I think they were first called FEMAle boxcars for the invitation of intimacy that implied. Don’t get all excited that if there are French the German will be right behind. We imagine a whole train of boxcars out of Europe colonizing the globe. The French formed around two city blocks, then went by truck to its finish near Dubuque, wrapped end to end with iron as befits a Lion textured so you can see the nether part. When the back fell in it had to be exposed. Sliding doors on the sides, marks where sliding doors and windows had been made the whole thing look grumpy. A team reassembled the parts with clamps and glue. Several days later, when Humphrey was back on his wheels, this defect, though it bothered considerably, helped us realize it was after all a wreck with a broken back, a la Le Corbusier. Everybody knows they are part animal, part train, part ruin, part wreck, hermetically sealed, which only adds to the effect of the one leg detached. Not to worry. Reconstitute, reconstitute! That’s parlance for up close and personal.
Talk about participation mystique! A Three brow! It began like all those fables at our sister site we’d rather not talk about that have attracted the *demarcolonists. Population excess threatens our saving earth. Where are the boxcars going? Something had to be done with the 80 and the nine. Where else but French camp? Wind socks blowing through double strand barbed wire along railroad tracks make a very very very fine camp, but it still needs an airport! Who will give me airport? Has Halliburton got to do it all? Execution orders, POW camp residential centers! No wonder Anubis is on guard. Pandemics are no excuse! I don’t know what I was thinking. We will not give the House bill number in case of unrest. Were higher consciousness not higher crime, gods and men could work it out! What an honor to be with Sir Tom More on the battlement over London Bridge or Madame Tussaud in Wax. Surely one should not gabble about the millions before. Whenever the outcome, cries of justice rise from the hood of which we are singing. Look out at for the thousand melting men, the 2501 Migrantes, the mass nudes, tortures of The Fixer, Solzhenitsyn, Guernica, Goya, George Pratt, Find Me a Voice, Paul Ruiz. But Stay off the Jersey Turnpike.
I was traveling late one night on when I first saw the mythical horrors of the Carole Nova and trailed them to the Montana outback. The side yards of Idaho flooded down to the Marfa flats. My lucky lot was to find one abandoned after it had wrecked, a great beast brought down from the sky like a Buddha train, except it didn’t fly. When I got close it reminded me of the Super 8 zombie express. I came in round the side, from art, not from fiction or fact. Then I saw an image of the thing. I could not resist turning it upside down. United Nations Prisoner Transfer cars some called them, intended for “resettlement to the east.” Mental boxcars, biological frontiers where some catastrophe takes place in front of the eyes they are unable to prevent. NO SHOUT AWOKE THE WORLD FROM lebensraum.
Regeneration, at least in its commencement, is a work of the mind, and when it first takes place, it has the lusts of the flesh, yea, all the evil inclinations to war against; and even ignorance itself, together with the temptations and allurements from without.
Whoever passes these coliseums of corporate Rome and hears their chariots —they had breastplates like breastplates of iron, and the sound of wings like the thundering of many horses and chariots rushing to battle — should not think its victims unenlightened. Martyrs are the only ones who lift the veil, who see the world is not infinite and holy as Blake and Ginsburg said, but a warfare to entertain the cheap seats, of which books are full. Sir Stephen Spender saw from living in post-Weimar, he said: “after you worship Saturn you must make a portable Moloch to carry around its gods.” Actually he didn’t say that, but the Prophet Amos did.
Beyond however the point of this weaponization, Adam Smith concurs. We should say that if suffering at a distance of time and space does not matter to an onlooker not feel implicated in the fate of another, either from long ago or long ahead, shall the Mandarin, be executed, whether European or Pleidian? This putative chap, courtesy of the Mexicana in our maquiadora-cheap refrigerators and cheap gas, or just because we distance the present from the past to inoculate against a pile of buffalo bones or whatever sacrifice, as Senor Hayot says, there is no end of foreigner, alien, or guinea pig given up. Even our own party may be disfranchised for the common good to establish the Unity State! “This collective choice is good for the greatest number, good for power,” quips space flight pointing to the stars.
Perhaps some will say, how dost thou know a road which thou hast not traveled full length–to which I say that we can see a road pretty correctly a considerable distance before us, and if we could not see before us at all, we should be stumbling almost at every step.
Those expendable containers of population control and higher consciousness reduction also give evidence of two hundred million plastic grave liners that our government is saving. Talk about waste! One is large enough for at least four bodies. Of course the normal body has undergone quadruple expansion bypass. Captives are held at Fusion Centers without addresses, a post office box or generic government building will do, which, if physical distance diminishes moral judgment, how much more diminished will be the physical locations themselves, once disappeared? Of course this is getting ahead, for anyway these are kept out of sight. If you’re happy and you know it let it show
New “implantation techniques” in exchange for this technology, the gods giving POWER in exchange for one life to burgle forever, wonderfully elaborates the melancholy Smith. At pains to elucidate, he said, “if you was to lose that thing to-morrow, not sleep at all that night, snore with serenity over the ruin of a million brothers, the multitude would plainly seem less interesting than the thingy of your own” (Theory of Moral Sentiments Paraphrased. Johnson and Johnson, http)
Adrenal glands and the Rocky Mountain don’t just synthesize. Mysteries of the Fault among the 129 Bases in the Ten Sectors of the Mesa hold true even as our Sky Station Senators assemble to raise their middle fingers in welcome at midnight airports. This proves mainly that Saturn is not just a rocket, but a train and a beast animated by its cargo within, manacled in depth, sealing rows and a guillotine at one end. A lot like Death Ship but it is a Death Train, whose founders, overcome by the liquidation, rocket down the tracks by night, hermetically sealed, no crack in the floors like the Nazi cars, no Weissmandel to cut a hole in the floor with a dull knife and escape out the bottom before Auschwitz put the wind away. If you don’t know Weissmandel he was the rabbi of Slovakia who three times visited the Bodleian Library at Oxford, to invent the Torah Codes, which married the daughter of his master but lost his family entire after cutting a hole through the bottom of that car, colluding with those within to deliver his infant son through the hole. They reneged.
But who’s reading this if boxcar adjuncts are to claim 5/6 to 7/8 of the human population by 2029?
Fema Trains, fema trains
there’ll be fema trains in the city,
ding a ling, hear them ding,
soon you will be Fema trained.
As for enlightenment and illumination, gods and henchmen, stone cold wood and stone bourgeois prison. No better lock than persuade Scientologists they are free. As Chuang Tzu said, wise man see dialectics, wisdom vain. Remember this contradiction. If there is none know! Stephen saw all this as “they rushed him and dragged him out of the city to lay their clothes at the feet of a young man named Saul.” Contradiction on contradiction, the One. You take off your cloak so it doesn’t get blood.
As to the astrology of divination –which divines who should go to the boxcar,– the way is now open! — for the shrine of Moloch in every hospital and now in Times Square, is divined to assuaging the destiny labs with the fire of illumination. Animals, humans, plants, and all earth is sated. The idols in every grocery sing, “come, buy, come and buy,” but the subtext is, “come lay your pence upon my eye.”
If the object in writing this was to gain the applause of men; thus to presume, so disappointed, such fiction written as some will not readily receive, however, on the other hand, having for a considerable time had pretty much the same ideas of the matter as you will find written down in this work, if you want to know, a train yard of boxcars full of Chinese guillotines being stored at US Military Bases – keep the engine running – I won’t be a minute.
AE Reiff is a fictional persona of the Artist’s Collective at the New Ibsen Canal near Catwalk. There is no known way to contact them except weekends in the bakery. Once identified persons of the same name intend no disrespect to them or others. Periodic updates at Encouragements for Such.