“When the blameless innocent perished on TWA flight 800, as their souls departed for splash off into Heaven, God was instantaneously right eon the spot, caring for His littlest ones with super-natch stuff only God has on hand, to facilitate His human know-fault disasters.

On that particular night a couple stray angels, hanging out on Long Island Sound, called for nine-treble-wun as the plane was blowing into smithereens, hailing the “LAN Lord uh pin Heaven.” Else, the crash might have totaled, simply another obscenely cable news cycled, soon-to-be-over event.

God, when this calamity took place, was very far away, eons into the next day, on a clean water planet, way beyond the unseen end of our Milky Way, brushing up on His old evolutionary tricks, tending to baby blue cachalot whales, walking aground, and carefully gathering only the best of dust this time around, ready to rustle all of His new water planet’s giant blue sperms, back to sea again, for their final genetic divide, to once again hide His eminence in transitional DNA, when boom! TWA.

But busy as God was, on His new found water planet, how our own good ship mother earth must have looked, thousands of years ago, when God first chose deep-sea-did whales to fashion His image; when TWA 800 blew, in His manifest, God was right eon the spot, in half an eye blink right back here, because it isn’t a breezy angel chore, taking personal charge of His little ones.

Were you God in Heaven how would you have handled that TWA 800 mess? Sometimes God redresses His littlest kids as angels for the day, with papier-mâché wings, instantly getting them out of the way, sending them packing on a fail-safe leafy flight to ice cream land, with cosmic cell phones clipped to their pants.

(This is high writing of a special man.)

Often a seasoned angel tags along for the kids’ dressy rehearsals, “This is the deal, little angels-to-be: always answer the cell call from Big-Pa-beeper, even in the middle of a heavenly ice cream swirl, or else you could get flunked out of angel school for inzubordination! Anyone flunked out of angel school, from playing cloud hooky, not doing home work, or pretending you didn't hear Big-Pa’s beeper, can’t come back to visit ice cream land for a banana split until you’re old enough to stay up late past eight. Worse than that, you could even get bounced out of Heaven in a cloud burst, riding the wind on a raindrop before you go plop 'cause you can't stay up in Heaven forever so why leave too soon?”

Our souls are a memory that belongs to God. When death comes, without notice, your soul’s last thought, given the chance to have a last thought is, “free dome again echh splat where am bye going next,” as that’s how it is with your soul, whether you are old enough to review your life in a millisecond or knot - because deep down in our bones in all of our souls, we know, when push comes to shovel, God is the one in ultimate charge of our lives, though God usually doesn’t take charge until after our life is ended. His goes on.

Of those who were, for insurance purposes, ‘charged off’ on TWA 800, most are part of the food chain already, their souls attached to their favorite creatures. All the passenger’s souls were granted their chance to ask God, “Could I go here? Could I blow around in the wind with Mommy? Could I come with you, big Papa? Can we be watchers over Daddy?”

In the demise of TWA 800, Joseph Lychner lost his whole world, his bountiful wife and their beautiful daughters, demolished in a heartbeat. He was nabbed in the televised aftermath for one of those inquisitive, ‘tell us how you feel,’ interviews by Katie Couric, then of Today Show fame, but just as her producer signaled Katie to cut, Joe Lychner blurted out, “Could I say something?”

Katie answered him, “Ok, Joe,” and Joe Lychner said, to his lost family, they in the clouds above, though it appeared through the unblinking television camera eye he was talking down to their sea buried bodies, “We know you are there and we aren’t leaving until we find you.” Joe Lychner was speaking to his loved ones for all the grieving families, and in so doing, made all of us his family.

And of all the others who perished that night on Long Island Sound, whose souls hung out in the clouds above, and in the next cloud over, they didn’t depart that sea shore strip until they had one last look on their loved ones here on the earth, their requests for a fresh last look granted lickedy split by the LAN Lord owner of this universe, which is why all of their sorrowful families migrated to that Long Island shore, to throw garlands on the water, and keep coming there, to this day. They are compelled to it. The loved ones here on the earth all knew in their bones they had to go there.

Should he talk to all - world wide ?

It’s your world. You own it. We share a teensy space in God’s universe. God reached out to us through Joe Lychner, so we the people could not leave the site of TWA 800’s crash until all of the victims’ bodies were retrieved, insuring their souls would be carried up in the wind, to another moving cirrus, in spite of the deaf-a-sit bureaucracies that seek to ash our memories.

Nor will God allow us exit the mall of 9 / 11, Ground Zero, that opposite of know fault, where the Towers’ collapse and collateral mass murder were, many have held, Baghdadi schemed, their hideous tower plans plotted a decade in advance, with nothing in al Qaeda left to chance.

Regardless, in that first split moment of the first plane crash, 167 innocent lives were instantly vaporized, but their souls did not evaporate. Souls live on forever. Within a few minutes, hundreds more were smoked and choked. Of those trapped in the towers, who called out on their cells, one man called his wife and said, “I love you,” and, “We are in God’s hands.”

Wherever you were, watching the Trade Center Towers collapse before your eyes, crumbling in slow, live television, for the living trapped inside, staring at ten hell-on-earth minutes to the ends of their lives, “in God’s hands,” was not the worst end all of play siz.

Among three trillion pounds of twisted steel, crushed cement and general debris, God with His own hand, carefully fostered twenty seven hundred forty-nine of His souls, for the living to rake. A hook and ladder gang became sew attached to the place, their souls eluded capture. With their pull on the LAN Lord, they stifle reconstruction, and wait for their entitlement: Peace at Ground Zero.

Those sixteen acres are America’s purple heart! On behalf of the remaining souls, and they are all there, for their families here on the earth, Ground Zero must be our nation’s purple show. The government above-us-folks claim another mass terror event is on bin Laden’s drawing board. The government maintains Al Qaeda needles are somewhere, here in our promised land, living in sleeper cells.

He's going to appropriate Ground Zero

Sew, before we slap up any new and improved billion-dollar towers, for our success to manifest, Ground Zero, by presidential Executive Order, must be Fed appropriated, then seeded, with cobblestones surrounding. From various angles, cobblestone should break the sixteen acres of grass, their convergence at Ground Zero center, where that one terror sculptured skeletal tower wall has to be reinstalled, as was promised by the mayor.

Benches can be on the walks, to relax on in the sun and share a pigeon’s lunch, but not so many benches to hinder an open doggy acoustic Frisbee space. I-pod is a yes, but out loud booming Bach’s is disallowed. Ten-buck turnstiles will keep the homeless out, and off set my fed a rill buy-out. Every single person who comes to New York City will visit Ground Zero.

Surrounding the twisted skeletal remains, set back twenty yards, with walk space in between, must be weather proof message boards showing the old sky line, juxtaposed by panoramic Ground Zero, from every September 11-13 angle, which none of us old timers have any need to look at. The outer walls should become a photo gallery of all who perished there on that warm and sunny day.

Upon that, we will have created the perfect Qaeda tourist trap. In the event bin Laden does have sleepers living here, they will journey there! With our purple heart a purple show, the perps will show. All the Qaeda needles, as long as they are here, like bears seeking honey, will be compelled to visit grassy Ground Zero. More than once. Nothing can beat a Qaeda sleeper’s respite from boxing pizza than a live inspirational visit to their Terrorist Mecca.

Throw in the mix all of the NSA technology displayed in Enemy of the State, managed by special agent Coleen Rowley, and bet the shins, it’s guaranteed we cap more than a single pair of bin Laden’s Qaeda dots connecting at the boards, with muffled smirks and, ‘God is greater God is our Creator,’ whispered in Farsi or Urdu.

God will deliver His hay stacked Qaeda needles to Ground Zero, sew remains a single issue, also solved by Executive Order: our insulated intelligence agencies should be as tripods, reset, at every level, by Presidential order, interconnected; focused toward the top, instead of on our ashes, reshuffled and fluttered for Congressional consent.

God has shown us a universal about bureaucracies: they are a public evil. Our arrogant above-the-law bureaucracies, covering up, act like perp al traitors! We should focus our energies on stacking the future deck, making Qaeda needle haystack at Ground Zero magnetic. So grab a bench, schlep, throw your head back, soak up some old gold sun and smile, dawg, but don’t go talking secretive inside stocks, you're on candid automatic.”

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