ttp://edition.cnn.com/2006/POLITICS/03/31/senate.censure.ap/index.html (jeez, already a broken link?)

Nixon’s White House lawyer told the senate judiciary committee today that Bush’s domestic spying far exceeds the wire-tapping crimes that forced Nixon to resign. To understand the entire story, I began following links to leads to further details which I diligently followed in an honest effort to quickly uncover, gather and connect everything necessary so as to aid the “average” reader’s full comprehension of this latest CNN report (a secret domestic spying program borne of a leak and spanked into a scandal).
I think that subconsciously, as I write such a news summary, I imagine a reader who is of normal intelligence and has a reading level of a “typical” high school educated American, although standard daily newspapers in America are written for an adult with an approximate age literacy level of 12— if I correctly remember a handout from some ancient high school journalism class.

However, after the details increased, as did many unanswerable questions based on missing details, I realized that what I had planned to write would become a lengthy (several months) research project wherein I might even have to attempt forcing lost information out of domains and servers-- especially those of the U.S. government which seem to have an Orwellian system for removing embarrassing mistakes— like what happened to the press conference statement that I know I read of a spokesman who, when pressured to answer a reporter, admitted that the CIA and the U.S. Government helped Hussein get into the WMD business? I went back to that report a few months later and the link was broken; the report is nowhere in any of the archives. History: here today, gone tomorrow. I would need to write a large book if I wished to succeed in accurately connecting all the relating stories with the hardest evidence, firmest facts, solid statements or pertinent opinions, after which I would have to hammer it all together with some strong nails of impenetrable reason, then add many self-tightening logic screws that simultaneously sink and pull undeniable conclusions from below the surface— which I cannot do at this time due to obligations with other projects; however, the overall concept of that book deeply intrigued me since my greatest hobby (and figurative profession) is mining metaphors (or even less valuable ores) in order to extract the smallest bits of truth which I then shine and often discover fit as perfect pieces of puzzle matching certain other pieces. Considering my schedule, the best solution I can find is to extract the newly-forming soul of that never-to-exist book and create a unique ars poeticle that telegraphs and telescopes the basic meaning much more quickly, and probably no less forcefully, as a voluminous book. So, I am going to turn the concept of an entire book, yet forming in my mind (though finished in spirit) into the shortest possible piece of writing. To do this, I will soon abandon the average reader (whom I have had tied to my waist for years); I will momentarily cut that rope of responsibility in order to write as I really enjoy. But before we take off, I should explain some of the mad-scientist writing techniques used herein. If the following lingua-technical terminology is repugnant to you, please turn back now.

In the lingo of linguistics shop-talk, I shall use strategically placed and precisely calculated "code-piece rocket engines" specially designed with my own patent-pending, turbo-poetic image enhancer using American-made, parts-of-speech shifters and new built-in, dipolar reading-level detectors that repel and attract just the right-leveled readers by forcing everyone to initially decode the ideas rearranged by a small magnetic Sense Redecomposer which burns a very dangerous but powerful boosting mixture comprised of an unstable and non-organic nitrofied syntax catalyzer, painstakingly integrated with multilingual grammatical compounds derived from the root abstracts of several etymological vestiges belonging to broadly different language families which allow reverb and reversal effects; once injected into our currently degenerated state of dying English (semantically speaking, of course) these complex compounds and components will revitalize meaning (meaning meaning and not meaning meaning as in meaning something not meaning anything) as well as allow me to move freely between a wide range of impressions or ideas that can, whenever I wish to activate the correct combination of redecomposed and reverberated syntactical reverse boosters in a given direction, disguise even the most incredible thoughts into what seem to be ugly and senselessly deformed-looking rocks, shreds and bits of rotten-mossed nonsense, etc.
Also, thanks to my bipolar reading-level detectors, I can reverse this process to make professors and other intellectuals of the arrogant variety prove themselves embarrassingly idiotic by thinking they have summarized all the main ideas that, when pressed for specific locations, are nowhere to be found herein— or, contrariwise, if a professor of the career-track variety has yet to understand he is doing nothing more than constantly pushing back his own infinite frontier of ignorance, then I can activate the Sense Redecomposer into its Derecomposer mode and make him certain this entire uncategorizable document is ridiculous nonsense only to get badly burned by the occasional (or perhaps rare) student who can think really well and point out the sudden obvious meanings that abound herein. Unfortunately, this shall happen rarely since I speak of that dwindling breed of student who is interested in most everything, constantly tries to synthesize ideas and pieces of theories into an original system, and loves tinkering with words and ideas much like a kid engrossed with snapping together colored lego bricks to discover or invent, “...cool stuff.”
I quickly devised this entire system during a few difficult and sleepless nights in my secret underground languatory, for it seemed a worthwhile challenge since I can now hypercompress the hearts of nonexistent books into small documents, phase up the right readers to take with me whenever I wish, and “accidentally” leave behind approximately 78% of all readers on earth (who are of the aforementioned “average” reading level). To write for the widest media audience, I write with a slow, polite eye, and compliment them with an occasional rare word from my favorite collection to make them feel smart since they can make an average reader's extraction of meaning by context, but inwardly I know the insipidity of my dumbing-down things, and sometimes even feel slightly dishonest, although I am well-intentioned. I grow weary of the oversimplified bonds of using the k.i.s.s. or “keep it simple, stupid” formula drilled into journalists and speech students, thus at this moment I feel sudden relief that I shall take a quick breather from giving all those smotheringly polite kisses to a bunch of challenged readers who, just the same, often lose patience anyway and ungratefully deride a professional writer's efforts to be enlightening in an interesting way so that they are not left sitting in an unsettling and irritating puddle of confusion. Not this time. Ethical or not, I am going to cut the line and tell everybody to climb solo like I have always endeavored to do in my literary life.
Since you are evidently not one of those 78% (you got this far after I cut that rope, and evidently followed me here) I welcome your interest and now write to the very few who actually love the English language and care to read something more than billboards-- or the slightly longer version of it, a daily news brief. My magnetic sense redecomposer has already been running unbeknownst to readers, and sent me a ratioed signal for my borameter, which this moment shows a highly probable reading that, by this word, I will have already repelled entire civilizations of average readers.
I also laboriously developed periodical wave-commas for quantum punctuation that could handle the improbable (but necessary) reversals to keep my Sense Redecomposer balanced and impenetrable to anyone too lazy or undeserving to think other than what the average reader shall think— which brings me to an important point: the end result of turning a large imaginary book into this hybrid all-and-nothing that you are about to read will involve a volatile and risky mental flight of imagination and fancy that is not recommended for average readers because, during such hyper-jumped-down polycompressions of mystic meaning (crunched into cryptic symbolifications), the reader must walk along perilous and narrowly (un)reasoned ledges of intuition high above metaphorical cliffs and giant migrating geolingual plates that sometimes fracture along the brittle phoneme plosives where an unfortunate crossing of semantic lines has also settled— the sudden collapse of which can cause in readers a temporary loss of vision, paranoia, dementia and, in cases of combined dementia and depression, death by suicide. So…
Caveat Emptor = Be Warned: for the weak of mind and/or reading impaired, there is a clear risk of breaking loose the phonemic plates from their imaginative heights, resulting in a collapse of mental faculties that will smash upon nonsensical grounds (if this has not already happened many lines ago— which should and will indeed be the case according to my current borameter readings); if you begin reading the next paragraph and feel the syntax slipping beneath your feet, you should seriously consider skipping the upcoming rocket launches and breakneck climbs so as to avoid an irreversible mental avalanche, please spare yourself the frustrating failure of foolishly slipped sense discs in your brain's vertebratic logic-column, and make a wide berth of the highly flammable body of this ars poeticle. You can instead claim you have read this in its entirety by only reading the questions and quips of the fool at the bottom of the page— for remember, a tiny arrow of truth from a joker’s funny bow is better than the fall-out of nuclear radiation poisoning from the approaching enriched lines that I generate through the gamma-overheatings of a mind forced to abbreviate volumes into a near single-point implosion that few can successfully deconstruct into the fusion of reconstructed thought plainly written upon my scorching rosetta stone (a stone that is confirmed by many respected network critics to be merely some nut’s random, demented mind-scratchings on a ruined and ridiculous tabulae rasae).
I ask the confused poetaster or safely suspicious administrator to stop now lest, as so often happens, the innocent artist joying his enthralling run through snapping crocodile jaws in the thick swamps of snake-infested chaos be thrown into a pit of lions for inciting intolerable feelings of mentalinguistic inadequacy in respectable folks who protect the world from such potential breaches of national security and suspected BOMBED indecency of fucking terrorist language. Oh yes, welcome, my smiling brothers-in-mental-arms— and I see you, connivers searching among the nonsense for reasonable grounds of professional, social, if not mental dismissal, but this that you read can never be created by the educated, clever, or political tracticians who lack any true passion for the wild, free winds of imagination; you cannot understand the death of self that recreates these things anew, this artistic process burns and creates entire new worlds, yet you sinisterly read such beauty and magic in order to compose lowly decrees that sentence virtuous maidens and philosophers to the stake. The free in thought and deed can never be silenced, and I do indeed dare to continue in constructing maddening paragraphs of perfectly clear obscurities such as this:

I stretch and feel the lightness of having cut that rope, I feel my recovery from the debilitating “average reader” atrophy of my once strong and straight poetic spine; I only intend these next choral arrangements and melodic meanings for the hearts and minds of a few comprehending strangers; I will speak to those few who seek the cerebric exhilarations of thought-quakes behind which giant wakes of confusion bury standard broadcast content. I begin by grabbing the main vine of thought— to wit, that I tracked those kangaroo committees escaping into their unintelligence investigations, deaf senate hearings and blind fact-findings faithfully reported as last year’s pre-war intelligence abuse headlines or todarrow’s senate-spy wire-tappings of domestic judiciary committees cautionarily weighted on a supreme court wheel of fortune that is secretly foot-pedaled to stop on just the right rigged results of the daily news (as though the wheel were not circular and is linearly balanced, legit, the straight stuff and obviously not a blur of bred and lack, not a domino effect of missing points collapsing each other out of site while the fallen ones quickly reappear in the latest news columns again). Degenerated information for a cognantly floundering species' mesmerizing hum of reassuring postmodern nonsense loaded with sounds and images that, between TV-dinner eye-blinks, seem to offer a vague promise of truth-- before realizing some particular mind-fragvertisement is not about the latest destroyer computer game, but rather a slick Army Recruitment spell, an action-packed Schwarzenmovie of bombs bursting in air that seduce innocent youth --programmed since a precognitive infantile stage-- into the real miserable, spartan deserts not to be found on reality TV; yet these deserts are approaching in storms of mental desertifications...
Good fortune! The dipolar detectors indicate that the nitrofied syntax catalyzer just lost a few malicious legicians (I intentionally patched in some ancient parable syntax that has always confused those whom we didn’t want discerning sacred truths-- parables that only give ears to those who have ears to hear).
I now see the heart of that book reforming and beating its way out of pages that would have circulated far less surely, for the endless research news of stories and events, along with the rise, fall, slowdown or forgetful freeze of investigational (non)developments that run backwards like slow similes of molassic ice floes up steep Siberian hillsides (that this moment you see truly in your imagination) lose all meaning in redundancies, a mumbled ritual of Latinate fact ignored to oblivion— but things get worse: in such mystery as I will have wrought (and even now do wreaght) are visions frightening and monstrous, metaphoric scandals made clear again, looming out of a polluted ocean before being once again blasted to the hidden depths of factual mystery. “An imagined scandal of sheer speculation,” a well-serving press secretary assures the nation while habitually tipping his snooty nose towards the shiny medals crowding his lapel. The last bauble on his starched collar is an eagle trinket ceremonially awarded for creating an image of obvious and shameless mendacity for a mass of pitifully gullible viewers to gratefully consume (but we will always break those links in the mental chains that bond the average reader to brainwashed slavery); yes, such as we can alchemize, out of such miserable links, smart sets of golden cufflinks-- although reliable news sources say in violence we did unlawfully break privately owned iron chains that compromised national security (all the chains are lying at the souls of our freed feet, though the hideous purple and blue bruise-rings of what, officials say, are on the escaped ankles of wild men do clearly indicate, in the plainest black and white, that they threaten our life and liberty and need strapping down again. They name deceptive acts with new alloys of platinum clauses secretly written in a mysterious mumble of runes as old as man, and require no signature or disclosure to leave designated madmen pre-emptively restrained in their clear and presently dangerous state.
The human awe and love of God-fearing devotion in the "average" reading majority is frightened into a blind saluting of twisted abstractions made of undecipherable runes like P-a-t-r-i-o-t, F-r-e-e-d-o-m and G-o-d which are in desperate need of a decryption code to reveal their ugly and deformed meanings, thus I could not help but eventually invent a dipolar redecompressor to ditch the silly idgits and finally write for those whom I love— nor do I mind so much that nearly everyone shall happily miss this courageous act of deepest artistic love for Man and God and Jefferson, images of robed reason that shall be declared delusions of naked treason against a highly impressionable status quo whom can be taught to see black as white by slavish leaders controlling that wheel of misfortune. I am the wise stranger observing this from the watchtower, I observe and write poetry about those hidden masters who think obedient sheep will always follow these hired shepherds in wolves’ clothing. Why can they not hear a true shepherd’s voice, why can’t they hear the evil howls of laughter as I do hear gleeting from their hidden masters, they gloatfully boast in condescenscious mirth: “...at long last,” (says one from a shady ring of figures who stands in an ancient and movable hall, his elite loyalty having been handed down marble steps worn smooth, “the detested parchment has been chained by p-a-t-r-i-o-t-i-s-m,” and they wheeze cynical laughter with hoarse cigar, know they are smarter than the rest and toast to this depraved wit as they discompassionately sip something thicker-than-water from elegant thimbles molded from the melted gold of repossessed cufflinks.
Meanwhile, the smartest of the average reading majority thought they read, or possibly even saw, on a respected but little-known source, an unbelievably big scandalberg oddly projecting out of the polluted ocean this afternoon, though doubt sets in due to its absence on major TV or print networks like ganette, emphasis on the net (the closest story was in the National Enquirer whose rotating wheel had randomly stopped on a UFO; the low-resolution image looked like the rise of the titanic or perhaps some Nessie-looking iceberg thingy); the story died before they managed to sell even half the copies— but they were fortunate to make up for this with a sold-out edition the very next day when the military torpedoed a foreign scandalberg, of suspicious origin, which sunk to the impenetrable bottom of a tanker-spilled splotch of black sea, so the Senate responsibly formed an investigation committee the very same day, though it is expected to take several months before the chairman and advising committee are negotiated and compromised in the toothlessness of the coming weeks. However, a staff archive photo of a once well-spoken senior body around a solid round oak table sufficed-- they took the oak table from King Arther's court and blended it in to ensure you all of the nobility and wisdom in their committee, a board of trustees you can entrust, thus they needed no make-up for their eventually-nominated ring of toothless alzheimer’s patients.
The ignorant captains and innocent sailors following orders witnessed some innocent women and children screaming during the national security operation, but the CIA rushed to get their oaths of sworn silence and, anyway, The President himself called them and explained what they had already misled themselves to believe: it was a heroic action with unfortunate casualties that minimized loss of life and once again secured the nation, protected their d-e-m-o from t-y-r-a-r-i-s-m to spread the beauty of f-e-a-r-d-o-m. The local radio even interviewed some of the sailors, the wives of whom listened proudly at the rotary club’s patriot night (recorded and ceremonially replayed on Good Morning America, replete with zombaic questions begged for the nation’s sorrow and loyalty).
Yet poetry can tear away the electronic curtain, and has always used words like veneer for naming veneerial diseases: we remove the curtain, peel away the veneer and are surprised to see that all those machines and men were never unmobilized, and powerful armies with shifting battle lines have constantly crossed vast deserts of misnomered holy shit only to come out smelling like roses time after time— roses proudly broadcast on the evening news, but many Americans (of televangelist audiences thus far) swear on the Bible they can actually smell those blooming scents (the holy spirit?) that exude neural olfactorants through the speaker holes of many recent religious TV broadcasts. Now, I know I will soon lose some of the few remaining readers and may be climbing alone when I begin intensifying the use of my languatory inventions so as to capture the soul of that book (which I have yet to achieve) and I know this complex, mentalinguistic machinery is difficult for many readers (a retired school-teacher in Bampton Mississippi just saw this last parenthesis and thought, “My God, another one?” But who cares? I was sure I had lost her long ago since, when vacationing in Rome, she gasped in shock at seeing that Michelangelo’s David had a disgusting dick hanging on it—“My Lordy like Adam and Eve didn’t figure out how to make figleaf underwear!” she quickly scribbled on a postcard to her pastor whom she had promised to write; thus, she did not reach this closing parenthesis with its smiling emoticon that I stole from a trash dumpster as a shiny gift for the few as yet lucid and amused who walk upwards and breathe this crisp air with me :-)
I continue compressing the seemingly lost soul of my book forward to expose it (an inspired and instinctive method to reverse that uphilled river of cold molassic data ) because, if I squeeze all my ideas and thoughts to the borders of sense and sanity, the utter verge of sensical thought in hasty but sure strokes that will sketch you a quick message, once unzipped and decompressed from imalogical encryption, then shall there appear in a sudden wordless understanding a vision you will clearly see, a terrible truth like the sublime shadow of an unimagable reality. I shall scrape away the dirt to expose the illusion. But, in the end, those possessing wisdom and intelligence must trustfully make leaps of faith with me over the exponentially expanding historical breaches and gaping ruins of strip-mined (non)facts stolen and stashed in the radioactive waste-caves beneath our deteriorating nation’s virus-ridden badlands (the spreading frontier of which I am holding back this moment to help you out of its avalanching ignorance, we clear it and struggle to a horizon of meaning ever fleeting us, but we can follow it, yes, we will faithfully follow it), badlands that poets have foreseen and forwarned of coming, having seen the wasteland, not through mystical balls of crystal or ghost cards of astrologically significant numberings, but by having a poet’s ears to hear (what the thunder said), and eyes to see clearly this post-post modern desertification of meaning through flash-floods in the information age, and fast-paced erosion to deteriorate the age of reason’s soul, and blind humanity’s vision by creating particles of missing digitizations that bleed reality’s true color into perfect flat screens of million-bit video card capacity. Meanwhile, the mass media’s daily news summaries add particles of nonmeaning to rebuild the nation’s mental landscape, and taint the deep and once clear waters of truth, while too few of us collect the last remaining drops into things like this, a drizzle of hybrid language that was once generously splashed from the highest clouds by various poets speaking down the centuries (but still these words revive you as though drawn from a fresh spring, as indeed they have been, and do you not joy to drink of this with me? I joy to drink of this with you).
I transform the simple language of daily fact into this mysterious thing that my unceasing brothers-in-mental-arms decode from my mixed bits of broken metaphors, they need not the runes of empty symbols blinding others; no, if you have reformed my thought, then let me lend your tired mind the speed and magic of angelic wings, a poetic understanding to take you above our lost wasteland-- but prepare to be shocked by the extent of its destruction, and be firm in observing the sad gaping sores of Dante’s canyons still echoing the screaming cacaphony of lies unceasingly avalanching down the centuries of those worn marble steps-- but we need not take or make such musty passages, rather we will use our wings to rise yet more on cleaner currents above those growing cracks of confusion, see the clear message felt upon a cooler wind, a rare breeze where truth-seekers gather as eagles and see that they are not alone, that they are collectively moving in the right direction, a common spirit connecting them before the dry winds force them back to the insane illogic that this world insists are the solid, unmoving grounds of common sense (still it moves)— but you understand, you understand how I got here with you, and how Nixon and Bush, the simple daily news, wanders to where we now wonder.
I can make a leap of faith that others exist who will never believe that the evening news does not hide the big story from us by confusing double negatives of partial facts turning gilded lies to gold stock on the NYSE (worth all that money printed on that thin burnable stuff, those poor trees that are worth so much more than that-- and certainly will be once they are endangered to near extinction, when the money will become what it really was the entire time: a dead sea of corrupted data-blood flowing through the veins of some beast who doth sloth towards Bethlehem; it deluded the entire race to greedily feed upon the swollen stomachs of starving children, for it loves the meat of freshly suffering life the best -- highly prized since money just can't buy it.
We thirst, yet we awake each day, our noses poking out of another night’s accumulated dune, weighing our morning down with the facts of life, we stand and look for the signs in the sky, sniff for the direction we last sensed that promise of a cool rain coming, we rise to the familiar struggle against the shifting dunes and stinging sands, vaguely recalling we might have had a strange dream during the dark night, a childish flight of fancy, soaring effortlessly in such beautiful clean currents, gliding with our strange new wings, wings we had made from flimsy news ripped out of the daily paper, our magic transformed the senseless black and white strips into an unearthly fibricious mix of bright-colored metaphor-silken feathers, brilliant irridescent pinions that effortlessly glided along the rediscovered meaning in rarified air, a place where lies fell out of their stolen language, and words like hostages were all freed. We soared far above the poetic walls of the proverbial watchtower, built from time-unknown to cut off the cruel desert’s howling wind from disturbing those ethereal waters on the other side, clear like beauty and truth, its blissful glow a vague dream that forgets our difficult steps forward in this seemingly endless man-made desert; we shake the sand out of one boot and trudge onward, half-blinded by the flying sheets of data-sand, the countless grains of lies irritating our eyes and clogging our throats, watching our civilization, accepting of the storm, racing downwind in metaphorical sandships built of bull-dozed jungle-wood. The stinging sand wakes you from such reveries and you see a motionless tunnel of truth leading upwind:
that mankind has mostly given up, surrendered to its self-created storm of confusion, convinced there is no victory against the ravages of an unholy immaterial nature, the naming of which exasperates a mob as they point at my foolish scribblings of nonsense and fill their sails with gales of apathy upon frightening winds, riding comfortably ahead of giant dust-data devils delivering them to the awaiting final chaos of unknowing and undiscerning-- but they do now have the luxury of coffee and the morning paper as I watch them speed by in their pathetic vehicles marketed to smartly ride the tide, they stare at me through warped and darkly defective glass wherein I register surprise, or doubt, or causeless hate of what we are— though sometimes they are honest enough to send a sad light of admiration that weakly blinks at me a bit of kind encouragement; perhaps these are they who understand my stubborn resistance and believe the resolve of individuals should never be mocked with derisive jabs even if they, at the moment, refrain from accompanying me on this difficult daily march out of the desert.
Others say nothing, wait to see what others say rather than risk unnecessary ramifications (clever legicians). A few of those sinister readers walk with me, do not mention that they are beside me, and wait to see if their fortunate proximity will win a pile of silver coins. Others whip by us carried by the wind, but we are miraculously unstruck time after time after time out of mind in our unwavering path because the storm can, and will, consume everything, absolutely everything, except the infinitely improbable and miraculous place where we know to step. We take another knowing step on the only existing path out, narrow but solid, a track possessing the faint signs of previous travelers whose mysterious etchings have become faded symbols blowing meanings and messages where others traveling against this way see erratic signs drawn by beasts, retarded madmen, or perhaps the dragging feet of whimsical children who sit on rocks while pretending they ride unicorns; we smile at these kind greetings and messages that the average reader grumbled into nonsense, and know we cannot change the general word that we are stubborn fools and madmen walking in shameless idiocy. I tell the other jokers and fools who think there must surely be some way out of here, "Yes, there is a way out of here; let us march onward." This very breakdown of meaning this moment is for those who have the eyes to see metaphormised and revitazioned poetry from words like those, which were just this moment newly born, for they didn’t exist and proved their meaning by making sense to me and you.
My inner mental process momentarily amplified this wild and wonderful ramble of clarity for me, and I believe also for you, reaching across all stretches of time and space, instantly answering all those lost questions and evaded answers in what seems like insane poetry to those who have stopped looking for that ever-retreating end of things. Only a madman would think he could understand. I know I shall neither put together enough scattered details, nor ever get from the daily news answers to those stolen, assassinated and otherwise violated questions that are buried every morning by the morticians and dirt-shovelers working behind our race's cemetorial doors of perception. I sip a cup of coffee and read a few scribbled messages between the lines of our pragmatic daily news. I bid my neighbors a good day and wink knowingly about the weather, and turn again to speak to you. You can say you read this, and know the meaning since I took you here to drag out of the cool sky of your waking dreams a clear understanding despite the subcommittee nonreport to be continued until they all forget what anything meant; you recognize the techniques of this world’s deceptions through expert intuitions (hyper-strengthened muscles in legs powerful and adept from broad-jumping over all those chasms of lost information). That’s why I chose to tell you about this evening’s news in the form of poetry, a lost love that alone I so rarely climb here to use-- but it was time I wrote for you, that brother or sister of the word who may get this message after I have left this wasteland, but I can still ask you to take my hand, and say “Now let’s return to pay our respects to this world’s voice of reason, I am glad we got to speak.” I have shown you why I cannot do much more than link you to a particular (non)report and bounce the ideas and questions of yet another laughable news piece off its (un)intelligibly bony and arrogant head. Those creepy worthless bastards sipping from their golden thimbles have the lost answers stuffed under the corpses beneath their mattresses. They keep them there until it doesn’t matter if the newly-hired immigrant maid accidentally throws some old list of names with the date of JFK’s assassination written at the top into the dumpster hidden out back. But we see them all, know how it will all end, and where we shall all be, you flying next to me.
If I have written obvious nonsense, then I do wonder how you got to this line. The world shall ignore or brush off this ars poeticle as insanity or stupidity, others of course shall speak of its pretension-stuffed pillows, overelaborate and lacy to frills, but they should not dare to ask me what I mean. And you, my perfect reader-friend, I hope you take this ars poeticle and, with its strange codes of instructions, its new languatory inventions, form in your dreams the perfect optical device for seeing more clearly through all the illusions of our waking world—yes, a waking world, dying in its sleep.
And now, for some light entertainment: a fool’s capering joke, which is perhaps a subthesis within that voluminously compressed nonbook of which I have extracted the soul?
http://edition.cnn.com/2006/POLITICS/03/31/senate.censure.ap/index.html (another broken link, already, but I swear I read this)
“Bush has said the National Security Agency's wiretapping program is aimed at finding terrorists before they strike on American soil by tapping the phones of people making calls overseas. He has launched a criminal investigation to find out who leaked the program's existence to The New York Times, saying the report in December tipped off anyone who might be planning attacks.”
Joker: Damn, if that terrorist hadn’t found out about the domestic wire-tapping operations, he would have made a collect call to a small town in Afghanistan and said (translated from arabic),
“Hi, yeah, I got the plastic explosives, and we lined up a meeting for next week in the Ukraine to try to get the price down on that uranium for the b-o-m-b, so I think we could have the attack ready to go in about a month or two. Let’s go ahead and plan the White House job for the first week in August, so we should be crossing more oilfields by late September; I’ll call again if anything changes— Oh! and tell Usama that Dad said W’s dad said the money will be sent to a bank in Iraq since we all have pretty good financial security in our new banks there now. Nobody can see where the numbers came from since we got soldiers surrounding it-- and tell him to quit popping his damned head out of the desert before some unimbedded photographer puts his face on the cover of time magazine. That'll hurt our already bad image, then Usama's dad won't be getting anymore weapons contracts, you got that?”
And does imbedded mean something similar to being in bed with? Surely this thought is a vulgate coin in common currency by now. Damn, they better make a new term.
Let's watch the joker pull back their velvet curtains for a moment; they won't know if we spy upon their methods of mercenary linguistics.
That lush purple curtain pulls back and we peek at a clever professor-- who is making mint as a speech-writer / media consultant for the White House / Bomco Carlyle Group -- sitting at their quarterly staff meeting, an educated cynical snob, a Karl Rove poet advising his dumbass boss who nevertheless knows the market and has been through many revolving doors. The boss says,
"No damnit that's all wrong, I don't pay you to make nonsense, goddamnit give me something juicy; it damn-well costs enough, so squeeze it good, perfesser."
The hireling professor says, "Ok, uh... hmmm. Innoculated?"
"No you idiot, that sounds like a shot in the ass, where the fuck did that come from? Not even close, go get another goddamn degree if that's the best you can come up with. Innoculate my chapped ass..."
"Embosomed reporters?"
"Oh for fuck's sake, you'll piss off our dumbass fundamentalist right wing with that silly-ass word, and the rest won't fall for it anyway, it's way too Jesusy. Goddamn bosom-of-Abraham song stole the mother out of that word forever... embosom my ass, sounds like the reporter is sucking on a soldier's tit. Who the fuck hired you?"
"ok I get your point... what about enclaved? Yes, enclaved! Enclaved Reporters! It's brilliant!!!!!"
The professor then continues his pitch: "Believe me, just ask Donald or Bill if it isn't absolutely perfect. And I am the sociolinguist after all; I am telling you it will work! And here is why: It's an intelligent-sounding word, and we don´t have to spin it much because it already has a little semantic and associatively angular momentum towards the objective. You see, it subconsciously evokes clans and caves, family and protection, a sense of safety. Joe Citizen will certainly fall for it. It creates the image and feeling for the TV American that they are going with the our reporters into the clan-caves of our courageous soldiers."
"Yeesss, you have a point, perfesser. Perfect! That was the feeling it gave me. OK, I'm giving you a bonus for that one."
And so, with the incredible speed of being over the government, rather than under the tortoisine drudgery of it, they once again successfully engineer the shaping of millions of minds later that very same day on the evening news. "Enclave" was a word overheard in white-collar sports bars across the nation, a wildfire buzzword that surged the nation. The professor felt proud as his new wife-student sat next to him and watched her clever husband's newspeak sweep the nation, quickly leaping onto the nation's local TV and AM Radio talk-shows, that big bold word headlining newspapers. American viewers listened that first evening in awe at the brave new formulation:
"Good evening, and thank you for joining us; our Enclaved Reporters have once again risked their lives behind enemy lines in the cruel desert to bring you this evening's news..."
Viewers snatched up that word, chewed on the fresh bait and enjoyed it. The anchor even rose and stood before the glossy graphic nondata, the latest electronic strategies flashing in high res 3D, embellished with lively symbols of tanks and wedged intrusion arrows to show our team´s bloodlessly clean operations, its language of extraction gracing spotless plans on a map reminiscent of the weather forecast, the same organized logic but with some jabul-named towns and a big "N" for north with a bright yellow sun in clear skies meaning air raids are a go, the enclaved reporter interpreted to his anchorman, who framed a few questions needing the dim-witted expertise of a man on the ground over there-- then there was friendly banterish conclusion-talk, a joke about getting sand in one's boots-- but the enclaved correspondent politely declined the humor and admitted his discomfort in a tone of brave but humble resolve. He spoke of soldiers suffering above and beyond their call of duty, those without fresh bread for the evening, and it evoked prayers and tears from millions, gave that feeling of a difficult job well-done, of struggle and sacrifice in which all Americans must commune (as a White House board of directors glutton their outsourcing companies with the nation's entire public funds) then there was the weather forecast with a few more anchovy-flavored enclaved concatenations, like electronic priests saying mass to the nation's devoted peasants-- who truly appreciate the feeling that they have been so well informed and entrusted to enter the maproom and shake hands with those strategic D.C. generals. A duped society who, after the news, lose more of their sons to quick schwarzenmovie action-army-commercials that cause several hundred more high-school grads to join up. The news was over.
And that’s the end of my ars poeticle. But perhaps one day I’ll find a golden space of time to connect the ridiculous details between those days and years of meaningless daily news, I'll tie that pain-in-the-ass rope back around my waist and drag a larger group up here to see what we so clearly see.

No, I won't, I will never work with these ideas again, for such a book would be useless since those in need of reading it would never do so, and those who enjoyed this ars poeticle need not further waste their time.

Sinclair Nicholas