Alas, NaPoWriMo is over. However, there’s an exceedingly brilliant bright side to its termination;
for there is no good reason not to go on writing poetry, so emotive.
Accordingly, Arthur and his inter-galactic critter pals may continue on their impossible mission;
a mission … so creatively … palliative.

In prayer, Art has asked God if he’s gone freaking mad? He’s asked about you too. Really,
who’s sane? Was only he, mad? Or, alternatively, are all of you, too?
Really surreal ironies, across the ages, are clues. Urantia, Casee, eerie
ancient lore … and more; all … are clues.

It’d all begun dreamily; a precursor plan, unceremoniously panned, was an event
that led to Art’s asking God for a sure Way to a movement, invent.
His spiritual intervention came nightly in Arthur’s dreams and meant
that a Crew, in dreams, easily … came … and went.

A wretch fully as wretched as Paul and as regretful as Augustine, Arthur’s dreams
implausibly brought him some critter friends to make a silk purse out of a
sow’s ear. With the help of His spiritual intervention, in nightly dreams,
they conjured there … chachomanopapa.

Who, or what, is chachomanopapa? Chachomanopapa’s a means to an eminently desirable end.
Viral, not physical, it is less a who, than
a what. Moreover, it’s many things. One is a symbol of an idea whose time is at hand,
amongst them questions like, “What’s the plan … Stan?”

Chachomanopapa’s every two syllables are the Spanish diminutives for, boy, brother
and father, fashioned into an evocatively provocative single
word. The transcendences we undergo from boys to fathers and from girls to mothers,
mirror our lives… our challenge-laden crucibles.

Chachomanopapa’s meant to both noun and verb be; to be both that place on the net
where we’re reborn, learn, earn, and transcend to views that come
into view, from atop the mountaintop from atop which Dr. King (who can forget),
dreamt of a world more like … His Kingdom … come.

Notwithstanding implausibility, the Crew knew exactly what to do, when to timely
do it, and how best to do it. Art gaped, dumbfounded. “See …”
they said, “… what you’ve done is good; for very good, expand it artfully, into epic poetry.
Write something honoring our Almighty … to forge … (wo)man’s destiny.”

On this final day of #NapoWriMo, a breaking headline; no stay … of execution;
no stay of execution; not for Oklahoma inmates; not for us;
nor for Afghans, Iraqis, Syrians and, most recently, the Ukrainians.
But it’s a new day. We are one … all seven billion … of us.

Seven billion or so of us are, along with Mother Earth and all of its denizens, one.
So, once upon a time, God googled a gaggle of six inter-galactics,
giving them a seemingly impossible mission; to tweet (wo)mankind into submission.
How on Earth would Allah/God/Yahweh have the tweeters do it?

“What ten words do you bequeath?” each inter-galactic was e-mailed, identically.
All were from a resident at bliss dot com. Surreally,
upon each not finding any resident there but implausibly, only
each other, over wine, cheese and the net was a Council born … dreamily.

The six surmised He would have them tweet, to blog, to write, a nonfictional,
fiction. And so they wrote The Wine and Cheese Miracles
… An Atlas … Tweeted. While dreaming, tweeting, blogging and drafting The Miracles;
they discovered … secrets … alchemical.

And so came to pass upon Milky Way dreams that delightful interchanges ensued;
the setting; cyberspace; the pressing subject matters;
education, peace and prosperity. Six lives intertwined when somehow so summoned,
the subjects … on cue … all dreamed together.

In Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria and now in the Ukraine, proudly inveterate nationals
reprise the Holocaust, unconsciously committed to the proposition,
that ‘never again’, be forever, again and again. To wit, Gog, a Russian national
stars in the chachomanopapa blog … of a fictional … nonfiction.