#Twitterfiction: Allah-God-Jehovah-Yahweh is The One Almighty Author of the Qu’ran,
and the Testaments … (The Old and The New) … pluralistic … amens.
#Twitterfiction: The pluralistic spirit of chachomanopapa@wordpress.com is in its
evangelism sans proselytism; every (wo)man free to do, as (s)he deems fit.
#Twitterfiction: Come to chachomanopapa@wordpress.com, and to its pluralistic analog
@chachomanopapa … on Twitter …. A book … from tweets … and a blog.
In surreal nonfiction, a young, beautiful, face; a Lupita Nyong’o look-alike; but beware,
for in #twitterfiction … any similarity … ends … there.
See news.msn.com/world/girl-left-in-forest-in-c-African-republic-chaos#tscptmt. The oh so
heart-wrenching story of Hamamatou Harouna contrasts in #twitterfiction … Nyong’o’s.
A silver lining to this poignant story; that, via #twitterfiction,
social media inject hope, where there’s been … none.
And so Arthur hopes and prays, and, in #twitterfiction … writes; for it’s not about him
… nor us … but solely … about Him …
… or Her. Oh what a specious species are we! Woe upon us whom glorify Lupita
in nonfiction but look away, in #twitterfiction … from Harouna.
See then https://www.chachomanopapa.wordpress.com and @chachomanopapa on Twitter.
In #twitterfiction … His or Her Way … is better.
She loved me once. Then … she loved me not. The former, I often heard; the latter … not ever.
But actions … and omissions to act … speak volumes … deafeningly.
And so my sick heart now hurts less; for romantic declarations aside, aside from our Creator,
nothing’s forever … but Him … or Her; and that’s comforting … most definitely.
That (S)he is forever is most comforting; but there have been other comforts … since she
loved me not. That a heart is mended is, largely, an inconsequential one;
but knowing that beyond actions speaking loudly, that inaction speaks volumes … deafeningly,
is altogether, another. That latter slice of wisdom ought matter … to everyone.
Art’s life’s been more dissolute than resolute. He’s lost much held dear, especially a child whom
would have turned twenty-one years young, this Autumn’s October.
But Arthur’s losses; of parents, child, wife and life oft pale next to that of others, whom
struggle in … Allah/God/Jehovah/Yahweh’s … time river.
Allah/God/Jehovah/Yahweh’s river of time is a river, unfathomable. But fear not for ye
need not fathom its breadth. Ye need only believe; the Scriptures are ALL
subject to misinterpretation. Just do to others as ye would have them do unto thee.
And so Arthur writes … like Emily before him … to all.
She loved me once. Then … she loved me not. The former, I often heard; the latter … not ever.
But actions … and omissions to act … speak volumes … deafeningly.
And so my sick heart now hurts less; for romantic declarations aside, aside from our Creator,
nothing’s forever … but Him … or Her; and that’s comforting … most definitely.
That (S)he is forever is most comforting; but there have been other comforts … since she
loved me not. That a heart is mended is, largely, an inconsequential one;
but knowing that beyond actions speaking loudly, that inaction speaks volumes … deafeningly,
is altogether, another. That latter slice of wisdom ought matter … to everyone.
Art’s life’s been more dissolute than resolute. He’s lost much held dear, especially a child whom
would have turned twenty-one years young, this Autumn’s October.
But Arthur’s losses; of parents, child, wife and life oft pale next to that of others, whom
struggle in … Allah/God/Jehovah/Yahweh’s … time river.
She loved me once. Then … she loved me not. The former, I often heard; the latter … not ever.
But actions … and omissions to act speak volumes … deafeningly.
And so my sick heart now hurts less; for romantic declarations aside, aside from our Creator,
nothing’s forever … but Him … or Her; and that’s comforting … most definitely.
Poetry, albeit belatedly, resonates within Arthur’s soul. His memories, and the poetically
rendered memories of others, profoundly reverberate within him, loudly,
albeit, inaudibly. Wordsmiths, (wo)men of peace, are his heroes and heroines; Ovid, Willy,
Emily, Khalil and Maya, et. al., eloquently teach us, albeit … sublimely.
Oh, what a specious species are we! We relegate our very real humanity to a status effectively
below that of abstractly surreal identities of nationality and spirituality.
Wordsmiths, (wo)men of peace, ought be our heroes and heroines; Ovid, Willy, Emily,
Khalil and Maya, via their poetry … might teach us … albeit, sublimely.
Poetry, albeit belatedly, resonates within Arthur’s soul. His memories, and the poetically
rendered memories of others, profoundly reverberate within him, loudly,
albeit, inaudibly. Wordsmiths, (wo)men of peace, are his heroes and heroines; Ovid, Willy,
Emily, Khalil and Maya, et. al., eloquently teach us, albeit … sublimely.
There’s a bullet with my name on it.
It may be in the magazine.
It may be in the chamber. Or … it
may be … in the air … unseen.
How long until romantic notions of seeing the world and being all you can be
surrender to the unbearable reality of PTSD’s insanity?
How long, if ever, until the romantic notion of the glory of being a warrior be
relegated to the dust bin… of history?
Arthur’s manuscript means to be … a clarion call. Its poetically rendered Roll Call of the nations
and territories is an ethereal snapshot in time. It is purposefully, and timely, meant to be;
capturing the ebbing and flowing, of really surreal, states. But from Mt. King’s surreal Bohemian
summit, a brightly painted yellow-bricked road … points forward … toward our destiny.
No public official Arthur has ever written to has ever dignified this co-author
with a response; not a one … ever. No wonder though, for no living
(wo)man is a prophet in his or her own land. Reasonable minds may differ
on whether this nation-state paradigm is working …
… for … or against us. But isn’t it reasonable to believe that what’s worked previously
may need to be tweaked, going forward? Ought we not have a plan
to do so? And so, the co-authors live for a writing, proposing, most politically
incorrectly, that we move toward a global plan … Bohemian.
MORONS AND ALIENS 