INVOCATION

My heart wishes to sing of stories from our ancient past, about our history;

from the orgy of the gods to the twenty-seven year War of Trâlap; to the castration

of the heavens above; to the many wars of the gods—every single one of the conflicts—

who reside up in the great mountain Jóli, who provide us humans with everything

necessary, who are more powerful than we mere meat popsicles will ever be,

and who have the divine right to abuse and harm us however they see fit.

One day, the Tots taught the farmer Songtrõur gorgeous song while was

preoccupied with his livestock at the foot of Mount Gallows, near the forest.

The goddesses first spoke these words to him, the Tots, the muses of Jóli,

daughters of Mêmorí, daughter of Úit, daughter of Èr, some distant relation

to the bright eye Sån: “Simple farmers, worthless shits, mere and meaningless anuses,

we all know how to tell many falsehoods as though they were truthful

and, whenever we feel like it, we know when and how to tell the truth.”

To this Songtrõur the farmer responded: “If you know how to tell lies

as the truth, then there is no way to tell whether or not you sisters are

being truthful, especially if I'm telling something as important as the

history of our holy gods and the wars of our ancestors. So, I'm sorry,

I am afraid that I must reject any offer you give me to tell me your stories.

In the most simplest of layman's terms, you sisters: Begone, Tots!”

The daughters of Mêmorí were aghast at this act of blasphemy. How dare

this vile, insignificant farmer treat the keepers of story and song in such

a disrespectful manner? He must pay for his unhallowed transgression post haste.

And so he did. The Tots, who bless men with their magical gift of song,

punished Songtrõur for his wrongdoing by shuffling the functions of every single

one of his bodily orifices: where his eyes lay now were tiny slits for urination;

his ears and nostrils switched places; the insides of his mouth were replaced

with veins and stalks for both his eyeballs; and his teeth, tongue, and vocal cords

were relocated to his anus. No longer able to speak, the criminal farmer now

could only produce horrific bellows from his rear.

The muses of Jóli also purged the blasphemer of his mortality, leaving him to

suffer in this state for all eternity.

So continued the journey of the celestial-voiced sisters, moving their delicate,

dainty arms through the air; their lengthy, gorgeous hair revealing their stunning faces,

their cerulean irises and luscious red lips. The lovely dames searched to and fro

for someone to sing their beautiful songs.

Eventually, the Tots arrived to me while I was pitching a tent near the bottom

of Mount Lòrel and, with their beautiful, godly voices, spoke these words to me:

“Listen to us, you swine, whatever the fuck it is you do for a damn living!

We all know how to tell many falsehoods as though they were truthful

and, whenever we feel like it, we know when and how to tell the truth.”

Thus said the fluent daughters of Mêmorí and they had created a stylus

out of a reed and handed it to me, along with tons of tobacco, peyote, and

toloache; some word processing software; and access to their Wix account,

breathing into me a sacred, inspirational voice so that I could celebrate

the things that have been, the things that are, and the things that will be,

and they requested me to sing of the race of the blessed, immortal gods

that will last for all time and outlast us unworthy swine by a long shot,

and I should sing praise for the beautiful Tots first and foremost.

But why all this about an oak and a rock? What does this have to do with

an oak or a rock? Why should I care about those things that keep

going around a rock or an oak? Why could it be not about a river or the rain?

Why is there nothing about snow, coldness, or trees? Is this story related

to grass and iron? Does the previous paragraph have to do with them?

Why should I give a fuck about retarded stuff that keeps chattering about

and revolving around a maple, snow, river, or a tree?

I think I might have lost my trail of thought just now.

Now let us begin with the Tots who please all, including the all-seeing Sån,

with their songs, telling of things that have been, that were, and that will be,

with deep, sultry voices in harmony, and a sound flowing smoothly from their

sweet mouths. The house of the all-mother Sån delights in their exquisite sound

as it spreads around, from the peaks of holy Mount Jóli, through the homes of

the immortal ones.

The Tots of Jóli were born in different times. The first Tots were born at the

dawn of the universe, born with the creation of their mother Mêmorí,

daughter of gleaming-eyed Úit, born with the creation of her father Èr.

The extra set of Tots came into being during the orgy of the gods,

being born after intercourse with airy Èr, bright Chîr, and each other.

Thus the nine maidens came to be, alike in thought, each with a song

in their tits, now residing in Mount Jóli, their beautiful faces and voices

sharing residency with the great, big, mighty deathless ones that have full

permission to violate us as skin puppets as much as humanly possible.

Hence is the lifelong fate of the lovely Tots, begotten mostly by Mêmorí,

daughter of intellectual Úit: Mîusiq, Jìstorí, Pôetrï, Ãrt, Dáns, Cõmedí, Lírec,

Irátec, and Èpeq, who is chiefest of the nine as she accompanies revered royalty.

Hail, daughters of Mêmorí, daughter of Úit, daughter of Èr! Give your lovely tune

and celebrate the mighty, holy immortal gods who are permanent and immortal,

those born of broad Ürt, those from all-encompassing Scaîfadér, from bright Laít,

and those produced by moist, salty Òchen. Sing to me, Tots, how the great

gods above and Ürt came into existence, and the creeks and the rivers

and the raging, all-encircling, lustful sea kept in place by Ürtaívur, the great turtle.

Tell it all from the very beginning, tell me what happened first, and tell

me which god had been born first.