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luxury tombs for the "middle-income". A useless tension spans the structures from gargoyle to T.V. antenna, while baptisms are arranged. Where is the meeting place for "the synthesis of all heresies" and "the tongues of fire"? Not in this place. No meeting. Only the factory smoke failing to recall what has never been given.
  
After the soul has been buried, we come to the plains of improved nature complete with The Bible Frank Lloyd Wright Would've Loved, translated into a thousand languages. Shall we place the artificial beer can in the "natural house" and pray to it for the salvation of Duveen? Many say, "Art. Art." But there is no Art. Nevertheless, merchandized sophistication is heaping up the fragments of fixed objectivity and calling them "intelligent."
  
"Assemblages" and dinosaur bones, "targets" and plaster casts of primitive idols, "New Images of Man" and human organs embedded in plastic: the marriage of Mr. Wright's "natural" museum and the Museum of Natural History should be encouraged. The wedding would conjure up a phantasmagoria that would rival St. Anthony's cave. The beat artists who perform "happenings" could be employed as wizards of neo-gnostic madness. They might even put on an old-fashioned Black Mass. Finally, the Resurrection could be improved by making a deal with the military. Then "naturally," shoot an ape or a man into space.

"Farce without End."
  
We now discover a isonoscope that shall forgive the divorce of heaven and hell while it flashes before us for our selective graces - the bits and pieces of Divine Catastrophe. Such a scope has lost all division and order. One must pick over the scattered icons the way a bum picks over the dumps. The iconoscope will now be plugged in.