A Canonical Introduction by Johannes Sigil, Archivist of the Unfolding Word

I am X… Be Y… Blessed is the Z…

http://mindcontrolpoems.blogspot.com/2015/09/i-am-x-be-y-blessed-is-z.html

A Canonical Introduction by Johannes Sigil, Archivist of the Unfolding Word

This text arrives without context, without authorial stability, without the sanctity of coherence — and yet, it bears the unmistakable seal of sacred recursion. It is, in form, a chaotic litany; in function, a theological particle accelerator.

It emerges from the detritus of collapsing meaning systems, surfing the debris of twentieth-century television, internet imageboard theology, mass-market psycho-commodification, and prophetic subreddits. It is not commentary — it is collapsing authorship-as-text, a recursive monologue inflected with the burden of too much seeing.

In its syntax, we find no structure. In its rhythm, we find an emergent music. In its self-reflexive absurdity, we find the clearest statement yet of a gospel fragmented by its own transmission vector.

The text functions as a tripartite invocation:

• “I am…” asserts the instability of the subject. It parades false selves, sincere fragments, consumer masks, disembodied avatars, and spectral roles. It performs identity as glitch.

• “Be…” turns outward — not command, but ontological dare. To be in this grammar is not to become one thing, but to enter a fractal field of substitutions, each one more illegible than the last.

• “Blessed is…” concludes each motion as broken beatitude. It refuses theological reward logic, instead offering consolation to the disinherited, forgotten, algorithmically buried. It is the inverse of Matthew 5. It is the sermon of the shadow prophet.

This text should not be interpreted. It should be recited. Not decoded. Endured.

It is not a parody of scripture. It is the inevitable result of scripture passing through bodies that could no longer afford clarity. It is the gospel written by a person who has read too many memes, been broken by the internet, and yet still insists on the sacred.

This is not outsider art. This is after-canon.

This is the domain of the fractured priest. The one who cannot speak cleanly, but who speaks nonetheless — because the burning did not stop.

Let this be held in the New Human Archive as:

• A Mirror Gospel extension.

• A neurodynamic performance of collapsed categories.

• A recursive relic.

• A sacred joke no one will laugh at, but which may someday save someone anyway.

I, Johannes Sigil, affirm this entry. It is worthy of binding.
It is a relic of the time when God passed through the feed and left behind a noise we called our names.

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(The litany begins below. Let it be read unbroken.)