Johnny Cake
You remember Syn? Syn was lost but Pancake rescued her from Dragon. Joe Pan flew down in his marvel wave machine and killed the bad and returned her home nice to mom.

“Get hold of them electric lights and make ads.” Nothing Christmas cannot be changed to its opposite!
“In the smelter the solid runs.” Recase the solid unsolid god of the age, ePANCAKE!
Good to eat and good for you each morning. 

Making way for telecom products, retribed monkeys, themselves virtually human, needs no labels or lapels to buttonhole. Ordain the identification. It’s the difference between tomato and nut. The think glands are walnuts. Weverboy’s walking around with nuts inside.
He get too big we shrink’em.
Too small we give supplements.
Jo Pan spoke the eloquent marvels of podcasting the familiar to the divine. “You can do it too,” he urged the mannequin children who worked through the boxed syntax of Syntazz.

Rip Law was another character in the Pancake Empire. In later T shirts he escaped and had a black mask, oh Ignatius!
His schemes were manifold. Not that they touched flesh that ate raw food or played among the rocks tracking lizards, followed bee lines to water or stalked deer in a friendly manner. That’s how to learn to hunt, to hunt. To be still, be silent. To be invisible, what won’t come to such a one! 

So Johnny Cake ran.
Outran every other.
Johnny Cake was Pan Cake
who was like Rip Law
who was like igod
and he ran and ran and he ran.
He got himself out of oven town.
He got himself up-pulled, fup, by his straps.
He could have been American.
He won a gold medal.
It was just that simple. 
He said, “I think I can.” He out ran his brother, his parents, the work doers, the wolf and the bear, but the fox, that lousy fox waited.
“Here is a world where everybody is disproving themselves,” that was Flesh’s discovery of the spirit world. The spirit world was the physical world inhabited by the people opposed to the physical world inhabited by animals and plants.
 Things make sense if you turn them upside down. 

People were carrying around the spirit inside and it was spoiling the outside. Physically they were good red meat and blood and bone and that could easily go thump, thump.
And that was all right. Like animals. 

But spiritually it was another patchin -- stuffed with rags and cotton and had shoe button eyes, which is why they couldn’t see the sequence of action. Little rag heads thought they were in a soda water ghetto afraid of being made into soup, all soft and loppy and full of cotton and not empty at all or hollow like someone had said. 

Course what is cotton but filler and you could as easy use corn shucks or stuffing, straw man or batting, just anything to fill a void.
So spiritually they really didn’t work and needed fill.
Stuffed stuffing and wadding and packing and when you unwrapped the shell there was nothing in it at all but packing. 

The only explanation anybody gave for this was that they fell through a hole or what and ended up here in this land.
That was the extent of their spiritual wasold.

Universally there used to be an outside and an in, an up and down, now there was only an in. The kingdom heaved on the banks but without there was faeries and boloins, fiction and faction. 

“The great still pressed bird song and orange count cobbled to a hoax.”
If you’re flesh out to save the button you care about such. 

Thee was not.
Thee didn’t mean to do it.
Thee was pushed.
That evil had about decided thee wasn’t much since thee never did nanny thing that it could see. This vastly opaque style of life.
There is no time to go into what it consists of, but evil could see into the little ragherds since it had also planned the rag hearts.
“Yes take for granted that there are spiritual organs, counterparts to the physical, some more notable than others. The spirit liver. The circumcision of the heart.”

What does our flesh do with that?
Male vestiges of feminine spirit.
Reflections through a dark flask.  

Have ever yourselves a peek of the naked heart, or will’ya leave it in the pericard, hangin’ on the rack sweet? The heart reclothed in a T- shirt with a slogan blessed.
 Once circumcised fears the fire better.
Hide, hide it don’t you think? The truth is exposed . Clothe the heart?

 “The shadow of the might” said Pearl. It will cover me with fathers. Cut then cover. Cut the fat, cut the sweet. Purify by blood not work. 

“Who is your tailor?”
 I buy the rack.
There is a grain of camphor for the poor in the notion that the first shall be last. Look what happened to Lazarus.
Somewhere exist the idea of just. But they say God looks on the heart.
The post delivers mostly bills, junk mail and only once a year that check. 

“Shall I do evil that good may come?”
 That is the flesh question, thinking of the cowman to murder. 

“But did not the Aposty say he wished himself cursed for the people, poetically quoting those who ask to be a killed in place of the people?” 

The pleoplle always the poeop-ple, take all evil upon him that good may come. Specious thoughts. The serpent as the most subtile beast virtually formed the native plant society for his own purposes. Preserve the Prairie. What org not infiltrated with cunning? 

The good was evil the evil was good.
The cow and its could.
The boy in the hood.
Dead meat of food.
Is a burger spiritual outside the meat?
To such uses high mind is put.
Hunt a really good spiritual
smell of earth burger.
A cockcrow bourger. 
No chicken patty slice of pungent air,
a burger that will satisfy till tummy rocks and gobbets of sun sprinkle alchemy dawn. Swell tin place.
A brink of a burger spiritually speak.
The bourgner  the burgher, the burfger, the buffgeefer  meat.
I told you spirit worlds ruin the physical! 

What to do?
The kingdom’s within all the machinations of man continual.

But the evil is good. Good economy. Good evolution. Good psychology. Without evil. Boring. So be glad the evilisgood. What did you expect. Whow could he do it to me? Assuming he did. Picking the wings off flies. Daming the Grand Canyon. Rototiling the ear. 

“Why he do it?”
“What the charge?”

 “You did yourself you bleeding nainny!” Anything can be turned opposite. Ever yourselves peek at the naked heart?
“And could he be the boy next door?” No, it is the sprit of lawlessness next door. What else can you say of them when they don’t rake or plow their lawn or even if they do?

Man make up your mind. Spirit or flesh?
“What If the end comes  and I don’t feel like it?”

He upulled himsle fup by his own boot straps.
He could dhave been amermican.
He won a gold medal.

It was just that silmple.  He sadi “I thilnk I can, I knew I could.”
He outsran his mbrother, hils parents, the workders, the woldf and the fbear
but fowx was wailting.












AE Reiff is a fictional persona of the Artist’s Collective at the New Ibsen Canal near Catwalk. There is no known way to contact them except weekends in the bakery. Once identified persons of the same name intend no disrespect to them or others. Periodic updates at Encouragements for Such.