By stages, I have just completed a 31-day journey from Portland, Oregon to New York, New York, from the place where Plantation America’s “Free Soil” refugees migrated to in an effort to escape the purpose of an evil nation, spawned for no other purpose than to plant and exploit millions of humans for the enrichment of a tiny elite of supra-human masters back to a place where the cancer of Modernity once began at the edge of a virgin world.

I did not mean to spell super human, but to indicate through the term supra-human that our rulers have been, are and will be engaged in the pursuit of an extra-human, indeed inhuman agenda. This is actually the greatest building project I have known humans to have engaged in. For, no sooner had Man cast down God through the “Enlightenment” than the architects of the present society began building God on earth. This great and evil God remains asleep, though His dreams and nightmares, expressed through his sleepwalking ravaging of the Goddess that is our quivering collective, hint at a consciousness soon to be awakened.

Surely I am insane?

Of course I am.

But consider, wherever in this dying land you dwell, that the decisions that govern your state and municipality, the global economy and the infinity sand wars—including the clear decision not to permit humans to escape from their terrestrial feedlots into space—are hatched in Hell on the Hudson, brought to hideous life amongst the Pale Covens on the Potomac and broadcast from media pulpits from Hell and its Los Angeles portal and brought monstrously home to you.

You will not think well of this view today. But as it comes increasingly clear that wherever you were born and raised in this nation that you will not be able to continue your family line in that place but be forced into crime-escape economic nomadism, perhaps you will consider that the God of your masters, for these past two hundred years, has been more powerful than the God of your ancestors.

This was graphically brought home to me when I sought, as a point of honor, to make good on two promises to two people who had done me a good turn, to make a return visit to their New York home, a place I have loathed since first visiting IT.

Portland was half-poisoned in the full-on worship to this God who demands their drugged slumber. But, perhaps due to the abject submission of these tranquilized souls, much of the meanest and cruelty characteristic of the sacrifice of bodies and souls on the eastward drinking altars of the economy has not infected the dreaming folds of sheeple at the far end of the Oregon Trail.

Across the High Country comprehensive politeness, patience and hard work reigned.

Across the Great Plains this humanity held, though in less handsome guise.

Into the Rust Belt Despair spread Her shredded, shroud-like wings.

Into the Appalachians Anxiety sang Her manic, tittering song.

Into the East Envy whispered Her hateful song—ever faster, ruder, cruder, louder, faster, quicker, swifter, shriller…

And there I was, in Midtown Manhattan, between Penn Station and some horror writer’s version of the Parthenon amongst a throng of rudely racing, blank-faced strangers jostling one another furiously on the aimless road to nowhere.

On my first return trip to Baltimore I was threatened with a beating for being polite.

On my third trip I was targeted by a motorist who sped up to cut me down in the crosswalk while I had the crossing signal, where for four months I was ushered across no-crossing zones by hundreds of kind strangers in Portland. Somehow, though, the trash truck drivers and the beamer stylers in Manhattan who competed for the privilege of running over whatever living thing crossed their undead path, frightened me more than the Baltimorean who actively sought my vehicular demise.

Manhattan, the eldest continuously settled Plantation in English North America, has already achieved the perfection of a god, a great abiding evil that glares horrifically down from not one but many towers, upon a teaming populace that does not shudder and cower in fear, but rather stampedes in uncaring haste into the pervasive maw that somehow has a ravenous taste for life rendered into waste.

I slept on a concrete slab and on a wooden park bench in a shuddersome place so potent that it manages to deny, reduce and exceed humanity with each hideous breath, a skeleton of concrete, asphalt, brick, iron, steel and glass whose life blood is it’s very infestation by the sickening things which have achieved their own reductional destination.

If my suspicion that these teeming drones and babbling parasites exist as the food source of a latent, gestational God, not yet imparted the trans-human spark of self-awareness by its insidious architects, seems wrong or is, then perhaps the reader might forgive me for the sin of Hope. For if the Monster called New York is not some internal combustion engine of towering babel meant to power the willful mind of a manmade God then all I saw on the dying day of May was the suicide by insanity of a species that does not deserve the designation of humanity.