Congratulations are in order to the Lapsang Souchang Party! Yay! Lapsang Souchang for Senator, Lapsang Souchang for President! We showed them bloody Oolongs. Go hang your clothes on a hickory limb and don't go near
the water. Nancy Pelosi will be King? AmAYzing. LAPSANG SOUCHANG HIP HIP! LAPSANG SOUCHANG HURRAY! Hip Hop Lapsang SOUCHANG.
Bugger all the Orange Pekoes in the cornhole. Mother may I go out to vote? (I already did) Yes my darling daughter. Vote for the prettiest candidate that smells from toilet water (or Lapsang Souchang). Mother may I go out
to swim (adult swim) Yes my darling daughter. Hang your clothes on a hickory limb (etcetera) and have a cup of Lapsang Souchang. (I need not tell YOU that the only MORAL EQUIVALENT of Dunhill Mixture 73 was and is -- Lapsang Souchang. (pronounced soo-shong). Happy Days. etcetera.
II. Notes on the Shift in the Wind
After the Late Election, it remains to be observed that, whatever the justification for momentary euphoria, innocuous it isn't. God isn't dead. He became a surveillance technician for various public institutions by no means disruptable once set in motion.
The Botched Civilization chugs on apace. Even the new Speaker of the House
made of very hard Glass, fashioned into rhinestones and sprinkled into drinking water.
The spew will not be the more palatable for the resurrection of the Decision Procedure. The Lords of surveillance (pluralization was the
compromise worked out to effect the Good Lord's survival) have arranged that the polling places will not have been tampered with unduly—that is to say, in greater measure than has been the case for the previous two
hundred and thirty years of the persistence of the republic.
That there is indeed a mystic HAND at work in the history of capitalist america as was never stated but always felt is so. Whose hand? Not my hand. The sound of one hand? No hand. Not a clock's hand. When the hand
is HIDDEN, what SHOWS? (Poverty drifts in massive installments…)
All that matters is the Color that tinctures the world. Do you prefer to work among putrescence and rough stones, or where the music caresses
your ears like mice about the cheese? Nibble Nibble. I am so AFFIRMED—they really WANT me. But it is not a simple matter to CONCENTRATE when the happy music fills the room air.
Concentration penetrates the general noetic miasma that blackened
suddenly (five years ago) and then diffused without let, now grown tenuous enough so that another color begins to swoon on the noosphere.
Do not expect improvements instanter. But watch how your thoughts actually do change.
Charles Stein is a poet, scholar and translator. His newest work, "Persephone Unveiled", is described by Peter Manchester ("The Syntax of Time") as "the most auhoritative book (he) has ever read on the nature and consequence of divine revelation".
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