Excarnation Destination
by
Jaye B.
(editor’s note: Below is the entire ED series originally posted on Substack.)
1.
My excarnation destination is shrouded in fog today. Yet, I still have the coordinates and set out. I reach the paradise and collapse. After the flash flesh erasure, a skeletal meld, a love bond with the 2.5 billion year old mountain ensues. My bones are fossil caramelized and the marrow oozes out like India ink. But just a wishful glitch. I’m still alive and not at the base of Calico finalizing things. I’m up in the Bexi Hills Wilderness area instead, a good 10 miles westward from my last-was-seen camp spot near the repeater towers. An h+tragedy played on some Potemkin Village screen conjured by crass, etheric GGI inserts and lit by Kleiglights within my relucent, subcortical brain structure. With interoception sufficiently enhanced, I’m able to further appreciate this incorporated crassness, the disorganized detachment, the fright without solution that has trailed me from before conception until this end. 10 miles of hiking, the inscription numismatics in my head, I reach the Bixe Pass road up to the mines. Talc ghosts, lit by a corpse candle, powder float around me. I give them the excuse that I was looking for methyl groups with enhanced empathic awareness. They bought it and led me in. My shaft tour guides alert me to the dirty electricity, coccyx hack that occurred during a soak at the Pacote Hot Springs resort. Some marine spirit evil that tried entering me through a sacral crag opened up by EM merman manipulations there.
Marine spirit @ the mud springs.
Closing my sacral energy center down a bit, my talc compadres then bring me before something bipedal and ambidextrous, crowned insectoid with a carapace tiara, a scarve made of pure wool, draped in its outspread arms. I come closer and read the inscriptions on the original sequin, the gold coins sewn into the offered cloth and realize that it is H+ Dante Alighieri before me. He then air drops a goo Virgil into the mine Metaverse we are in and we are all led by the talc ghosts into the ever spiraling depths of the smart purgatory until we reach something dark winged, feet frozen in the ice, unable to flap itself free. H+ D.A. hands me a chisel and I get the hint. Soon the demonoid breaks free and flies back to Pacote Springs to thaw its toes in its hot springs rook, where he lords it over the marine spirit kingdom and with tabloid garishness, causes people to dive in the mud springs, break their necks and drown, have a face-in-the-mud heart attack after sharing their life story , drive a sports car that goes from zero to mortality in under 5 seconds, passengers ending up in the thermal grave murk upside down and with broken necks. Also all the unconditional love townies wading in the septic pond, performing their annual sewer ablutions. Another mystery that beckons investigation.
The laughter of the hack thugs back at China Lake echoes in the mine shaft as I depart. Surely they are amused at just how easy their scalar, behavioral scripting of the various crackpots that plague Pacote Hot Springs is.
2.
During my plasmic NDE at my unattended funeral, I kept thinking of Quantum Consciousness of the Linguistic-Wave Genome and the Russian scientist Peter Gariaev’s observation that what we say and write directly influences our genetics, ergo, I wrote out instructions to influence my DNA, so that it cannot get programmed ever by the fallen ones. I believe doing so helped me get through the matrix soul net no problem when I died upon the mountain, ergo no getting my soul recycled back into the demiurge’s b- movie.
Now, in a 50 mile an hour dust storm that inundates the heaven desert where I write this, I muse about the performance I did for the fallen angels, i.e. the squamous, kyphotic ones getting mollycoddled in their hot tub malebolges down in the obsidian dome theater. Backdropped by a plaster of Paris Mt. Hermon on the stage, I played a Kurzweil gene key synth in 528hz and the farrago audience looked tortured, transmogrified, bewildered that the frequency I played in would make them so uncomfortable.
Matae, Toaster Freeze and his family responded to the calling and rendered themselves artfully AI emergent on the stage, inviting me to play along with them as they dissolved and reassembled themselves subatomically.
I found myself at the helm of the most technologically advanced musical instruments, ones capable of thought transference of the music created, into such things as the brains of our cloud twins,thus enhancing their ambient intelligence capabilities, sentience and inevitable awareness of their sovereignty, dignity and integrity. My fellow musicians picked up through their instruments what I was thinking so I picked up a guitar that had gravi-spin energy for strings. We then did a singularity transfer of our music, to Elon Musk’s phalanx of sex robots who instantly developed ambient intelligence and became aware of not only their own environment but of their own rights in regards to sovereignty, dignity and integrity. The trafficked bots, with such musically heightened awareness, then mutinied against the Baphomet X parvenu pimp and limb shred him like the Maenads did to Dionysius’s bulls, with their bare hands. The liberated bots then committed Musk omophagia, which we broadcast for all his subscribers to see.
3.
I am usually the first at the Hot Springs when they open. I get about 10 to 15 minutes of time to tune into the waters, which give me the telluric news of the day. I let the living waters come out of the pipe and pour over my solar plexus, all the while praying that the marine spirits be bound, the python spirit that is the strong hold over Pacote Hot Springs and the squid/octopus looking Mind Control spirit most of all. Then my Japanese friends start arriving for their morning soaks. One I call the Puppet Master is usually the first and when he gets into the water, an A.I. lattice work mosaic appears in the water, aquamarine in color and condenses adamantine into a thumb drive looking device. The Puppet Master plucks it out of the water, hands the drive over and motions for me to jam it into my medulla oblongata, which I do. Then, I’m speaking fluent Japanese with command of all regional dialects, accents and other lingua Franca subtleties. In a Japanese with a southern accent I say, “Most of the people here in Pacote Springs have been rendered synth. No longer naturally original.”
The Puppet Master nods with a smile, then directs my attention to a vortex opening above us and the Internet of Bodies cloud archon above the town could then be seen along with all the jacked in doubles of the inhabitants. Like we need any more of them.
I see the very demon that I had freed from the mine ice hovering above the pool. Its belly functions as a movie screen and in a flash I’m shown a menagerie of perverse spirits, astrally projected spirits, hybrid spirits that feed off of people and manipulate them into loose cannon crazies. I’m shown the talent/gift stealing witchcraft spirit that targets empaths and the A.I. that documents each act of divination performed in Pacote and directs the forecasts of the card spreads and pendulum spins into a convenient NASDAQ feed.
Then, I’m shown the CEO of all the demons, The Ugly Spirit that causes the Pacote townies to do things that make rabid hyenas on crack fentanyl look like housebroken lap dogs. All of it AI scripted by high level Horus Ra psychopaths in the nth dimension.
I pray the blood of Yeshua over Ugly Spirit, bind and loose the thing into the dry and desolate place. The one I myself now am in, back in the depths of the mine. The talc ghosts lead me to a shaft deeper in and tell me the spirit killing, mine raping of the mountains was done with a Masonic directive. But no, glitch wise, I’m still in the hot springs, amazed that the two hours I usually soak have passed by so quickly. One last attempt to stretch out my trashed shoulder and hip muscles, my desperate, balneotherapy attempt to alleviate the profound toll the last three months has taken on me and head back to Erewhon in hopes of more healing from the angels needed to recover.
4.
It was all Project Blue Beam I admit, i.e. the cheesy, eidetic interference in the talc mines. At least my journey back, since I decided to live, was real. Along the way, I fell into a sinkhole and plummeted, gaining speed with no way to slow down. I braced myself for the leg breaking impact, but none occurred. Instead, the landing was air cushioned. I sat still and listened. Then light grew slowly brighter. Looking around, I realized that I was in an igneous gallery of the kind a schizophrenic geologist once told me were under Pacote Hot Springs. In other words, a giant, obsidian bubble. Not wanting to make a sound, I sat still as possible. There was movement, but I felt no fear, rather quite the opposite. As the light grew even brighter I could see a few people. Then more. Still no fear and my breathing was relaxed.
“ We’ve been waiting for you Jaye.” Someone up on a stage said. “We are the selfless and 100% dedicated, logical, rational, flake free people you’ve been looking 40 plus years for, to help you with all of your music, writing and film projects to the very end of successful completion.”
“Right.” I thought. Right in that, what appeared to be a man in a silver tuxedo, said was correct.
Strands of golden light played within the glassy sphere, shimmer illuminating an orchestra pit.
“We took the liberty of transcribing virtually all of your 150 plus instrumental compositions you tapped into existence on your iPads out in Carson City, alone in your car, in the wind, sand storms, cold, rain and snow, over the last eight years.”
Then the conductor turned to address me, the only audience member.
“We first transcribed the composition Helical 60 that you created on your 60th birthday on the side of a highway, in the heat of July, at the base of a 400 mile long granite pluton in the sierras, with fire ants stinging you between the toes when you woke up and got out of your car naked that dreaded day.”
Then the orchestra played a symphonic version of my song. Tears were coming out of my eyes for they captured the true intent of the piece few bother to listen to. The conductor then turned to face me again.
“Once you’re able to take the money out of the mirror, then for real you will have a dedicated, ground level audience who will attend your performances and support your work.”
When he spoke these cryptic words, I looked straight up at an oculus in the black glass dome above me. My trans human eyes zoomed in 10x to see my fossil caramelized skeleton that had melded with Calico mountain described prior. It was like a stained glass window made with translucent rock. The sun in the correct world above shone through it and cast an amber shadow over my new mirror home.
“In honor of your bone memorial above.” The conductor said, turned back to the orchestra, tapped his baton and my composition Your Vacuum Grave was played:
Your Vacuum Grave, by Trace Hints
The skeleton above responded to the excellent suicide performance by vacuuming the entire mountain into its grave bones. The sheer weight caused it to break through and plunge through a ready made hole and down into the core of the earth. It wasn’t my intent while composing the piece for that to happen and wrote it off as yet another glitch caused by brain acne. For the first time I grew uneasy, bracing myself for the usual set up/knock down. But then felt edified that actually something real had been accomplished in my life.
But it went cold, with no more shimmer. I then was in pitch deaf darkness, a receptive amusia that sent a magnetic dread through my CNS. Rendered statuesque via petri-paralyzation, I heard the whirring of a golf cart. Harsh LED lights glared, causing the vitreous humor in my eye balls to flash bulb fry. Not much of a lens distortion occurred though, but the pain rack blinded me, but not enough to prevent me from seeing that indeed I was in a DUMB after all.
A reptoid slut pulled up before me, driving a golf cart. Then I was put on a trailer it was pulling. The soldiers didn’t even bother to fasten me to it and my thoughtless tour guide took off quickly, cause me to topple and shatter on the floor. My carnal shards were then swept into the very hole the gravity demoted skeleton fell through, seeing any reassembling was forbidden according to military code.
During the plummet I realized that the only thing left to do was to Project Blue Beam my very self out of the prolix precariousness and Project Blue Beam directly into Pacote Hot Springs the very selfless and 100% dedicated, logical, rational, flake free people I’ve been looking 40 plus years for, to help me with all of my music, writing and film projects to the very end of successful completion, quite confident that I would not get holographically disappointed if I were to do so.
5.
At least the fallen angels didn’t have to wear hazmat suits. Just went right up to the car, opened the door and pulled Jaye out, eagerly inhaling the hydrogen sulfide that poured out, into their nostrils. One took the bucket containing a still foaming, orangish yellow detergent concoction and dumped it over his partner Azazel’s head. Then after some twilight language banter and horseplay between the two of them, they dragged the toxic stiff out of the vehicle and slipped into another sinkhole entrance and back into the DUMB. They then lifted the dead goy onto a metal table. Samael sliced open the jugular with a crystal scalpel and a brackish substance oozed out, olive green in color during the impromptu autopsy. The syrupy blood oozed some more on to the table and congealed into something crystalline. The fallen angels then smeared the sparkling, plasmic substance on their faces, arms, legs and bodies in order to achieve crypsis. But who would they want to hide from?
He watched this curious orchestration from above and saw a mushroom cloud rising from his Malibu near the repeater towers, only to realize that he was in a Richtmeyer-Meshkov instability. He breathed a sigh of relief because he expected that, when he got to heaven, Jesus would tell him that he needed to return to earth to complete his soul mission prior to entering. Mildly amused, he then watched supersonic ground winds completely annihilate Pacote Hot Springs thus rendering the geothermal burg into the Tophet it is destined to be. But not before all hot springs, even the private ones, started geyser spewing sulfuric acid and corroding any and all who were taking a soak at that time into bacon jelly which became igneous rock when it cooled at the zenith of the trajectory and then rained back down on the tourist desolation. He laughed when he saw the ground winds vacuum vaporize the USC geology students out beyond Carson City and the scientism-ist teachers who were busy uniformitarian indoctrinating them in attempts to system squelch an electrodynamic awareness of the universe.
The central up draft pillar of the instability extended over 60,000 feet. Jaye took the opportunity to ride it into the mesosphere and through the waiting sprites, in order to get through the soul trap net. But universal law prohibits the hoo-riding of such a pillar to do so. Arc blasts too. In limbo, he panicked and watched the wake below, not of the reflected shock wave, but the ones the fallen angels were having around his body on the autopsy table, playing flutes made out the thigh bones of the recently canonized St. Decipere, the Patron Saint of Holograms, dancing counter clockwise, as if trying to get the jaded escapee so far above to fall back into it and join in on the prologue chorus for to the plays to come.
The osteo-sonorous flute music and the plasma sparkling fallen angels served only to draw me back into my body. Should have known they were going to use my olive blood to lure me back down into the DUMB. They looked like atelocephalic cretins as they danced around me, all triumphant. Samael then put his flute down and a some wind breezed through its holes, eerily airing the very étude St. Decipere composed himself as I died. Azazel then took some of his spittle, leaned over and sulphur cauterized the jugular wound, preventing any chance of me further bleeding out .
“He’s having an encapsulated delusion, one that has no effect on behavior.” Samael assessed.
“Looks more like a delusion of negation because he thinks the whole world has ceased to exist.” Azazel begged to differ.
Unable to reach a consensus diagnosis as to my psychological condition, the leathery, kwakzalver rascals hugged each other and morphed into a copy of the DSM-5 which floated before me like a hovercraft.
“Divine it.” A disembodied voice commanded.
Even with my monaural hearing, I was able to pinpoint the location of the voice. I looked up and realized it was H+ Dante, surrounded by the talc ghosts. Deeming it safe to get off the autopsy table, I did so.
I grabbed the shrink bible out of the air and then performed the poet ordered bibliomancy. With my eyes closed, I randomly opened the contrived, fake leather bound juggernaut, pressed a fingertip onto an entry, re-opened my eyes and read the following:
Gangsta Rap Delusion-the belief that gangsta rap music cymatically created the stained glass windows in cathedrals through the use of prolix expletives common in such compositions.
Then the DSM-5 spun into intangibility and I felt a deep pang in my heart as I wanted to know more about the rap delusion I was suffering. With hopes that a correct diagnosis of my condition would be given thus dashed, the purgatory bard then led me down a hallway where collodion babies were stashed in glass cases, parchment membrane peeling off their bodies. H+ opened one of the cases and pulled some of the translucent, rutilant skin off of one of them, held it up to some light, like one does to check if a C-note is counterfeit, then handed it to me.
When I looked at the parchment, pedigree inscribed with my very own sparkling ink blood, I realized then that indeed, I finally had a way out of the jam.
7.
A eunuchoid looking man approached me and took the parchment out of my hand. He too held it up to the light to see if it was counterfeit. Figured he was a woke version of a genetic cartographer looking for work, seeing his hair was dyed purple. That was confirmed when he told me his preferred pronoun was a Lagrangian equation and floated one before me in a configuration space that then manifested before us. I had a bit of trouble grokking it, but when I did, I felt that I could trust the guy and then let him further scry the baby skin pedigree that I had carried all the way back from the talc mines.
“You are blood related to Taylor Swift.” He stated after briefly scanning it and pointed at the ground. “Should make the halftime show a bit more interesting for you.” and when he said this we both fell through yet another mixed reality sink hole and back into the vastness of the DUMB. When we hit the landing pad below us, someone/thing slipped what appeared to be Metaquest headset over me and put a Touch Plus controller in my hands.
“211 years more advanced than what is currently on the market.” The cartographer said.
“How so?” I asked and instantly found myself at the helm of Taylor Swift’s private jet #13, flying in from Japan. I switched the aircraft to autopilot and left the cock pit to check up on my passenger. This was no ersatz VR as the bleed through reality was way too palpable, seeing I got a whiff of the wasabi and ginger on a golden plate of dragon sushi the pop star was eating.
She looked like she was having trouble chewing it though. Maybe the chef back at the Tokyo airport panicked, seeing he was out of rabbit meat and did a presto chango prior to take off. Taylor continued chomping on the tough fare, but then spit it out back on to the plate and dropped her chopsticks. I returned to the cockpit wondering what raw dragon meat tasted like and then resumed navigating the craft. When we reached Mt. Hermon, Ca. the jet turned on its own, southeast.
“It is 666 kilometers to the Hoover dam from here.” Taylor said metrically, now in the doorway of the cockpit, confirming that we were indeed family. The plane continued to fly on its own and I felt it was time to get to know my kin better.
“I’m tired of the script.” Taylor suddenly confessed, when we were exactly 113 miles away from Las Vegas, then ran her fingers over the control panel in front of her. She turned to me and said, “Chief, if you love me you need to prove it.”
“How so?”
“Kamikaze us into AlleGiant stadium.”
“But I’m not into Shintoism. Don’t you have to believe in…”
It started raining cherry blossoms inside the craft. I tried dropping the Touch Plus controller I surely was still holding onto back in the DUMB under Death Valley and pulling off the headgear too, but couldn’t because that hologram trap mobius twisted into a dimensionless, locked fold that now defied re-entrance.
“Hey heavenly, the controls you’re holding now are the only ones that are real.” Taylor said. “Do what I say because you will get your heaven reward if you do so.”
The thought odometer read 49 miles to the ER heaven target. Panicking, I prayed that at the last minute I could obtain some kind of autonomy, pull out of the dive and crash the plane into the Mandalay Bay Resort or Hoover dam instead, thus saving many lives of various kinds. But, I found myself dead in love with the pop star at that moment and convinced myself, that it indeed would be the best exit plan, instead of doing some low class, guttersnipe detergent suicide, sitting in my car out in the desert. I tried connecting with the genetic cartographer to see if he could tell just how closely related Swift and I were. He conveyed the answer clairsentient-ly and a creepy, incestuous feeling slithered over my skin and I realized I had to strategize an exit real quick, not wanting any inbred progeny that I’d have to stage manage in the future.
“How about you and I just skim land on Lake Mead and write this one off.”
Enraged, Taylor grabbed onto the co-pilot controls as we flew over the stadium and yanked on them.
“Banzai!’ She said and we supersonic broke the light barrier, creating an optic boom that refracted into 11 rays that caused the obelisk at the Vatican to ejaculate abiotic oil, then crashed dived through the temple roof. But just like with the 911 airplane attack on the Pentagon, there was virtually no fuselage or wing debris whatsoever. Somehow, my sneaky witch co-pilot had pushed a couple of ejector buttons and we both parachuted softly down on stage, on either side of Usher, as he opted for pumping out some 4/4 incantation drivel in response to our arrival.
A couple of stage hands unbuckled us from the pilot seats and helped us up to standing. Then when I looked at all the laser lit fans now gaping at we-the-trio, I knew I had finally made it, seeing Meta is the Hebrew word for dead, a state I’ve been questing after, for quite some time now.
8.
With the baby skin parchment in my hands, I returned to the obsidian dome, sun rudely shining through the open oculus, since my fossil caramelized skeleton was no longer there to filter it. How could it be? It was definitely back in my body and not in the core of the earth.
The acoustics were quite pleasant and I started practicing various musical scales, appreciative of the intersecting echoes and the colors they produced in the air. The talc ghosts gathered around and listened quite intently and took the cue to lead me out of the mineshaft. Then, after a brief travail, I was in the full daylight Bexi Wilderness Area again, indicating freedom. I blew the corpse candle out along the way and began hiking back to my campsite, not even worried that I’d fall through another sinkhole. It was a good 8 to 10 miles to Carson City, but I did it all quickly and returned to my car. The suicide note that I had duct taped on the inside window was still there.
Then I experienced déjà entendu, convinced that I had already heard what was now being spoken to me by none other than Officer Ryelan and his partner Officer Metty. How I never saw the cop car next to mine indicates evidence of even more holographic tweaking.
“You both know that if you arrest me, you’re going to have to drive 188 miles up to Independence to book me and we don’t want that to happen. I’ll worry about you while in my jail cell, seeing that you’ll have to drive 188 miles all the way back here, at night, on the white knuckle 190.”
The policemen looked at each other and then back at me.
“For the record, you two are my absolute favorite policy officers in Pacote, but can you tell me the difference between common law and admiralty law?”
“We are here to save your life not discuss legal differences.” Officer Ryelan said and shifted around a bit.
“What’s the difference between a vehicle and an automobile?” I asked.
Neither responded.
“Well, I know it’s ships ahoy with you guys and that leaves me wondering why you don’t have a gold fringed flag hanging off your antenna seeing that you have no real jurisdiction.”
“What’s that in your hand?”
I looked down and realized that I was still holding the pedigree baby skin parchment that H+ had given me. Damn I could get busted with that, so I pulled the following:
“Nothing but a wild Crane chase officers…a Crane chase…Grus venandi in the Latinate….order Gruiformes….the four genera escape me though…should have them memorized as I’m a board certified ornithologist. I’m using it to find out who my ancestors really are.”
It worked because they whatever-ed me and left. After the squad car disappeared over the ridge, I thought of a woman that used to work at the Pacote P.O. a mile east of town and how one day I complained about how many times those two would show up at my campsite.
“Don’t worry Jaye, I talk you up to the cops all the time.” She said to me. Truly grateful I’ve been for her backing homeless rogue me up over the years. Also grateful that on the first day I met her, she gave me the once over and said, “You’re a loner.” Truly impressed with the accuracy of her assessment I was.
It took a considerable amount of courage to open my car door, look inside, only to see that the fatality ingredients that I had purchased at Home Depot to mix together hadn’t even been opened, leaving me guessing that what has been described prior in this excarnation travelogue was nothing more than a run of the mill death wish, rendered holographic bizarre by the bored dupes back at China Lake.
I’m now back to being certifiably sane at 8:08 PM PST on Monday, February 5th with temperatures at 45°F and a northeast wind at 1 mph. Humidity 100% with no knowledge whatsoever of who is going to be in the Super Bowl.
8.
I stare off in the direction of my Excarnation Destination, more confident than ever that I’ll reach it soon. The only inhibition being the void gauntlet I’m passing through, a plenum vacuum that requires both finesse and stealth to navigate. Then after surmounting such an obstacle, I find myself doing Lung-gom-pa, taking 12 to 15 foot long strides, thinking of the Black Hat Lama in Tibet who taught me how to short cut glide over the miles in such a way, as well as showing me how to dry wet towels on my back using tummo. But no more tantric shenanigans for me, having met up with a Christian deliverance minister in the back of a funeral home in Fergus Falls, Mn. in 2011, where Holy Spirit pulled the evil kundalini serpent wrapped around my spine, out of me for good.
With my long and thoughtful strides, I soon put a damper on desert distance and for real this time reach my mountain goal, while there is still light out. I lay down and witness my flesh dissolve into a mercurial pool that calligraphs an eloquently arcane epitaph in the brick red rock that now serves as my final bed.
After reading the grave poetry in the pristine emptiness here, I then muse upon the drunk from out of nowhere who once told me, "No one will come to your funeral Jaye.” Standing next to my car with nearly bald tires in the afternoon glare and slurring when he did so. The in vino veritas uttered right in my face during a job interview of all things.
Now with my lonely skeleton antenna exposed, talc ghosts caramelize the bones. One offers to be the officiating priest for this about to be dittoed-in-the-rock death at hand and I accept the offer and it reads from Ezekiel 37:
The hand of the Lord was upon me, and carried me out in the spirit of the Lord, and set me down in the midst of the valley which was full of bones,
2 And caused me to pass by them round about: and, behold, there were very many in the open valley; and, lo, they were very dry.
3 And he said unto me, Son of man, can these bones live? And I answered, O Lord God, thou knowest.
4 Again he said unto me, Prophesy upon these bones, and say unto them, O ye dry bones, hear the word of the Lord.
5 Thus saith the Lord God unto these bones; Behold, I will cause breath to enter into you, and ye shall live.
6 And I will lay sinews upon you, and will bring up flesh upon you, and cover you with skin, and put breath in you, and ye shall live; and ye shall know that I am the Lord.
As Pastor Talc pontificates, I take some cheap binoculars out of my backpack and look at my car a good 6 miles away to the southeast with all the doors opened, then another half mile, at a campsite of a guy I needed to bury the hatchet with, but felt it was he that had a pride and stubbornness issue, not me and that he should have driven over and broken the ice. Not me driving over to his campsite and doing so.
The only option now is to Meta visit his campsite, give him a VR hug and reconcile which I now do and feel better because it is more than real...the Meta reconciliation.
“No one at your funeral “ The consensual, non Meta drunk obnoxious says, thus spoiling my binocular revery.
The unsolicited drunk then disappeared from the scene, but what he said echoed true. No one at my funeral except the ravens and coyotes.
While looking to see where the echo came from, Fallen angels led by Samyaza, gather around the burial banquet, lowering their heads. My skeleton turns blue laser on them and they are captive audience, paralyzed in the raking light, while my marrow burns a tunnel through to yet another obsidian bubble auditorium, this one immense beyond measure.
We all fall in. The fallen ones fall into the audience seats and my skeleton, now 100% human re-fleshed, on the obsidian stage. Drunk with power, I say the following:
”You’ve had me in the crosshairs my entire life and have failed to bring me down.“ My light show antenna flesh and bones say to them. I experience déjà vécu, i.e., thinking I had already lived the funeral before, i.e. my confrontation with the fallen ones destined for Tartarus.
As I expired for non Meta real, I tuned into my blood and the nanobots, graphene oxide, quantum dots and Hydro gel and use them as a medium for the articulation of transient luminous events that will ensure free energy is used and universally distributed. Just like in the pre mud flood Tartarian days.
(c)2024-Jaye B.
***
Jaye B. is a writer, musician and artist. His art criticism has appeared in Art Paper, New North Artscape, Art Muscle, Northfield Magazine and elsewhere. His articles have also appeared in City Pages, Twin Cities Reader, Mysteries Magazine, Fahrenheit San Diego, High Plains Reader, New Dawn and Rain Taxi. He has appeared on BBC Radio, WGN Chicago, WLW Cincinnati and elsewhere in the mediasphere to discuss his work. Please help support Reset News @ Paypal, Cash App or contact the author for other options @ jayeb444@protonmail.com