WHITE BUFFALO: The Story of a Mayan Prince

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In order to close out the text,
a dimensional move is required,
bringing the back to front…
Folding time, upon a moment of grief
of loss, the death of a creative action,
THE creative action, not THE Magazine LA,
which is dead, not Art LA, which is postponed,
not a meet with Juan Devis, not Durga Devi,
who will never meet a fate periodical or
be put off,

this Revolution was never televised,
was not dependent on new media, convergent
media, declassification or de-definition,
POP, or TCP/IP, not a New Genre, never
transmedia [maybe trance medium], the old
ways in no need of transparency, inherently
harmonious with degrees of light, passages,
finely woven tapestries of sentience,
not contingent, unboxed by origin, ever
unpredictable by man or the insatiable
artificial person, who must blast big
holes in human experience to encourage
dependence,

“You ask why
I write this book
It is written
in the name of Freedom
She [anthropomorphized
though not as an artificial personhood
but as an affiliation
with love
passion
devotion]
I write this book
I sign it [PJM]
my first child »

What I could not conceive then
was forgiveness, yet now acknowledge
for the natural persons in the story
absent survivor’s remorse

No artificial forgiveness
for artificial persons.
EVER. NEVER. NEVER. EVER.

- and for all you semi-artificial
natural persons, we’ll meet in the Matrix,
the Rhizome, and according to the portions
the percentages of your sublimation,
so will forgiveness attach.

ON PAGE 29 you will discover
another prayerful drawing
depicting your share of paradise
[or so I believe, though what to do I know?]

ON PAGE 28 it becomes clear
no natural person is abstract enough
to embody FREEDOM more than as projection,
unless the water molecule bonds with the
Flow, as prescribed, which introduces
the notion of liquids and resistance
as a science of estimates and reticulation

AMERICAN F/”made to undress in the wilderness”
of Yosemite - with correct nomenclature - arisen
from a grave mistake in the hunting of natural persons
Because guns don’t kill people, artificial persons, do -
Jefferson in Paris, American dawn - a late model
Chevy, making out, creating window views like Drucker
A looking glass, strapped onto the sun like wings
a late-night delirious love, as one calendar ends
and all are obviated. Lizard love at dawn. No
Tyrannosaurus or Rex. Lex and a Thesaurus as replacements,
a mechanical reproduction, on the assembly line,
sung to the tune of “All I Have To Do Is Dream”
by the Everly Brothers.

Freedom is beans and rice
a seed garden in spring
a ridge of blue shadows
a twilight hunt through the grove
a known  trail
wine and a table
circled with friends and family
laughter, song

A couple should never vow unilaterally
Not a man, sure
In the tongue of the artificial person
For their love will surely die,
while the artificial succeeds them,
a moron [not the computer]
- the Alpha is not the Omega,
the Zero is not the One.

no union can be forged
on a lie. That man can think
a person to life.

Only Freedom teaches the Master
the lesson, that no man is the owner
of another, and not one kingdom built
by the slave has yet sustained
& never one will. The greatest King
- the best example for all -
was Edward Longshanks felcher son
who died in screeching agony,
red hot poker up his arse. Freedom
was in that room. no hand on
the instrument, no word to exclaim
no eyes to see, no joy, disdain.

The corporation is Edward 2,
both father and son, black-robed
creator long since turned to dust,
a parasite, unnatural, a golem
interminable, by law established,
by Law to be laid low. If you
should meet a corporation
on the Road, Kill him. This
is prey you cannot devour,
cannot pray over, and thank,
comfort in transition and
return to the earth.

Trust no artificial person.
Trust no artificial song.
Trust no artificial art
Trust no artificial love.
Trust nothing artificial,
for nothing that cannot trust,
is trustworthy. Trust is the
foundation of love,
as each child reveals
and art is a love of children
and so is the song.
The artificial person is the KILLER
of all these and beauty,
Yosemite, Yosemite!

People, songs, art and love
Are not property, so Freedom
Sings, in trust!

Trust fears no artifice,
Freedom fear naught.
No terror artificial
can touch Freedom.
Freedom does not torture.
Freedom does not hide slavery
with names, with distance
or trickery, or flattery,
or payoffs and policy.
Freedom is not plastic.
Freedom is not petrochemical.
Freedom is not money.
Freedom is not ownership society.
Freedom is not managed,
Freedom is chosen, not parceled…

On and on.

White Buffalo: “Life is like sucking honey
off a thorn.”

The Signmaker smudges me
with his peyote fan,
saying in this Time,
as in all times,
a few hold the world together,
and a few try to tear it apart,
and we choose and we choose
and this is Freedom,
which will never lose.

JR: “I am not a killer,
but I know how to kill.”

The artificial teacher
whose education is “the rags
of bondage [White Buffalo]”
instructs his followers
with this or that.

Freedom is unteachable,
but must be learned,
then chosen, and therein
is the crux.