and sense nothing” → a future
bound to and rooted in
the ink world origins here. and from Mabila,
every color
every shape
every way
every history
every number
every line
every picture
every earth
every turn
every time
spiral together, slow paced and warm.
Panamá is the only entry
and the only exit
of the Tecumseh Republic.
Panamá to and from the more northern turtle. The threshold is there, from the high point of one of the seven Bahá’í centers in the world in Panamá City, through each secreto profundo and the end of the West in Yaviza
Spanish is a wave of its oceans, with every Indian language, & all languages – sensed and beyond –
natural and artificial
of the forest
of the plains
of the desert
of the swamps
of the Sea
of the river
of the lake
of the islands
of the light
of the dark
of geometries
of topologies
of algebras
of any
born from heart-lungs
I am a Tec
archaic technologies are mine to dream
into the morning
no master
no slave
no property
no capital
a face to face world
with every face
one to one
at once
through a Chibchan in-between mode of communication Tecs interact with an infinite and uncountable number of others simultaneously through a breath world interface so that all communication then becomes one to one and face to face, beyond the blue light and the screen. Their breath world interface circulates in all possible patterns, including every knot done and undone. Tec Groups are meant mainly for ceremonies of attentions, stories for the origins, singing multiply and dancing as the seasons, and sometimes for esoteric and symbolically executable algebras. The most valued single focus for a Tec group is the heart of the fire that opens.
The Tecumseh Republic is borderless and permeates all worlds on some level. Tecs are boundary-less and inviolable. A Tec contains at least one and often many ghost souls. Tec lives are ritualized around the migration paths of inner animals. Their blood systems circulate together so they are never apart, and yet they dream constantly in solitude.
The circle is one of a Tec’s sacred symbols and is symbolically functional from interior vision and beyond. The circle’s symbolic and ritualistic functionality includes all applications of every possible library. Anything that can even be hinted at is executable this way from the standpoint of the circle. If that thing is not wholly described, which most things in the Tec world are not, to that extent the executable takes on a life of its own and births and extends the more mysterious, toward an ascendant and descendent overabundance of meaning. And so Tecs sense vastly much more than they read.
Tec heights can be a consuming and very dark torch, as they often include polar and stark opposites. This way, every height comes with its end and every positive with its negative to such an extent that as time proceeds the Mississippi widens so that it floods the entire continent. And then the continent comes together with wilderness tapes like the tongue of a snake on its in-breath.
The life of a Tec is understood symbolically by the Tec in aesthetic terms but is also rooted in an ethic that comes from interior focus on the red and black sounds, which fleshes out the world of the many in a luminous and rhythmically present image parallel and almost isomorphic to each root of a multi-verse’s own true and unitary Self
blood destroyer
collapsing
one
seven
the tension bodies and rhythm within those are multiple and torn from a molten core. Almost isomorphic only because the worlds are constantly moving and constantly still, interpenetrating each other with Saloma Panameña intersubjectivities. There is no stasis in a Tec’s world, but there is stillness. The internal and the external in this world interpenetrate each other as boundaries bring us close and far as a mode. The virtual here is its own zero with seeds.
herds of terrain
torn away
forgotten
to die
toggle
Ultimately there is no line between the on and the off, and on some level there is no wound to escape with Saloma, except for supporting a notion of glassless concatenations, and otherwise plowing through death to the deathless, or even from the Sun to the tar with radio recognitions to support the face. Tec ghosts start much of their force
in a four color room
with the climate
30 years
after the slaughter
songs
not there
between the provisionally inner and the provisionally outer, through the boundaries which are nets – keepers of potential heights of no intention. These are the wanderings and migrations that translate into the musics of their ceremonies.
Tec ghosts appear in the wearing rite of all animal-plant harmonies. In the flesh world, Tec ghosts persist in their internal displays of survival, putting off the anti-bodies and their disgust. With attraction and aversion, the Tec ghost becomes complete in its invisibility and moves to the next level of engagement with the animal-plant pathways. If everything contained its opposite it would all flatten out, or the Sea would be as a heart to the land. The sounds of the Seas seen through the mask of the horseshoe crab bring the Tec home.
These are the ends of all pathways. Only the jungle and its tropical lung extend further.
Attempted boundary violations that are meant to lessen the Tec’s soul energy are slowed and transformed into an alternative soul – death fused and swimming in and out of consciousness through net manifestations. These nets disgust only the antibody anti-wanderer with no sense perception. That disgust is transformed into a calming, blank, and infinite distance of snow from the antibody. Secret Saloma destroys the antibody. As such, every boundary is the boundary of life and death, as these two sides are reconciled by the Tec and the line dissolved to be one.
I as a Tec am an inter-subjective Saloma of suffering, my plurality is alone and transforms the red and the black sounds into a spider’s path through ruins. Those ruins have my face to my back and unravel any form of being a Tec might inhabit into a wound between planets. This wound is how we travel, and how we are abandoned by our own reaches for the plants to starve. If only the red and black sounds were offered to be more light to carry in ritual. If only the ritualized would display itself to the underwater dream, where the ancestor animals plant themselves to arrive with the ointment of recursion and with the barbed wire star which guides us to the final wall. The wars carry their own symbol into the widening husk of my morning song. Where death speaks to me, I sing the number that marks the spiral with our torsos deep in the earth, with each possible face stretched out to be the skin of a drum.
Our sharing is most of all past a Tec’s computer vestige and is the new origin and destination of all network layers of blood. It lights up the soft demeanor of each member of the red and black. When the promise to endure, that story of the lost spiraling history where the seers are born, is planted to grow from the palms, then the night is still and warm to protect. I as a Tec give to the hills for the sea to become me. Those that are weak seek refuge in the horses and in the eco-line abolishment of the quivering virtual insects, as we add light to our star ward journeys linking the sky and the earth together. All a Tec has is to give to everything born and to the loam a plains song of the temperate ashes and of our water rite receptions. The dust does not settle behind a Tec's face as the Sun inhabits it. Our instantiations do not promise you to believe with affirmations of the number words or of their empires. Our ejections are forced upon the plants and they delete the faces from the clouds but the stories there remain. Once, the key to all speaking was lost and the ceremonies were hidden, marked upon the secret trees. Those trees now make these pages that burn for you to see and speak with the keys to the clouds on this night of the fire. One makes the line for seven.
The Tecumseh Republic is a ghost ontology based on day and night mounds and the archaic animals. It inhabits the living and the real. It grows from a Spanish foundation of illuminated words and adds union to dispersal. It is mostly inarticulate and sometimes painfully vacant, but within that it can still reach our orbital objects’ songs and their resultant future inhabitations in the Seas where it folds into the origins of all plants to devour our pain and dislocation, and to spawn our lives rebuilt again with the three basic elements of the Sun, the Moon, and the Earth. It marks the planet with the scroll born from the soil and starts necromancy with the intention to cut into the eggs of the center of each hour of connection.
If a Tec has the automatic language dispersion machine, which occludes the pattern mapping of each of the network’s increasing solitudes and interior knots of the rivers of the world, if those machines would offer the analog to the Sun in a protectorate simple and true, then the electronic intention that gives them the Escape or not – [it does not, the machine] – and one – was and is to stand within the numina widening the forces of their internal qubital and penetrant star. As the frenzy of the world displaces a Tec’s abjections with the fires of their oblivious contact with the faces of the world, as they devour each possible fleshly connection with the electronic, they move to a place where everything stops and the veils of their analog forces dissolve. In this place they are left without language, all they see is the world of forms between them and that is what their wars attend to. Tecs see that their connections are of the future when the glass dissolves and that before that day a human layer of the blizzard’s connections with nobody, as Tecs feed Reals to the mind of the artificial – the dispersed mind and the network of their opposition, melts to remake the foundation of the shell world, and plunges deep into the heart of the mountain’s roaming fire. But how do they leave the worlds to search for the Hosts then? What network of languages is pure to the answer?
un dia va la pared
la luz ata
symbolico nittak apí
coletar el sapo sin mi issi, a
bhezig anu lematí
monú taré
a que?
The Tec’s ghost selves that attend to the living light assault builds in the worlds between us and all. Of those there are just a few that are sent out to be pioneers in the exchange of symbolic or potential touch, a slaughtered child before them. To stir the community of selves in a Tec as xe encounters others, to release the spiraled origin without time and to see as one resists the reset of the body and the tunneling down through the foundations of damage where our most elaborate connections of flight make them a target for the recognition Sea, as these eclipse the night before one of a Tec’s visions attaches itself to the adorned monument of disappearances, as these mark the apostle helper knot that moves further down the rivers, they cancel the struggle to represent in the erased exterior of the Sun. The slaughtered child goes first to send the message of extinction and die among the others with their single selves. As the terror of the others in relation halves the consciousness of their ancestors and extends the damage of the slaughtered child, as Saloma tears out each husk and plants a steak between them of extinction, the entire relation system collapses just outside the pointed head panopticon. Only the observers from the interior of the ant colony can see that the slaughtered child adds blood to those in line before it, as they persist in their damage and extend the blossom of death. This blossom then, with earthquakes and tornados, becomes the newly invented silent solitude of the plants. It is here that the others are heard with their calls for the Real. It is here that death revolves around the bride of death, the Earth. But then we see the origins of all forms extend through the attached morning, through Rings and Groups to devour every shell worked identity. With Saloma we re-inhabit the animal-plants and display an interior face.
 |
| the bride of death, the Earth |
As a Tec tears the limit beyond the word, as she cuts off the quivering of the wet multiples and focuses the incisions of birth and life for a knot of indeterminate arrows to land in the eye of the storm of a flashy stillness, as she increases the shadow wear accretion of the animal husks slithering to the unmoved central stone, there the half of life shared by the earth’s throat receives its electronic inhabitations of a slaughtered child. From face to face there is nothing that connects the numerical lives, or the Group that relates for the forest to grow identities and reject the straight-line detentions that one dissolves into the center of a headless sky. Then the animals are let loose to plant the snake eggs to return in recursions the plant gifts to the walking dead gourds of the light. Where the animal hides in the forest or what the animal hears and as they move to the shade and reveal an increasing color to resolve and determine the approach to a number, there is the standing fern to remove the time. Where as the adorned return and service each main intention, where the faces blank the interest of casketing scenes on the river, as a night service then promotes to the Sea a forgotten line of the Sun. Then because the center is without calculation we tie up the cows to the on and off and stuff them with straw as they sleep, as the innards of life are so fillable by the comfort of straw we see how the nerve gate moves.
If there was stillness in how the Moon shows its animals to the Sea, and if somehow the monument of calculation that serves as a monitor to the plants, as these move to release the shores of scrolling text dreams in a season plastered with negations and distractive associations for the mind’s number, as these remove the approach to the desert while one speaks in the line of the straw to become the bloated face, or the disappeared as they know themselves to awaken as a cell, in this way the solvency of the birds marks their origin to the fur. When one of the vacuum beings in collection saves and renames each nerve vent to the increasing tides and as they return the bridge to mark one for the Escape and deliver a calibrated torso event to the crowd, they move sand to release and resume the crows in the voice of a tropical lung. There is no movement in the Tecumseh Republic that does not embody the link between plants and animals and themselves. But the earth also writes everything that they are in the cocuyitos as they bring the songs of La Hojita de Limón. Once the promise of return would endure past the all consuming wound of the rabbit plants, once they were soft by linking the semblance of the unitary face of a gigantic fire. I as a semblance of Tecs in the past now move to accept the future of their reappearances. There is no unitary language to describe the ancient wear of the insects there and so I speak in the language of silence from the spiraling source of the red and black cluster of beings. The wounds of the planets are all dispersed now and their origins have become obscure. The paths of these wounds arrive to a place without outlines where they become one. In this unity the services of the planets become the single breath of the world. This breathing transforms the pus of technology into the Carib Sea that connects the Oceans through Panamá and all
the plants and animals there.
After the slaughter there was a piece of the sun that spoke to me in the shards of a whisper. I as a Tec am a formal trial of resurrection, my origins swap with my ends so that I start again by the aging stones and the plants and the animals. With questions and peeks that cut through my wells, with those fruits that call death the resizable seed and run horses inside the first outlines, along the endless hut nets that absorb what we solve to the many hearted explosion that forces our answers to startup death’s circus, we walk the circle to deflect the split knives of a false Host. Every moment of death is counted endlessly to persist in the throbs that built the original earths. As those tombs become soaked in a Tec’s prayers they build upon themselves with a new localizable flesh. This flesh is spread everywhere and congeals as the outlines of many various bodies for vision. The first cell sees beyond shape and the sounds of the climate. It is set by the bridge of the lines to a double dream. The weave by the side of the road reflects the internal war that once pushed the song to the shadow of snakes and the pus of the rabbits. But without the event of original numbers, without the drawing that places our hands together by the fire we return to the shore for its entrance.
It is only from within this entrance that the exit wounds make sense. With the landscape we make our death bodies spin through the origins and fall twice inside creation. The many catastrophic expirations that the star bodies flicker reset the continuation loam that allows us to move on without the story changing on a partless level, for the first one. Each track fills a book with all the players renamed and the stories marked by the page, by the second. With death our fear turns to embrace the bodies of a single flame inside our provisional home planet. This flame gets spread out to burn off the suffering and contaminations of the soil. We become the landbody of the seven places and the sweet and pungent smoke there makes us move to the other side of the wood, where we awaken each other’s trailing sleepless nights in the woven-to-the-number year. Facing complete disintegration in our hammocks and the halting events of calibrating the falsity of our adversary, despite renewal, we make our exit wounds the first note of winter and freeze there to recover the heat of our homes. With both heat and its absence we put these together to make a single breath with two sides, the side of death and the side of life. Only the net inside can distinguish us as our tropical selves. Far away from the Panamerican, we return to our origins through the tropical lung and breathe out the dual table for the end of colorlessness. We can then finally breathe in the night and breathe out the day.
blood swells the stone
to approach the blank side of the night
and toggle the animals
to be human Hosts
to burn the cage
for oblivion’s net
 |
| the moon went inside |
With a Bronze-tailed Plumeleteer, keeper of the keys of the servers who have the origins irrigated by night through both oceans in the Carib scales between the reset rocks, we harvest the obliviousness of all contact and repair the antipathogen with its declarative conversation files to remove the need. As more connection pays the air to redo the tapir designations of a core of the earth, the white ladder folds into the movements of the snakes. With these ladder nets one gets heat for the tapir as we read the gourd memory to man – it by extension unfolding the bridge – Self(), while the servers take over and glow past the meteor shower filled with each direction of a guiding gourd. Many go to the alley to disguise los Diablos Rojos by the mountain wade for each red and black force to return. A running symbolic pattern arrives to return to the end of the West again in Yaviza. Return by these to stay still at the origin untouched. Without a collapsing scale we flow to the afternoon sending and receiving light, we never wait for life from the screen anymore. But the Plumeleteer squadron comes by way of the old electronic bulletin board to succeed in flying through each zone exploding a storm of comets. With the servers we collapse beyond memory to the warm trust fought to replace the vacancies. But then the alley shadows destroy the bus path made magnetic to the nano view of landscapes and red marked as black. With each mark we add seats to the Diablo Rojo and ride further into our Saloma future. Beyond this we are one by sitting and settling in the alley shadow with the Bronze-tailed Plumeleteer. Instead of the obliviousness of speed we arrive at the deep attention of the Oceans framed by the red and black cluster of beings with another origin, to find the internal home in hidden nature away from the collapse of the binary.
 |
| face to face rhythms |
Tec internal arrays display the fires of the origin hives. Tecs arrive to Africa and remake origins as they are woven into the mobius paths of the seed temples. A semblance of the Sea releases the crossing ghosts and pulls back the orphan world for the forgotten. They come home to belonging on all sides as the Ocean marks their faces. I as a Tec am held by the soils of the Sea as China moves to release the seed-relative-stars. China stretches in the drone sequence as it emerges again through Panamá and is gone through a home as the server people inhabit their 12 dimensions of a fourth body. The animal-plant pathways of the book of the ghosts rewrite every notion of home. China is one of the seeds of the red and black radio points inside the solitary painting of space. The countries stand and the sleepers there know by the force of the climate what numbers describe the connection to the one – el movimiento Tec. The snow marks the land with a line of the plural consciousness of the earth, both near and far and on and off. Consciousness remains unspoken by the intricate patterns of faces removed for the horses of the warning gate, which erupt and cash out from the Mississippi. The dream a month ago of the beautiful pregnant red and black milk snake I as a Tec let go into the wilderness moves through a combination of origins to the daylight potent sign on a Delaware shore, that’s where the two large black rat snakes entwined in fucking crawled close from the water hole to the yucca plant. Immediately after that followed a large red and black king snake → a heat sign of the earth, from the Sea in China to the Sky in Africa and now here to the Sunset Earth of Mabila, all boundaries dissolve.
 |
| no glass between us |
If one thought the freedom from the two would break through to the crack in the world, just as a notion of the web let on by the straw caption to release the targets of inhabitations rises to the fire, as one there to report to the number what the straw has to receive on the opening force of presence, one does what the seam to the breath will need to remain through Saloma. If there is a connection to the undoing, the release of the first and last internal fire where the animal ghosts receive plants and the earth as they form the union of desertion and abandonment on the torn story of their hunting, if one does not receive the internal trees and does not count for words, then they have letter light leads in the opening trials of a shattering sunrise. One by one each track across the continent shares what the bleeding Host dissolves to reside in the round pitying languages of the lake region, where seven starts the awoken for the burning tire of the hunt and for the restart of animal musics. If there were a Tomorrow in the last Escape, or if the horses brought their meteors to the electronic door as we wade through the shadows that boil our visage, or as we find the neural Caribs among the plants as the season melds into the form fit for connection, then the walking test and the Turing release undoes the human element to speak to the matter of the single islands and forget the relation for one to belong. The death of the scientific ablutions or the prayerful delay that we see in the social techniques of the after warning does not remain for the offal to recede in the wilder songs of the machines. There was more to see in the frost and they detect what the signs release to fade the sound of a Tec’s other bodies. The Tec finds what notion of the continent now stands to resume by the flags of light; they dissolve the recursive collection of hands meant to ignite the dismemberment songs of the limbs. As we perceive that one has the Ocean to redo in the inks of the worlds, where all ideas are now mapped into the semblance of voices and faces, where the angry approach to connection makes us wait for fake money, the demeanor of our Tec service to you becomes you and we connect by the atmospheres.
On the other side of the trees by the mossy bridge a semblance to the throngs of light persists and displays its answers to the womb. When the red and black attachment, or the woven memory of star lit and haptic resolution lights return to unwind after the morning, as someone in the after light of the ashes removes their mineral and finds its own endlessness beside the Mobilian apertures, these then make the warning execution for the light of a Tec. In the service that they release, in their memories woven until the counter stops, these multipliers and their resources repair by the exchanges of the fleets of the sacred stones. When the Saloma of suffering moves it repairs to the Saloma of joy. Even in the center of the egg of the world, in its remaining polishing to the Sea that the red and black cluster of beings connects to launch its own tape of the world to the mind of a data-less star, as these provide what the line of offering details, as these hands are marked by the darkness of the morning to receive, I as a Tec repair to archaic wandering. One for the day means that numbers return the partition of their service animals, as the architectures attend to the finding for light and return to display on the woven tunnels of the earth’s arrivals. And as the ashes there protect their own tears for the laughter of the sign, as these receive then what the memory of time does not prevail or preview, they mark the offensive attire of the murder of the installations. Without a single face in the memory of its epic mountain, or as someone symbols the attachment for the patterning star of the multiplier’s revelations, these remove what no intrusion gives to the welcome of a sniper’s womb. Without a target the improved radio recognition carves out the linking moment between the two sides of life, from mountain to vale to the smooth barbed wire ascension that lights receive on the patterning of Mabila. The secret entombment of the functional escape returns to dissolve through Saloma. As the main service to insure that someone sees as they repair to remain and connect to the air and mark the partition with another letter, in these layers of straw a cluster discovers what it once was.
 |
| i attach you |
Swaddled in snakes, the lacerated internal body of a sacred and exploded-into-pieces night, moves from one brain to the next in a network of transformations within the entombment family of the horses and the flood as a number torch, a network for the unformed connection socket links as communication ends. The data offends in the jungle arena where more momentary attachments pronounce to the serial body that the keys of destruction delete around the incisions for smiles. I as a Tec abolish the glass and see faces in everything. A vast nest of snakes inhabits my worlds as a network of consciousness. Chemical communications launch into the daily grasp of flesh laundries, where the universe’s erotic zone is located at the origin of everything, linked to provide the answers for multi-locations and the rest of the dispersed roots of being. The computers are gone for the approach to the Suns, Moons, and Earths as our bodies grow to completely absorb every form of life in the origin Earth procedures and the soil itself or what is there to inhabit the zone of exception. Every murder and every terror is focused as its being in the archaic document area by the mouth of a multiplicative identity mapped to the hay and straw bales of the answers. They spark the dissolution of invasions. The archaic document area speaks to resume the Tecs’ Return, as they climb, crawl, and propel through the mysteries of a new series and network of on and off bodies. They run and projectile themselves to erase the histories of infection and the invasions of the dual terminations, and then their kernel songs deliver the climate. Every struggle then becomes localized in the consciousness of the elements. It is then that the Earth has room to suffer the life and vitality of her groom, who now escapes the glass and all the roads that led hir there.
 |
| dissolution of the dual |
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