This poem is intended, within a larger work, to introduce you to a
menagerie of Art’s dear friends; a cynical
housefly, a blowhard ape, a (hypo) critical lemming, a vapid chupacabra,
and a sheep, insufferably … egotistical.

And, the dreamer, Art. Dreams, do dissipate fleetingly, as if they never
were; keeping them alive to, perhaps, some fine day ripen,
is what this, is all about; bringing about a hopeful new order,
to a Way … more egalitarian.

Whether one deems it quixotic, romantic, or, altogether fancifully, unrealistic,
matters not. What matters most is that it’s doable;
if we believed we could, we would. That’d be better than eating the slick
doo-doo, we’re oft served … as palatable.

It’s doable all right; imperative actually; shall we act concertedly
in time? Maybe, just maybe; maybe a book
of letters Art wrote, when he naively gave a damn. Nah! Only,
indeed, those letters, in time, metamorphosed … into a book.

Seemingly, we may need another book like (wo)men need holes in heads. No
wonder then, that the Council paid careful attention
to dissemination of its product, not wanting what once happened to Art, so
happen to them. Required is … ATTENTION!

Publicity; strategic news conferences, a UN book distribution and more; all
had their calculated effect. Destinies well may
be ably forged. Apt then that a trans-species, trans-cultural, trans-national,
trans-doctrinal band of brothers gainsay …

… the powers that be with a cogent plan; more efficaciously using wisdom’s
knowledge (education) and us (numbers, letters,
hearts and minds; the power of ones) and the virtually free airways of the Kingdom;
connecting us quickly … safely … better.

Arthur now writes for chachomanopapa and through that invention, to everyone.
Leaving Margaritaville to Jimmy and its fate,
Art’s unlikely return from, notably, forty years under deserts’ searing suns
means faith and prayer may … forge fate.

It’s a good thing; not that he’s alive and relatively well, nor that he hath
returneth from the desert’s duly desiccated
Margaritaville, nor that he feels thunder-stricken. It is that, perhaps, a path
through a desert’s way’s, the Way’s … path pointed.

From Gaza was Buzz, the cynically watchful housefly; from Kenya, humongous Kong;
from Tel Aviv, Lou, the Alps, Job, and from China, Abe.
Abe? Yeah, Abe; henceforth, Nerd. Initially, only he seemed philosophically strong
enough upstairs to pine on the charge … made.

Not that we weren’t all experienced and accomplished whiners. Arthur’s marveled,
in retrospect at how, no matter what happens, things
fall into place. Take this ad-hoc Council to which the six misfits were summoned,
“Anybody at the helm, Holmes”? Bringing …

… together the brain power of six of God’s lesser beings; having those odd-ball six
brainstorm on what humanity needs do to forge its
own destiny, then write a book placing in context their eclectic fixes;
their way forward … with but common sense … and wry wit.

Indeed, early meetings were dominated by the theme of why us and nobody
else. It happens, each of us is an alcoholic,
each, familiar with the Twelve Steps recovery program. He often has dramatically
used the weak … for His purpose … catholic.

The weak and the persecuted, representing all others by whatsoever means
humbled by nations and a plethora of doxastic religions
belittled by their actions and branded by their omissions to act within means;
the prideful and boastful … homo sapiens.

All that and more was to be found within the backgrounds of the Council members,
who preferred referring to themselves as the Sexy
Six, for short. The long and the short of it’s that it appears that the members
are, for humanity … an apt proxy.

Consider: Art, the sole human rep, is a bibulous alcoholic. The Christian,
Roman Catholic, Puerto-Rican-American-
faux-pas and self-styled planetary citizen boasts decidedly Bohemian
bents, and ideas … egalitarian.

Buzz, the fly is a bibulous alcoholic. The Gaza-born, former Muslim, Arab Palestinian
converted to a conservative sect of Orthodox
Judaism during the 2000 Intifadah uprising. An interior designer, he commutes to and
from dry Gaza to a lush Tel … and lox.

Kong, the ape is a bibulous alcoholic. The mountain-born Kenyan iconoclast
is an animist. In his youth, Protestant mission
schooled, Kong hatefully knows the ignorance of his brother and the tip of a whip’s lash.
Gold miner then … now a miner of men.

Louis Lippi, the lemming is a bibulous alcoholic. The Bethlehem-born
Muslim ‘Levi’, an Israeli Palestinian
crude oil trader; as part of service to Mossad, was a planted muhajadeen sworn
to the Taliban … in Afghanistan.

Job, the chupacabra is a bibulous alcoholic. The Bern-born agnostic diamond
cutter, there does skillfully cut crystalline facets
in the incubating safety of a private cubicle. To there does he abscond
to vicariously dream … of assets.

Abe the sheep is a bibulous alcoholic. The lowland valley-born Abe’s a low-
level mainland Chinese diplomat at Kathmandu.
Officially an atheist, the urban planner uses the net to raise his low-
level consciousness, with a few … new views.

One each from the Big Three, a Muslim, a Christian and a Jew; and an agnostic, an
atheist and an animist to balance the odd
ball six’s mix; moreover, all shared as hobbies, passionate obsessions. Education,
peace, prosperity, poets … and a merciful God.

And so it seemed, as the more each, into the others’ past, entered, the more profoundly
and eloquently the Creator as if spoke to
each, revealing in each, all evil and all good. Audio-visuals, obviously,
are secure … the movie’s … coming soon … too!

Yeah right! Good luck with that pie in the sky pipedream. Art and his pals from Animal
Planet can get bent. They’re all just asses anyway.
Who’d be nuts enough to learn from a nut who drinks toxic spirits, loves plants, animals,
hears them … and speaks to them … most every day?

It makes no sense! Are we going to listen to a wine and cheese-loving, tree-hugging,
animal-activist-ninety-nine-percenter? Say
it ain’t so! A wino? Time shall tell. Judge not the messengers but the happy tidings.
Strange things happen … or so they say.

What’s the world coming to? Indeed, what’s the world, the United States and Puerto
Rico coming to? Thoughtful and communicative
critters, as in Animal Farm, are plot device; they better show, we’re our worst foe.
To fix our fix, we’ll need be … creative.

Perhaps, the very need for a creative, paradigm-shattering solution to
our woes was what restored life-sustaining purpose to
the six humbled creatures of His creation whom, by mysterious invitation to
each, dreamed of humanity … and its due.

After all, one of the apparently few things we collectively know is that He
works in mysterious ways, sometimes via dreams. He
does as He will. We oft do too. But nothing’s about us. Everything’s about Him. He
surely made all for Himself … not for thee.


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