Epiphantile

Epiphantile


I. A tribute to e. e. cummings and Nikki Giovanni

outrage is just a stone,
 it does not melt away,
  but it is ground away in the machine,
   and becomes a thousand useless little irritations.

yet  ... o (no),
 u left your ! and made even the most . a ?
and those () dear friend.  They belong to JONES
  softer more uncertain than the [],

buried

and our bodies for what they are worth,
 were never meant to be accounted,
   and when multiplied, squared, or exponentialed,
    these conceits form no transcendentals.

I yes I yes I

II. Reflection and an important allusion if you want to understand this poem.

why do the heathen rage?
it is because I know a boy can fly.
that's why the heathens rage.

C. Gulliver on the shore.

Once he lay asleep,
"Them" up to him softly creep,
Lest he turn and "them" there  bury.
A thousand million eyes are wary,
Of any gesture he should make,
To give portent that he awakes.
And with their little ropes like thread,
Try to fix his arms and legs,
But foolish, nameless, hapless elves,
Their magic works but on themselves,
and When his shoulder starts to rise,
The terror fills their bright wide eyes.

4. I reflect on what I am doing

but why talk so bitterly,
and in couplets give any accidental praise,
to consider their vane thoughts,
in terms like human innocence?
no, they gave up their humanity,
the moment they ate again of the tree,
and no third coming's coming,
to replace the second fall.

All miracles are virtues in an evil age;
and what can be more natural,
then to deny the supernatural,
and see nothing outside the ego cage?

None. The real problem is the answer came before the question

Mirthless laughter heals no wound,
And mockery mocks down friend and foe,
"But this lies all within the will of God,"
Yet, I swear this is not the only language I know.

To see, to hear, to taste, to feel,
We turn towards the cooler air,
Perhaps we shall find him there,
And his shadow passing over, heal.

For to Job was given a riddle, and to Jonah a great sign,
To Elijah a widow and her child, and to Peter two coins.

I myself am rooted down by a thousand cares,
but may heaven forgive my pride,
not, of myself; No, I would not compare,
or dare think myself in that way justified,

The poet is infinitely greater than his poem.
No machine exceeds its inventor,
But there can be no art without an artist,
and praising a creation I praise the creator.

Lyrics to "Sins Against Hope"

Sins Against Hope

Never thought it would be this way

Hand-to-mouth, struggling through every day

Life is nothing but bills to pay

A better life – just empty words to say

But I am American

I am American

I am American

And I’m gonna be OK

You and I with a world between

Though I speak, you can’t know what I mean

Our eyes are glazed over sights unseen

Occupied, purple states and going green

But we are Americans

We are American

We are Americans

And we’re gonna be OK

Bombs away!  Daisy cutters, marching bands

For the young, blood soaking through the sand

Iron fists, velvet gloves and helping hands

Disengage, or kill what we don’t understand

But we are Americans

We are American

We are Americans

And you’re gonna be OK

Lightning Bugs (& Glenmorangie)

It amazes me
how lightning bugs
have the power to entrance
higher beings
utterly
with their brief flash of light
in so simple a form.

Perhaps the angels wonder alike
at our brief moments of grace.

The last breath warmed

We waited with him all the night
She in her blanket
Me in my coat and boots
Like the watchers of the tower
Thinking that sometime that night
The sappers mines would be sprung
And we would tumble among the falling stones
Crushed and bruised among the ruins
And so we did not sleep
And at dawn, breathing still came

She rose to boil water for my tea
And I looked at the profile of her face
Long the shadow of her eyes
"It was the doctor" I said
"Bad enough that he killed him
but he made us all poor in the bargain."
But she said nothing though her lips
sang silently psalms as tired as her face.

"What should I care for all of that."
I said. "It is not even a single spark."
As the sun rose over the hill light burst in.
The gray room became a cold furnace of color.

Just then the dying man coughed,
his blue eyes opened
Every whisker of his beard stood out
around his dry gray lips.

She dropped the kettle and fell down at his side.
I remained standing in terror
Never had I seen...
"He," the lips said. "He."
The eyes stared down the long nose
And met mine.

We three silently exchanged accusations.
And I wished him dead.
But the eyes kept staring
long after the last breath ended.

---

Thus it is I conclude my contributions to the sterquilinium with this final inspection of mortality. I think it, perhaps, my best as it contains all my thoughts on the matter.

Quod Erat Demonstratum

Late Night - An Experimental Poem

No dreams this night:
The silver portent - cold, bright
Hides behind her curtain
-Sophia-
Looks down
Sees my lit window
and searches somewhere else
for another soul
to give her dreams to.

No dreams tonight:
The moral question - wrong, right
Echos around the chamber
-Raphael-
Bends down
Fingers his gold trumpet
but considers another time
for another soul
to give his message to.

The earth is uprooted
And the cauldron is empty.

Linus

The sun rises over the hills
her luminescence shattered into beams
by the towers and blocks of a
World, in its middle age,
with sins not excusable by sincerity,
but planned and scheduled like virtues.

Feeling has returned to my limbs
that had been numbed by the cold bed
of stones with the cold air
The old sweet stench inside the jail
becomes new and bitter in the sunlight
My jailer's breath dampens
all the teeth under his crushed eye are gone
he is here because he can not fight only swear
and he knows the captain

Lead me than, my friend, to the torture
To the place of martyrdom
Take me to the place of preparation
Where you will mock my old flesh with a shield and spear
And hang a bronze breast plate from my shoulders

I have comforted the others throughout the night
while we heard you and the captain laughing
at dice and women but you did not have your way
for your lust is hollow like your eyeless socket

While the bright sunlight burns the morning frost
the old women stir the embers and bow three times
boys throw stones at us from the alley
and laugh as they run away
You drag your feet at this duty
which brings you neither satisfaction nor discomfort
I shall only be remembered by you as an old man who
went to his death like a stupid beast
in blank confusion
and you shall spend today's wage
the total sum of all that I am to you
on sour wine and stale bread

And I shall pray for you

Reflections on the Death of Bin Laden

Watching the reactions of people to the death of Osama Bin Laden has been fascinating. From the aftermath of the initial report, while the ABC newsmen waited for the President, and filled up the empty time with queer speculations, the element of politics was present. Held at bay for a moment while the newsmen felt a passing twinge of shame ("it's inappropriate right now to talk of politics, but one must imagine that this will give the President a much needed political boost").

The jubilation and triumphalism followed - a kumbaya moment in which the glory of accomplishment outweighed all. But this was ephemeral, and over before it begun, quickly followed by crowds in the street chanting "USA USA USA".

And before the dust could settle on the neo-jingoism, a wave of contrition struck, with Martin Luther King cited again and again on Facebook, contemporaneous with a certain left-wing glee that the killing of Osama by Obama was spit in the face of George Bush.

Among the more idiotic reactions was that of Michael Savage, who gave Obama credit for offing Osama, but then questioned the timing. Savage even suggested that Obama timed the killing of Osama so that it would take the Royal Wedding off of the front page (Obama supposedly feeling snubbed for the lack of an invitation, and the Brits supposedly snubbing him because he sent a bust of Winston Churchill back with a return to sender note).

Where it leads tomorrow, I cannot predict. Probably into an endless discussion of the political ramifications, vote projections, political capital, and the feelings of the American Street.

But here's what I know:

Osama Bin Laden had fallen into evil. The world of man is better off without him. But, while the loss of his life is no cause for sorrow, we should (those of us who are Christians) still mourn the loss of his immortal soul - which in all likelihood, is lost forever in the gravity of the utter rejection of God. Where there is life, there is hope, no matter how thin, for repentance, conversion, contrition and purpose of amendment.

Those who killed Bin Laden (the CIA and Navy SEALs et al who participated in the mission) were acting in the just defense of both innocence and civilization. Their heroism is above reproach. You and I owe our lives and freedom to men and women such as these.

As for Obama, May 1, 2011 was the day that Barack Obama became an American President. Now, he has been for some time, the President of the United States, in that he was duly elected, and held the office and powers of that position. But prior to May 1, Obama was, like Jimmy Carter before him, an aberration, a misfit. Wielding the power, but both unsuited and unaccustomed to what that meant. He was President of a Party. Earlier that evening, at the White House Correspondents dinner, Obama was nothing more than the Comedian-in-Chief. Playing to that modern liberal doctrine that places a punchline ahead of policy. The world-view that places Jon Stewart at the pinnacle of politics. In essence, up to May 1, even through the assault on Bin Laden, Obama was so much like Jimmy Carter that only the failure of the helicopters to crash separated the two men. Much will be made of Obama's "gutsy" decision to send in the troops rather than to, ala Bill Clinton, just fire off some missiles. But Carter, too, chose to send fighting men on a daring mission into enemy territory. Had the helicopters all crashed, had the mission been a failure...?

Even in the wake of the success of the mission, Obama could have remained Carter. A buffoon whose hamfisted handling of the economy, whose twisted idealism, and whose ineffectual grandstanding led America deeper into a morass forged in the socialist policies of his predecessors. But that all changed with Obama's speech to the nation. Rather than cite Bush's failures in Tora Bora, rather than repeat his puerile pandering in the Cairo speech; rather than issue a tepid apology, Obama for the first time raised the flag of American Exceptionalism. Obama recognized that there was something different about America. He cited our Values, our Character, our Resolve, whether these things still exist or not. From the childish anti-colonialism that typified his foreign policy before, Obama changed course, placing himself at the head of the columns, and for the first time publicly, was unashamed to be an American.

Now, I cannot predict where Obama will go from here. In all likelihood, he will return to form, bowing to foreign Powers, descending into partisan wrangling and petty pandering. But at the moment of his speech, he joined the ranks of American Presidents - a leader of OUR nation, a champion for the good that is in US; not a condemnation and reproach. No matter where he goes from here, he has definitively joined the club. He has been branded with having both perceived and acted upon the most basic and inherent duty of his office: that of the Defender.

And, of course, in his speech to the nation, Obama tried to separate the actions taken against Bin Laden from actions taken against Islam. And, he recognized in his speech that George Bush did the same. Islam, he said, is a religion of peace and Bin Laden cannot be laid at its feet.

He had to say this. As did Bush. Perhaps Obama believes this, having much more experience than Bush in the nature of Islam. But, again, he HAD to say this. Could any President, Obama, or Bush, stand before the world and accuse Islam of being a religion of blood & destruction? What end would that serve?

But Islam is not a religion of peace. Islam is to peace what Christopher Hitchens is to sobriety. That is, Islam and peace are occasional but uncomfortable bedfellows. But, then, Christianity is neither a religion of peace. Oh, certainly, we are lulled into picturing the sandal-wearing, hippie-Christ dispensing platitudes, but we forget that Christ said "I come not to bring peace, but a sword," and promised to set father against son, and brother against brother. The reality is that secularism, the religion of both Bush and Obama, desperately wants the religions of Abraham, to ultimately reach a passive syncretism that leaves faith as a tepid coloration that does not interfere with the ultimate secular goals of power.

But Islam, like Christianity, like Judaism, and like Secularism itself, cannot be a religion of peace. Islam lays claim to the Truth. A Truth that is incompatible with the Truth followed by Christianity. Truths that are mutually exclusive. Certainly, Obama, Bush, and the secularists like them have been lulled into quiescence in the face of Christianity in which common Christians barter their birthrights in the marketplace of Mammon. But the innate submission of western Christians to the enlightenment only has a weak analog within Islam. Certainly, the muslims of the tribal regions of Afghanistan and Pakistan are lusty, ignorant savages, but they are more human than you and I, with our sterilized, plastic existences. I do not for a moment cede Islam Truth. But I respect that muslims have, more than Christians, resisted the secular goal of reducing humanity to efficient cogs in a materialist machine.

Like the crusaders, admiring the Saracens for their vigor and devotion (if not for their reputed civilization and tolerance - a 19th century invention by self-despising westerners), we must recognize that, as St. Augustine opined, the City of Man and the City of God are incompatible, and that more separates the pious from the efficient than separates the Christian from the muslim. We can strive for the just ordering of society, but the Christian can never be at home in this world. This is the world of man. To be at peace in this world is to bare one's throat to that very beast that can destroy the body but cannot touch the soul. In that relatively endless struggle, the Christian must deplore the death of Osama Bin Laden, adore the devotion of the soldiers who sacrifice all for the safety of their countrymen, admire the men who, like Obama, shoulder the burden of protecting the sheepfold, and cling stubbornly to their faith, remembering the promise that the gates of Hell shall never prevail against us.

Carrot World

Carrot World,

Soundlessly swaying, slow slow steps,
one after another, make the carrot swing
Swing, swing, count the seconds
Plodding, plodding, up the long road

Lead us, fool, we follow
the orange stick at the end of the rope.
I have long lashes and watery eyes
but my eyes can not see what lies straight ahead.

Too slow, feel the sting
Senseless Braying,
A quicker step
Brings the carrot closer

Not sweet the tasteless reward
Ever promised and never given
Taste instead the sweet hay
Drink instead the cool water

What lies ahead I cannot see
Nor do I really care
It is ever the same in
the carrot world.

A short play in the style of Yeats (2)

Lady: Aye and the cherries have pebbles and when those pebbles are planted grow in Irish ground and become English trees.
Old Man: Says ye that now. I could not agree more. Everything that stands may be commanded
Lady: And ye in the woods with the boy's axe?
Old Man: I reckon I plan to be planted to, and then I be as English as any other dead man.
Lady: He'll not dig your grave with his axe.
Old Man: There's some that make two grave's with an axe, but I am not such a man.
Boy: And I am not such a one neither!
Lady: No you're a good child and never made a mother weep.
Boy: It would have been hard since I have not a mother.
Lady: Not so, all men even him who had no earthly father have a mother. But it was her who made your eyes water... (laying her hand on his shoulder)
Boy: Not so! (striking her hand)
Lady: What's this?
Old Man: Aye, the boy knows his case and does not want pity. He is ready to learn his lot. Come along with me.
Boy: (Shaken) Only if the lady commands.
Lady: Do as ye like.
Old Man: Come along.
Boy: What am I to do?
Old Man: Come along.
Lady: You know where your home is, but I have seen you pawing the earth and see now your inclinations (touching her own stricken hand).
Boy:(hesitantly) ma'am. I am sorry.
Lady: Away with ye then, ye seem to wish it. Take your axe and follow the old man. You all follow the same road, tarrying here and there for a while. And some never rise but sleep.

A short play in the style of Yeats (1)

Scene: A cottage as you might find in any county, far from the sea. A road, a stone wall behind which are hills webbed with stone walls and dotted with cottages. AGainst the stone wall lies various farming implements, picks, shovels, etc. A young boy is using a hoe in the garden.

A man comes on stage. He is old but walks with long strides.

Old Man: Go grab your axe, boy and come with me!
Boy: Where are we going?
Old Man: To the forest that lies underneath the stone house.

A window in the cottage opens up

Lady: Boy! Who is that calling?
Boy: It is the old man.
Lady: Old man! Why are you waking the dead?
Old Man: It is not I who wake the dead but you who do not let them sleep.
Lady: Phaw.
Old Man: Now grab your axe.
Lady: Boy! Keep your hands to the hoe and your eyes to the praties.
Old Man: She will be telling you that boy until you can't see moon or sun even if you did look for them.
Lady: Shut your gab, if we have words it will be nose to nose and eye to eye.
Old Man: Fist to fist suits me better.
Lady: Have you no respect?
Old Man: Aye ma'am. I have respect for the young one here and his axe.
Lady: I am coming out and we'll see whose boot is sharper.

[Window shuts]

Old Man: Listen here boy, get your axe and come away now. We'll have so many words you will eat no dinner tonight 'less you come right now.
Boy: I must not upset the lady.
Old Man: What does she ever do for you?
Boy: She gives me praties.
Old Man: It's you that give them to her you young fool.
Boy: But it's her garden.
Old Man: Does she plant it? Does she turn it? Does she pull all the brown stones out and make herself a wall?
Boy: No, she but she boils the cabbage in her pot and sweeps the table and mends my socks.
Old Man: You could do all that for yourself. Now come away.

Lady: What is this? Why are you stealing my boy? Are your ears long now and your coat green?
Old Man: I ain't stealing nothing but what can't be stolen 'cause it can't be owned.
Lady: Boy, is he talking of the sweet wild cherries?
Old Man: Aye, that I am talking of the cherries is certain.
Lady: Go inside boy and you can eat now.
Old Man: Go on in and eat the fruit of your labor boy, but first listen to what I will say after she has it out.
Lady: Well enough for him to hear.
Old Man: Aye well enough.
Lady: Let him hear of this work he will do with the axe.
Old Man: He will make a clearing in the wood beneath the stone house.
Lady: Near the creek?
Old Man: Aye, where the cherries grow and where there are harts.
Lady: And build you a hut?
Old Man: Of dry wood and he can live there too.
Lady: Until the Lord of the Stone House comes back.
Old Man: There is no more Lord there. He himself is stone and wood now.
Lady: I will not hear of it.
Old Man: Boy, I am an old man, and I know it is true. There is no lord in that stone house but a lord in england who says that is tenant land. But there are no tenants, the last one died and I know he was so poor that he never paid and he never owned and yet he had his hut.
Lady: You tell me you old fool what pebble in Ireland is not loaned back to us? What silver we have that is not from the English and goes back to London?
Old Man: Aye, the Irish Pebbles are English and rightly so. The english may have them all for all I care of them. But there is no beast in Ireland save those on the pinion that is not Irish. And no Irish cherry in the mouth of a lark is the property of the man in a bowler hat.

Before

Before

Kiss my lips while they are still warm
And the breath you gave me
Still dwells in my breast
Before the last sigh
While I still have time.
Before.

Who named me such a name,
To bear before the world,
A constant accusation,
Of all the pagan gods?
To remember for all,
That our days are counted,
And every sin is weighed.

Open my lips, so that I may confess
Through suffering and pain,
But before torment.

The empty

Don't you know he can fly?

Willow, willow, wailing
We will wisp about the baby
With a nonny-nonny-nonny
And a nonny-nonny-noo

With a nonny-nonny-nonny
And a wisp-o-will-o wailing
Wisp-o-wispy whisper, whisper
Willy-Chilly-whispy-whisper

A nonny-nonny

Empty all about the shadow
Nothing about, nothing about
Steady, steady, hand is shaking
Breathless giggles, giggles quaking
Laughing, smirking.

Colder lips, lips upon my cold lips,
Breath taking, breath stealing,
Dull dead air lifeless air
Stirless, black, and silent air:
Sharp as flint, hard as stone,
Shiny and black against the dull, dull, shadow

Eyes winking, eyes twinkling,
Starry, splintery, glintery,
Nonny, nonny, whisteley
Prickly, prickly, bristeley

A sudden Crack

A snap, a snap, a mighty snap!
A snap a snap, it made me clap!
Twig, twig, dance a jig!
Dance a jig, with mister pig!

Worse o worse to think of things,
Things with featherless, leathery wings,
Wings that beat upon that air,
Shrunken, twisted, clawed or fisted.

Nonny-nonny, will-o-whispery
Empty, O God it's so empty!
Nothing at all about it,
Nothing there, there's nothing there,

Empty-hempty-shmempty
So giggly, so wiggly-jiggly
All about, so empity-jempity
Giggaly, wiggaly, let's all be giggaly

What is that sound
In the distance
That dull thudding?

To the up-and-coming...

"To know the soul of another, one must know the soul that resides within. To come to know that soul, one must seek to know God, and in so doing come to know the soul-source of humanity itself."

if and when

Young man says:
I want folks to treat me with respect,
I want folks to know what I got inside,
know that what I got can't be bought,
and I ain't sellin'

Young man says:
People are going to look at me and they gonna say:
Look where he's been!
Look what he's done!
Look who that fella knows!

Young man says:
Ain't no place gonna kick me out,
My skin be black as coal,
and people still gonna let me in,
If somethin' ain't right,
I'm gonna tell 'em,
and they're gonna listen.

Young man says:
What's nasty is nasty,
Ain't no use lyin' to people to make them feel good.
I know what's right and I know what ain't,
People are gonna listen.

Young man says:
The world is on fire,
It's burnin' down and goin' to hell,
And if I go with it, I don't care,
because I did what I wanted.

Young man says:
If and when I die,
I'm gonna die knowin'
I didn't take nothin'
That I didn't want.

Old man says:
Let me breathe...
... one more time ...
... without no more pain ...
... breathe ...
... one more time ...

There once was...

There once was a quaggle of bearstrich (a peculiar creature, it bore a striking resemblance to a bear, with a bear's head, and four bear claws, but the body and tail feathers of an Osterich).

Like the Osterich, the creature ran on its back two legs, which were quite spindly for a bear, but all it had to support were these two massive (think "Popeye") bear arms and an unusual, large and stinky, bear's head.

This quaggle (about a half-a-quag more than a meeka and three-and-a-half times less than a terugala) of bearstrichs would spend the entire day standing on these two, spindly hind legs of a bear and drink manhattans in the blazing heat of the Death Valley sun (for they lived here to avoid the interruption of men).

They would drink and discuss politics.

Like Englishmen, they did this, all-the-while, in the heat of the sun.

Bearstrichs loved the sun.

And manhattans.

It was most peculiar, for they never became intoxicated.

Their speech never slurred.

All day, they would drink and tarry, drink and tarry, drink, and tarry.

They tarry about the situation in Miler's Bluff, (for everyone knows those sofu (a Bearstrich expletive) Miler's are a bunch of corrupt ninny-poos), or about some sort of nothing that was usually going on in Pigpoodle holler.

The pigpoodles HATED bearstrichs, and the bearstrichs didn't care much for the pigpoodles either.

It all went back to the great war that transpired one half terugayar before the great migration to the Easterlunds.

A couple of the

Sparkplug Soul

Ok, so "Motorhead" does not really have a song entitled "Sparkplug Soul"; they should have. It fits them.

If they did, I think it would go something like this;

"I wish I had a sparkplug soul,
to go along with my rocker-armed mind.

I wish I had a sparkplug soul,
to lay down some tread on some weary bones.

With a sparkplug soul,
I'd fire every piston.

I'd slam them into my rocker-armed mind.

Electric blast feeling the gaseous sqeeze
in my spark-chamber brain.

With my sparkplug soul,
synapse they fire,
and my crankshaft legs,
they fly, baby, they fly.

Oh how I loves my sparkplug soul.

Sizzle spark.

Sizzle spark.

Sizzle spark.

Ram it home, baby.

Fire me up another spark.

My sparkplug soul.

Drunken Reverie on the loss of a true, blue, friend

My hat is off, to you, my pal.

Long days, and drunken nights...together we spent!

What a ride it was, this "l'enfant terribleee".

She was a great, old gal, a grand dame, in deed!

And what a grand ol' flag above her did once waive (and now, no men, together, can save).

But now, she is daid...and all that we have before us, and before us is mourn, mourn, mourn.

For the life of a gal, who was once...so grand ! God love her soul.

God, love her soul !

A Grande Dame was she (Vespuci will vouch). A Grande Dame, a grand gal, and the

love

of the South.

Young scouts they did pledge, an honor so deep.

But now, she is gone, all piled up in a heap.

Oh now, she is gone, and what have we left? A memory of her, and a life, now bereft.

But here's the grand deal (and a grand deal 'tis indeed)...

A man once commented to me, as I sat in the East, that "our thang" was on wane, that "she", like her, was dying, slow death.

And to him I did reply from my seat way on high "if she lives in one heart, she lives without 'part' ".

And so it must go; "virtus junxit mors, non separabit" !

Grand dreams, grand schemes (and even grandier idears) - they too, they will live, if only they live in one heart (that beats true. That, beats true).

And so I must go, and so I must do, as those who before me, brave bastards knew too.

True dinkem, true dinkem, true dinkem 'til dee.

So drink 'til you drop, mon frere and mon ace!

Together we live, if (in secret) our hearts - they do keep pace, keep pace, keep pace - until end of long race...

And onward, and upward, together we will trudge, and an eagle one day, us both, she will judge.

From this pit we will fly, and rise from crevace, and above lousey fray, cherub raptors we will boss.

And order she will come, to a chaos that is high, and at talon-swords that we weild, she-devils they will die!

We will rip, we will tear, ripping flesh until bone - she will bear.

Uncovering truth from she-devil's dark, dank, deep lair.

And forsooth, God will reign, and we upon knee, upon knee we shall bear - a burden so light, hard burden, but no care.

Insomnia

At night my mind devolves upon
a rising tide of pain
that quells the echoes of God's voice
and spreads the mortal stain

And sleepless, facing fears unknown
to the clarity of day
One paranoia climbs another;
thoughts surmount and fray

How to subdue an unchecked mind
put down this madding fission?
Tame this beast of consciousness
and regain sober vision?

Till gears are stripped and bearings lock
and shafts both burn and freeze
Abed I'll lay tormented just
a madman at his ease

Click, click, click

http://mbshepherd.wordpress.com/2008/09/14/click-click-click/

One from our sister site

http://mbshepherd.wordpress.com/2008/05/24/and-only-god-prevails/