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.”


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