Canto Part II - Written by James Horak

Canto VII

They knew when I had come. Possessed of so little faith, they could not be brought easily to belief. Then the five corners began to complete and they shuddered. And they began to tamper with time.

My father, the first to jump from a plane...with a chute he designed himself.

The target was on a runway, one he was assured was reserved (true, for the plane that nearly hit him.)

While he was recovering his signature was forged so that the Germans could begin blietzkrieg.

Whom did he think he was working for in the US Army Air Corps? It took the bad knee to teach him...the munitions industry. And when he forgot, there was seeing his tri-chimney (intended to give steerage to men not bent on enemy fire and mine fields) used to bring a visit from the sun upon two Japanese cities. Slowing fat bombs so that bursts would be high enough overhead for the fireball to go down, before up.

His uncle just a little later finds the Moon Shaft. Deep inside all the time knowing what it was.

Later, intimating only to me. The others had no need for such enormity. Mother would not talk about my father, the man she left before I was born. I had to wait 12 years to know why EBEs had attacked us that night in 1947 in New Mexico, as we moved to Texas.

Looking into oval pools I had passion not to join, one thought had driven them away...sending them in their own oval ship sparking into oblivion.

My beloved grandfather died just before the completion of that third. Summoned to his bed too late, I returned with heavy heart. A wait in Albuquerque brought me face to face with their own again.

The Man In Black, Rinn Clark, to give the reluctant warning. Even THEY must play by rules.

Rinn, the man of eternal mystery, magician guild president, owner of the Western Hills Motels

(where Marinna was "debriefed" two weeks following the assassination,) and the only Chinese emperor's robes outside tombs today...all seven of them! Rinn had to place the offering, he had to hope I would come over. That night just before Christmas (1962) in Sasebo Harbor was the fourth. The night of my awakening to what I was, from whence it came and my purpose. When the lights came over those small mountains and formed a V to my mind. What Rinn Clark had known...and what he had hoped would not.

Aimless for so long, until that summer in Utah...like what I had done in that stone in Arizona for 50,000 years, still dormant to purpose, waiting for the time of clarity to come...when it did. The place for the new heaps. Watched over by timid children that can't stop digging in their own dirt. Watching the Hand of God deposit the source of life. Not knowing what forbodes, what hope lingers for the rest.

The five corners of the pentagram were complete. Compressing time was but a part of it.

The Host

There are so many ways to tremble...

that we would have you learn.

So many ways to cowardice beyond

to strangle, stab and burn.

The Highest has placed us near to spite

our ever intending goal

That we would make of man an equal

inspite of never having had a soul.

Copyright April 2001 James C. Horak

Additional Notes:

The quality of this Canto is not in keeping with the others. Hurriedly I wrote this, since I may not be allowed here much longer. Too, this is not according to my plan of how I meant to present this work. For I've not been allowed the "run around" your incredulity, with which I know you will react. Wondrous things have never ceased. It is purely an invention of industrial tyrants that they ever have. Men that would replace dragons and sorcerers with cold steel and glass buildings...and soulless efforts just as empty as themselves.

You must ask yourself, in the recently revealed reality of how little concern there is to secure national secrets from other nations, just for whose benefit the secrecy is maintained? Especially the secrets about UFOs, the EMVs in the Rings of Saturn and around the sun, and the constantly increasing pathogens intentionally developed in the name of military preparedness.

In the end, if you pursue the matter long enough, one inevitable conclusion can be reached. The secrecy is maintained to prevent the human species from realizing its potential. We have the most wonderful potentials. Our imagination is just a glimpse around the corner of that.

Canto X

The Old Man on The Road, Part One (of three)...The Past

Orestes had met him, as had Phillip of Macedonia, Napoleon and Robespierre, even the resolved General Patton. He had tolled the bells for Hemingway and resided close with the elusive Mr. Traven.

His inspiration was on the pages of hundreds of magnificent works by authors that might sparingly mention him, but always with reverence.

How he did it, traveling through time in between dimension upon troughs at just the right frequency (phase)...so as not to disturb the layering, was wonderful. All of it was not to adventure, not to take anything...even slight artifact (though he had permitted himself a few.) It was to argue with adopted lie, the context of mindset, when it became so unyielding no one saw through it.

He told me of the Martian Exodus. And of those superb beings so long forgotten that had allowed it. That had to leave their homes themselves, so deep beneath the soil of Mars, to trade the Martian moon for our survival. The engine my uncle found in the TatrasThen the earth would be ready for the "mineral".

The Hand of God

These priests you call scientists

would have the strangest things matter.

While slighting wonder and elegance

to justify soullessness.

Easily in their view is spread the difference,

working as it had to prepare the Garden.

Laying empty bits of rock and other matter

in rings around the planet Saturn. 

To be kissed by the Sun.

Copyright May 2001 James C. Horak

Canto XX

The Old Man

Part II (The Present)

Our bravest moments are always those unwatched by others, unheeded by the mass of mankind that proclaims such titles of respect. So little attention is paid subtlety, much less that not extolled over and over again by those suited to flattery.

Now, however, the negative aspect issues forth...that prescribed to attribute motive and denigrate the uncomfortable truth. Ahh, yes, attributing motive, the refuge of cons and cowards constantly seeking fault with their betters to confuse the truth even farther from the mark than where lying governments have misplaced it.

He had reached a new resolve. This last high school reunion, the fortieth, led to it.

He would tell them all what he really did, what he had done now these last near forty years.

"I", he said, resigned to it, "do contract work for think tanks. I have the only job left

where I must be furnished with the truth to effectively work."

They were curious, "think tanks?" "Yes, like Rand, Westinghouse, The Ford Foundation, the Company." There weren't many questions following that. The small talk resumed.

But he had cracked the ice, the ice entombing him to a form of endless decay.

For it had not been enough just to back up whistle-blowers when they came forth to tell truths so few were prepared to hear. He must open up some "avenues" himself.

Equational Zero

Can a thing be so astute,

merely uttering it settles the matter?

Placing cross-hairs on a target perfectly

enough

The shot is unnecessary?

Indeed, virtue set with clarity is just

that...

And Equational Zero IS the last departure point.

It is how far we can go as we are as inevitability. 

Copyright June 2002 James C. Horak

Canto XVIII

Cantos above XVII are about the future. Here in XVIII, is the threshold of what is presently becoming an inevitability. A die already cast, but with outcome not wholly decided. And why we are "revisited".

I am Maldanus now, shepherd of the Hand of God,

Thing that gives life and Natural Order

Where else nothing of flowing substance would be

found. 

Science and art to you are, at one, to look with

telescope at what is close...and microscope at 

what is distant, the other...

At what is of no import, to give heed, while to 

the very cradle of your life, spend nothing.

What brings me now?...and do I come with sword?

(Strange little details upon which to fasten.)

*Like the last time, when you asked if I love you.

Only enough to come again.

Hardly off your starboard, the work of my charges

readies the vast heaps.

Saturn's gossamer rings give them treatment by the sun. 

The last needed to renew the worm life you've poisoned.

The question is "do you love yourself wisely?" Enough?...

To plant and grow harvest rather than profit from famine.

Only one truth can stand you well enough to matter:

THAT NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH MATTERS.

Copyright April 2001 James C. Horak

Canto XIX

The poet and historian Robert Graves had found Her, locked away among the musty, still forbidden, past. No less glamorous than the last day Her feet had been bathed in wine and dried by the hair of fair maidens. Shining forth, immortalized forever, his name to be attached to a Goddess...The White Goddess.

The One whose ambivalence (Hers alone) is blessed. The One that cannot be denied...though hidden from view these millennia. A woman with power is stern to so many who would model the fair as the earth...to plow, place seed in... to dishevel in hunger, to abandon to meagre Winter. The White Goddess is more than earth, She is the very disposition of the elements. Nothing persists without Her. One nation after another needed to personify Godhood in their kings...lusting for power that paid nothing to Her. Never allowing even that one Roman day to set aside for Her.

Wanting no one to know how She gave both the men and their women new seasons of expectation,

allowing love to come with harvest...not just wealth...preferring even famine to grasp that last hoard of gold from the poor.

The White Goddess

I was not whole until You took my lust,

Giving back love.

I was not open to all You had to caress

Until you showed me tenderness.

I was not intoxicated to gentleness

Except when You sang the Song of David,

Making forged iron soft to sweet Earth.

The maidens gather at Your temple steps.

Baskets of flower petals blessed by

their tiny picking finger tips.

Can I love You any better than this?,

To throw what I have at Your feet.

Counting You will return in brown season

To harbor me, changing bitter to sweet.

The maidens gather at Your temple steps.

Baskets of flower petals blessed by

their tiny picking finger tips.

Copyright May 2001 James C. Horak

Canto XXXII

Crossed harmonics is what it's called. That place where molecules and atoms are so unsure of providence. So null is created. A place to start going upward, into the crystalline lattice with something more than a jack-hammer, or less. All the while mere sound (attenuated close to the frequency of thought)is all it takes to exterminate man rodent. But it isn't costly enough to count...to keep pot-latch in place in the economic scheme Machiavelli tried to avoid announcing. Places were set aside to be little more than null.

Ed Storm found one, there in South Africa. But his love and profit over succulents wouldn't let him leave it alone. And he wouldn't gracefully bow out when his officers cut off his supply...there in the diamond zone that had no diamonds. Did his wife plant delicate cactii on his grave?

Then there's one in Mexico, and here in the US (I won't tell you, you've better things to do with life.)

We all had the one in Siberia loudly announced close to the beginning of the last century.* *When you start out, sometimes you screw things up...just to learn to get them right. The hydrogen bomb was that way, a little side step Oppenheimer tried to discuss. And when both USSR and China had to take their own terrifying view into parallel dimension, the New World Order suddenly became expedient.

But the stupidity didn't stop. My uncle's engine transported all the way South. Placed in Lake Vostok, near another of its kind. Simply to see how bad the havoc can be...like with A.I.D.S., the ultimate sign of the times.

Then there's the thing in the circular mountain range in Utah (the only circular mountain range observed...even on the moon.) Perhaps I'll tell you about that, when I, Dimosthenes, discover something new to love about you.

Center Point Passed

Nothing mattering is not delicate.

Even dog slaves of Rome feeding swine

with their dead...

Have the tears of you or me.

No one has the right to blot.

Whether truth, life, hope...

When does the diminuator become

the executioner?

That first step sets the inevitability. 

Ivan Grozny was taught to be amused

throwing dogs upon rocks one hundred feet down.

Lovely little lesson to bestow compassion.

To but be relentless, more in mistake than might. 

Now we haze, we brandish women as trophies, we

Count merit with poker chips.

And we gauge how far we've been by how much fuel 

we've used. 

We would approach stars that way, and their tender

satellites.

Why we are Wormwood, misnamed for wormfood.

The last hour approaches the last station to get off.

Copyright April 2001 James C. Horak

Canto XXII

What lies beneath the German castle and what noble gas perplexes disease? You would know, you say. And still you haven't found the likeness in the hand that wrote Titus Andronicus with that of Malta's Jew, odd. Nor drew the culprit practiced forth, when Elizabeth and Mary stole their wonderful husbands' work. Neither do you tolerate the astute that do.

Now the Eve approaches...for you to stand bare to what you are. Wanting to know, you say, but only what does not disturb complacent comfort. While the answers never moved far from your feet, even to scurry away from your frown. And you've never tested the gap between your thought and its essence to your soul. Even to be one with Gods. Lying about pulsing sun vibrating earth to its core is the lie you can least afford...just to hide the secret power you've discovered, that makes a wave to oval surface. A wave to ride upon. While my vast engines will shake you until you abandon one tune to try another. I, Maldanus, would test this shroud you wrap yourself in to deny the Heavens.

The Suicide

The World is not my place,

she said,

The corners falling down.

And in some timeless attic way

The lace departs my gown.

My body zoned permits no frown

Still on with life I go.

The attic way, a lonely place,

My house for dolls that sin.

With hair uncut (to silence change)

Inside my vault I pace;

Unheard, the echo fades

And shatters my disgrace.

Copyright April 2001 James C. Horak

Posted by Torz Baron Copley