to women seeking the right to make decisions about their own bodily health. “Grigovia welcomes Ynki who desire to live in peaceful freedom and cooperative prosperity in a country that values and safeguards their liberty,” said Dr. Uoudya E. Eiyouust, head of the Parliamentary External Affairs Committee and architect of the expanded efforts. “In our Glorious Republic is room for individuals seeking to think as they see fit, who desire to write what they decide is best to write, who wish to be respected regardless of their gender or sexuality. Our integration and employment infrastructure provides immigrants with language classes, transitional housing, job placement assistance, and much more so that new arrivals can start enriching and enlivening our economy and culture instead of languishing in the shadows of pariahdom. If a Stump presidency scares you, friend Ynki, please consider Grigovia when making emigration plans. Our doors stand open.” For more information visit your nearest Grigovian embassy.

© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥

whites only oenotheque

Tired of dark-hued, reddish wines? Looking for a place where only whites are served - the finest, most pure whites around? If so, come on down to Whites Only Oenotheque on Jackson Avenue and Union Street for a fine selection of Chardonnay, Pinot Grigio, Riesling, and Sauvignon Blanc wines. Rest assured - no coloreds dare darken our reclaimed barn-wood countertop, threatening to besmudge the white leather seats of our hand-made, wrought-iron barstools. It’s whites only all day from the first drop poured to the last sip taken. Most of our wines are grown, fermented, and bottled right here in the United States of America. Each of our wonderful domestic whites comes with a certified paper of origin, and all imported whites undergo thorough vetting and approval procedures at the hands of trained technicians before departure and upon arrival. Don’t bring anything into your home even a shade darker than the best, finest, provenly superior white! Travel-proof and inconspicuous ‘Bagged & Boxed’ white wines now available for discerning but economically disadvantaged customers who insist upon quality whites at a fair price. There’s something for every checkbook at Whites Only Oenotheque in downtown Durham, North Carolina - stop in today!

© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥

Gran clicks link

After hours of careful deliberation, Des Moines, Iowa resident and septuagenarian Alice Hasenloch moved the cursor of her mouse over a bank of advertisements flashing brightly on the trailing edge of her cathode-ray-tube computer monitor. Whipping the mouse up and down so as to straighten out its cord, Alice took a deep breath, peered at the target advert one more time, took a moment to ponder whether or not she really wanted to receive a pamphlet containing information about the platforms and policies of one Bernard Sanders, depressed the left button on the mouse using her right index finger, and sat back to wait. As the election had already passed, however, and a fear-mongering nincompoop had been elected to the presidency, the link took her to a page that looked like but wasn’t the page she was trying to reach. Deeper and deeper she went into the dark core of the Internet until she started seeing pictures of people who weren’t wearing clothes, whereupon she pressed CTRL+F4 enough times to cause her left hand to cramp up. Once her computer displayed nothing but the desktop screen (a picture of her neighbor’s grandchildren), she initiated its shutdown procedures, got up, stretched, said, “Ah well, fuck it,” and took a walk that happened to take her past the corner package store.

© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥

president recognizes Palestine

In a long-hoped-for gesture of respect for the existence of more than four million people, Mr. Barack Obama today officially recognized the State of Palestine. “For an ancient and proud people such as the Palestinian people to be forced into massive open-air prison camps and kept there without access to the infrastructures we’ve come to recognize as those necessary to live a fulfilling human life, that is a tragedy that defies the kind of basic decency we look for in one another,” the president said from amidst rows of frost-tipped roses planted near his residence. Speaking just after the crack of dawn on 8 November 2016 - election day, in America - Mr. Obama went on, saying. “I mean, people in positions of power here in the U.S.A. started calling the terrorist organization known as Daesh ‘Islamic State’ after those murderous thugs had been around for only a couple years and captured themselves a city or two.” At this point, the president chuckled, shaking his head and looking down. “And here we have the Palestinians, who’ve been living in the Middle East since biblical times, and for seven decades I and the presidents who came before me have not once recognized the right of Palestine to exist - nay, the right for it to be recognized as a state? And for what? So that religious zealots of a different stripe can occupy land and build settlements on that land with impunity and in stark violation of international law? If we can bring ourselves to call Daesh 'Islamic State’, then we can bring ourselves to refer to the self-organized people living in Israel’s concentration camps by-the-sea as the State of Palestine. It’s that simple.”

© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑

ī⏛⍥⌒Ұ⚲Ұ⌒⍥⏛ī

a young one is screaming in the deep inside there next to the hovel of heartbreak and pride

woman shoots cop

Fayetteville, KY. Earlier this morning, from on the steps of the county courthouse, the jury in the Groeneveld v. Brownfield County case announced a verdict. After just two days of deliberation, it found Ms. Heraldine K. Groeneveld, the accused, innocent of wrongdoing in the shooting death of Sergeant Dwight G. T. Blaiseworth of the Chaumsville police department. Ms. Groeneveld, an American Person of Recent African Descent, had admitted to firing on Sergeant Blaiseworth, who was working an undercover assignment at the time, when he had approached her with his firearm drawn, at night, without identifying himself as a police officer. The following is an excerpt from her sworn deposition: “I was trying to find a set of keys I had dropped when I saw a man get out of his car, pull out a pistol, and start running toward me. He was screaming at me to ‘Get the f**k away from the car,’ but never once did he say he was a cop. I’ve been carjacked before, so when I saw his weapon, I feared for my life. I then pulled out my own weapon and shot him before he could shoot me.” Numerous police shootings across the U.S. have led to the deaths of scores of unarmed men, women, and children; Ms. Groeneveld was vindicated in her assumption that all citizens - not just citizens working as police officers - are allowed to fire upon an assailant should they feel their lives are in danger. Speaking for the jury, Allysson Y. Humnerloess said, “We hope our verdict will serve as a reminder to all American citizens - police officers especially - that pulling a weapon is a threatening act, to which violence is an appropriate response.” Police unions across the nation have issued formal complaints, citing their supposed right to kill unarmed civilians should those citizens even look at an officer in any way that could possibly be viewed as threatening. Unlike officers involved in shootings, Ms. Groeneveld will not get a paid two-week vacation or psychological counselling; she is no longer in jail, however, and will be able to return to her family, and job.

© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥

nameless protector goddess

Her face was the last flames of sundown, her voice the grating screech of a loose and rusty hinge. She’d hide in the cracks of yesterday’s memories, where the darker fears live, but she herself knew not fear or thirst, hunger or want. She was the keeper of secret passions, the protector of lost and feeble souls. She had no name. As with a shadow, she was there yet not really there, present yet absent, unforgettable yet impossible to overlook. Hers are the hopes never spoken, the forgotten feelings rotting away behind fast-food-fat walls. And though most people meet her frequently, she sloughs from their minds with the breaking of the next day’s sun. Heed her call, and rejoice.

© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥

dispatch 4 - NYC

In the foyer of the Grigovian Traveller’s Mission, some new arrivals were watching highlights of debate between D. Trump and H. Clinton. Earlier that morning, Erya had read on the news website Russia Today that there were at least four other legitimate presidential contenders but that the two most influential parties had locked all others out of nationally syndicated debates in order to maintain their hold on power. She didn’t trust Russia Today, but counted on it to at least show a different point of view on world affairs. Other sites she frequently perused were Democracy Now!, Al Jazeera, National Public Radio, and the Guardian. Slowly, it was dawning on her how the American people could appear to be so daft, so disconnected from the corruption and abuse occurring at the highest levels of their government - the people they trusted to spoon-feed them the news weren't talking about such things. Part of the preparation for her post of de-facto Grigovian ambassador to the United Nations, Ms. Rovend had studied the politics, history, and economy of the United States. Not that such studies were mandatory for an ambassador, but she had figured that someone from a relatively weak country such as Grigovia should know as much as possible about the relatively strong country that seemed to be bullying states and peoples around the world. No one had elected or appointed her to the post of ambassador - she had been approached by her country’s Foreign Office after having given a speech denouncing imperialism and the unequal distribution of wealth (especially in industrialized nations).

Pulling her coat tightly around herself, she wandered out of the Mission, turned left on Ninth Avenue, and walked slowly south. Some men whistled at her from a construction site, but she ignored them. She had learned long ago to not give men power of her by reacting to their sexist aggressions. Having trained in three forms of martial arts, her body was a lethal weapon. Not knowing exactly what she was looking for, she wandered aimlessly from one side of southern Manhattan island to the other, just another brown-haired girl in a denim jacket out for an afternoon stroll.

© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥

dispatch 3 - NYC

She went to a public house, drank there a beer. Denied entry into a trendy looking club, she decided instead to wander the streets in search of friendly faces. Few were they and far between for many wore a sullen mien as they did drag themselves back home from jobs in banks - savings and loan. That second night, she discovered Washington Square Park, where she felt at least a bit at home. In that place as is most of Grigovia, people from all walks of life were taking the evening air, stopping to look at one another or to talk, walking dogs, playing chess, dancing, singing, being free. Erya Rovend check-mated a gentleman in ten turns then joined a group of university students heading toward Mamoun’s, a falafel shop. She discussed with them how strange it was that few Americans seemed to be aware that their country was at war (i.e. bombing targets with impunity) in five separate nations around the globe. “No one talks about such things, at least not on T.V.,” a young political scientist told her.

Erya bid the group farewell and started walking south, toward a place her folding map listed as Battery Park. On the way she paused at Wall Street, but kept walking when two heavily armed police officers started staring at her and whispering to each other. Such was her culture shock that she just then started to notice the profusion of closed circuit television (CCTV) cameras screwed into the sides of most buildings, unblinking eyes staring out on nearly empty streets. When she arrived, Battery Park was deserted but for a dozen or so homeless persons bedding down for the night. Leaning forward onto a length of cast-iron railing, Erya stared at the empty pedestal where the statue ‘Liberty Enlightening the World’ had stood until the Glorious Republic of Grigovia had bought it - to save it from the scrap-heap. Lost in thought, she was startled when a radio chirped loudly, just behind her. She turned to find a pair of heavily-armed police officers standing on a patch of darkness, a pile of old blankets at their feet. One of the officers, a male, kicked at the pile until the person sleeping therein woke up.
“No sleeping in the park, you. Get moving,” the officer said.
Clad in too few clothes for the fall weather, the painfully skinny man gathered up his rotting blankets, paused to pull up his belt-less pants, and started shuffling toward the brightly lit sidewalk at the edge of the park.
The two officers turned toward Erya. Shocked by the cruel way the officers had treated the homeless man, they caught staring at them, slack-jawed and wide-eyed.
“You too - be on your way,” the female officer told her.
‘No wonder the U.S. sold us its statue of liberty,’ she thought to herself as she exited the park. ‘There are not enough freedoms left here, it seems, to in good conscious justify keep it up.’

© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥

Grigovian peace bonds

The Grigovian Ministry of Peace, Harmony, and Cooperation (MOPHAC) is proud to announce the return of Peace Bonds! Starting in March of [Gregorian 2017, Lunisolar 4714, Hebrew 5777], Peace Bonds will be available for purchase at any of MOPHAC’s two-score national chapters. Proceeds from the sale of Peace Bonds will be used to fund vocational training and other forms of education for the thousands of Syrian refugees resettled within Grigovia and our neighboring states, primarily Iran and Afghanistan. Unlike War Bonds, which are used by some Western countries to fund aggressive, illegal, and immoral incursions into the territories of sovereign foreign nations, Peace Bonds will be used to help lift displaced and otherwise impoverished persons - Grigovians and new arrivals alike - out of poverty by giving them the tools they need to live productive and healthy lives. Courses such as Community Gardening and Health Through Repetitive Application as well as Hacking Skills for Tomorrow’s Computing are on offer at all campuses of the Grigovian National Education System, free of charge. For more information about Peace Bonds or to volunteer to host a family fleeing war in Syria, please contact your local parliamentary representative, zheriph’s office, or Grigovian People’s Army agent.

© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥

.⏄\♁␣ӫΘӫ␣♁/⏄.

the ones in the middle do drink of their fill; the rest on the outside must settle with swill

dispatch 2 - NYC

On her second day in New York, she got a ticket for drinking in public. She’d been on foot, exploring the southern tip of Manhattan island. She’d bought a can of beer from a corner shop and sat in the park to drink it. In Grigovia, she thought to herself, adults are allowed to make adult decisions. In front of her stood a pair of police-officers. Tall female, shorter male.
“Why am I being punished?” she asked them, her olive complexion turning slightly darker.
The cops shared a knowing glance, shook their heads slowly, and smiled. The taller officer showed her partner the ticket. He nodded, smiling, his hands resting on his thickly-studded weapons belt.
“The public consumption of alcohol is forbidden in New York City.”
Erya Rovend looked over at the sidewalk seating area of a nearby cafe. At a few of the tables, people were drinking what, to her, clearly appeared to be alcohol. Bottles of wine. Glasses of beer.
“Next time, maybe put it in a plastic cup,” said the woman as she tore a paper slip from her notepad and handed it to Erya. She took out her leather passport holder and slipped the ticket into it.
“You stay out of trouble now,” the man-cop said.
He and his partner sauntered away into the park.

Walking over a bridge later that same afternoon, the former Grigovian ambassador to the United Nations noticed a couple of young men scaling a chainlink fence nearby, dropping down onto the train tracks below, and rushing quickly out of sight. The way the men were dressed - their hooded sweatshirts and paint-stained backpacks - reminded her of friends back in Grig who did graffiti. She scaled the same fence as they had, dropped down also, and walked confidently into the gloom ahead. Soon enough, she could hear the familiar rattling of cans, the soft whooshing of paint being propelled out of steel cylinders. Pausing to look around at the walls of the tunnel, she found them to be covered in a riot of designs and shapes, words and figures blasted onto the surrounding concrete by countless former vandals.
“Now this is good stuff,” she said aloud, whistling quietly, in appreciation.
“You hear something?” one of the nearby artists hissed.
“No need to worry, friends,” Erya started to say as she turned to face their general direction, stepping accidentally onto a piece of broken wood that spun away to break a discarded liquor bottle.
There followed a flurry of zipping and cursing. The sound of people running. Then, silence.
Climbing over the train that had separated them, Era Rovend discovered that the men had vanished, their good graffiti work unfinished. An unfinished piece glistened in the faint light coming from the tunnel’s mouth. To her it looked like a group of citizens standing their ground against a phalanx of riot police. Under it was written in black and glaring letters the following statement:
Man The Barricades; Black Lives Matter.

© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥

dispatch 1 - NYC

She stepped off the airplane in New York and was immediately overwhelmed. It was years since she’d last been there, and certain things were a shock to her: the size of buildings, the width of highway lanes, the number of fat people around. In the distance she thought she could see the skyline of Manhattan, something she mostly ignored during her previous visits. She kept walking toward the adjacent terminal, and lost sight of that famous sawtooth silhouette, her mind turning to the task at hand - security check, passport check, customs check. All routine for a frequent traveler such as the former de facto Grigovian ambassador to the United Nations. A light traveler, she had packed one week’s worth of clothing into her carry-on bag. She’d toured both war-torn regions and peaceful metropolises, forged rivers and ducked gunfire. In her former post, she had addressed well-dressed heads of state and rag-bound orphans alike, sometimes both in the same day. There is little left, she thought, that will shock me. I’m ready.
“What’s the purpose of your visit?” the dark-skinned immigration agent said.
“Pleasure,” she replied. The man leaned forward to look at the computer screen in front of him.
“Is this your first time in the U.S.?” he asked, peering up at her.
“It is my first time here as a civilian.”
After a few more moments, and some thoughtful glances, the agent punched keys on his keyboard, slid a slim piece of paper between the folds of her cornflower-blue Grigovian passport, and handed it back to her.
“Welcome to America.”
Erya Rovend smiled in thanks, picked up her passport, shouldered her backpack, and started following signs to Ground Transportation. Within an hour, she was in midtown Manhattan, where she bought two cheap gravity knives and a wool scarf from a sidewalk vendor. Seeing something familiar in the man’s worn face, she greeted him formally in Pashto, a language common to Central Asia. His smile was so wide she was afraid it would split his head in two, the creases and cracks all running together at the corners of the eyes. Taking her hands in his, he blessed her, wishing her success on her path, wherever it would take her.
Swept along by a pressing mass of pedestrians moving by, she soon lost sight of the Afghan gentleman, losing also her patience for the touristik bustle of Times Square. She walked west, toward the setting sun. At a corner bakery she bought two sticky pastries, one for her and one for a homeless woman crouching in a nearby alleyway. Upon reaching the Hudson River she turned south, making for the Grigovian Travellers’ Mission on 8th Avenue and 14th Street.
Erya Rovend - civic leader, social philosopher, martial artist - had arrived in America. And she was going to find out what, as the Ynki tend to say, made it tick.

© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥

⌓·ī☉ӝ⎑ӝ☉ī·⌓

this breath is so deep it just well might drown me; if so though that is what the godhead decrees

Liberty receives facelift

Nearly three (3) full years after purchasing her from a bankrupt and failing Ynki government, ‘Liberty Enlightening the World’ will receive an extensive facelift. The massive copper-clad iron statue has been thoroughly inspected by a group of restoration experts, who estimate their efforts to repair weather and transportation damage will take roughly two (2) years. Standing proudly on Mad Spit, an island situated in the Yalung river near downtown Grig, ‘Liberty’ is the pride and joy of many Grigovians. The repairs will be be paid for and managed by a crowdfunded and not-for-profit group of local craftspersons. As per a recent press-release, the group plans to donate all excess funds to locate orphanages.

© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥

Grigovia accepts refugees

An additional 500 refugees fleeing the Syrian conflict arrived today in Grig, capital of the Glorious Republic of Grigovia. Housed temporarily in tunnels usually set aside as emergency winter quarters, the recent arrivals will soon be put up permanently in the homes of average citizens, in cities dotting this Central Asian nation. “Many of the people arriving now are highly skilled and well educated,” said Theiyundt Rhakshamb, deputy Director of Refugee Affairs for the country’s Interior Ministry. “We look forward to helping these good people become settled here, locate schools for their children, and, in a month or two, find some form of work.” This most recent batch of refugees arrived with the help of neighboring Iran, having been moved by bus and rail from collection points on the latter’s western border. In the year 2014 (Gregorian), the two countries entered into a partnership with the stated goal of “assisting any and all persons affected by the continuing campaigns of violent, foreign intervention being visited upon the Syrian people,” according to a joint press release. The newly arriving Syrians are invited to attend a welcoming dinner hosted by members of Grigovia’s parliament later this week, at the National Convention Center.

© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥

president receives prize

Citing his proven track record of depraved and violent acts designed to force the peaceful and independent peoples of the world to follow his country’s every whim and fancy, the Noble Committee today bestowed its coveted ‘War Prize’ upon the sitting American president. Formerly, Mr. President had received the Committee’s ‘Peace Prize,’ which it apparently gives out to people it merely likes, not to those who are actively trying to make the world a more peaceful place. “The current American president has done an amazing job in reducing Syria to rubble using an illegal bombing campaign,” said Denmark’s prince Gusdav Kleimenhamerstin IV, head of the Noble Committee. “His valiant efforts to subjugate the leadership of Syria under the American bootheel alone prove he deserves this medal; his determined campaign to install a Rothschild-run central bank in said country is, as Americans say, just ‘the icing on top of the cake’ - good, of course, for the half million of us who are already incredibly rich but very very bad for the roughly seven billion other sad cunts alive today.” Due to an apparent scheduling conflict related to his efforts to help a buddy get into office too, the current Ynki president regrets to announce he will be accepting his ‘War Prize’ via an appointed peon.

© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥