Chavanaugh, Bancroft.

In the known world, the wisest king, the truly wealthiest of kings...

"Everything is nothing."

Until the days of Alexander

Macedonian conquest, and how hath God clothed even the fronds.

Time and chance happeneth to nod to them all.

Itself, facsimile of Flint McCullough's barefoot wandrance, over-shouldering the woman traveler, her small order of tots, for the purpose of reconnecting with the Wagon Train. To survive, to outpace the challenge, he with only his two hands dug into the black fertile earth within a notch in the landscape: and the good earth provided him a gleat of water.

In the province of the Western/Oater/Cowboy work, it isn't the same tingle a Horror or Comedy breathes upon us. Not a cornucopia of possibilities by any stretch of one's imagination, but a raw, rugged struggle to outlast, not nature as many say, but to outlast, to outpace, to withstand the need of one's own physicality. Your lover is trying to drain away your life, even as your thoughts push you onward, to wit.

thunder, magic, foam

shitfire, it meant something to me; but some call me a windsock. Bless me, though, be it chance or God depending on your stripe, bless me, for it was something of the ethereal cocksureness of the eternal.

The cosmic wickedness that only emanates from a blank pretense of deity. Neither evil nor good can bring it off in that way, not the same as amorality shows something of the honesty of nature as it tries with overwhelming slowness to kill you. It is the scrap of dandelion that over a protracted time destroys, that lifts sideways tons of human-constructed whatnot.

Across the lone and level sands

stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:

And on the pedestal, these words appear:

"Look upon my works and despair..."

See how the Lord hath clothed also the wild fronds? And God will smile upon whom he would. Counted the hairs on one's head, even, and we understand not his ways, told He is just, told he is not without mercy.

So many shrines, obviated antiques of a time, a language they destroyed in devouring it as hungry ogres. And God will speak in the winds, the rain and the thunder. He knows the sweet and the sour of one's heart one's mind, and whether we have the pronouncement of understanding His way, the illumination of the Divine, assured he has golden mansions for all in Heaven, away from the poor-spirited ghettos of the damned, the pleas of the 1-chord and lipstick dreamboat believers for more, life and life disgruntledly.... why, all the belief systems we found in other people's pockets.

Macedonians brook no fuckin around. Nor reproductive choice. Nor disagreement with the consensus. And they collect weapons of war, in the religion of peace they find a thousand contrary reasons, and if the enemy is us it is we have done disservice to ourselves.

We hold this union together with our dreams, ye contraries. There was a man from Nazareth, Pennsylvania that spoke out against inequity, spoke for forgiveness--and he was working class, a tradesman, moonlighting as a religious leader.