Your Face—Our Time…

784Reach River—reached by fording gentle series of streams scattered ‘cross Shorten Valley and the hills above and just below Viaduct—crumble-tumble and the ruins of Park Edge. Night falls— and forest of silver trees—twisted branches—bare ground—neon streaks of color and bump-lumps of silver and pearl—black—sky—stones—patch-socket-pocket-light—against sapphire twinkles in the starless night—ground beyond—forest—twin ice ponds as seen—as be—before the roar and dream.

Seven Bridges—call today’s name—and bridges gone are bridges—still—short gap ‘tween birth-death—and simple series—killer memories—events found-lost-cost-change—and—arrange—as bright flash streak and ground strike bounce—endure—rebuild—recharge—destroy and kill—will. Home gone—fall down—downed twists of metal and motor and spirit free—too suddenly—gone-to-be-to-see—too real and fording a gentle series of streams—others do-start-and-stop-again.

These—everyday fail to notion-grasp the chance of peaceful motion—depends on how-where you be—when flash streak—smoke reek—eye burn—tear and fear and the warp of notions peace cease—little ones die before—killer memories evolve—into sweet substance and light bright smiles. Just bump-bangs away or a simple sail—set-to-wind—rail balance—‘neath ruin— bridges of seven—or on—another land-fall beneath another sky—homes to build—caves to clean—and again for a short while—arrival—life comes home. Better—than missile speak or places too far gone to seek—bomb shelter—chance for other—another dance before smoking tears or tomorrow-sorrow—death—peace—good life—ways forgotten—gone.

Roll-rocks-‘sweet-child-of-mine’ own whirling-twirling worlds where over many stones—gather children sun-lighted-secrets of time and tales and stories fine—waiting just outside a door-to-open again—to friend—to bend—flower touch—at rainbow bridge-ridge above valley—or beneath sapphire inked sky and twin moon high…Rather sail—another land—beneath other sky—to—dance ring ’round rouses—rock-roll—small hand touch— to-place-to-enjoy—warm summer night breezes—hair dancing ‘cross small faces— hiding eye just before hair is brushed away—to better see—life-to-be.

Please cease—‘Rockets-red-glare-or-bomb-bursts-in-air’…Rubble crawls are not familiar fare…Homes built should never-ever-be destroyed—Life builds—Always builds. Hồ Chí Minh -[ho̞˧˩ t͡ɕi˧˥ mɪŋ˧]–His name a synonym for the ‘Bringer of Light’…Born Nguyễn Sinh Côn—and wishing his country free of the Imperial tyranny of France—while in an idealistic—dream— sent letters to Woodrow Wilson and Harry Truman (presidents of another Imperialistic Nation—called the world’s greatest Democracy’—to champion Vietnam’s struggle for independence from France—He received no answers…

Garden—hilltop high and we arrive twice—to plant flowers and remember—sometimes with our voice. Tree lined field already picked and plowed of life…Inside woods—look down to cattle and fences and trees and fields—a creek now dry—except for trickles of water caught by pools—a deposit of rain cover along this hill and into valley—just last evening. Had we met on planets not keep-steep in folly-farce—and—hurried as our meeting—we could have—or just maybe—penetrated our uncertainties and our greed…We do not meet—we silence peace—we sail on to another land beneath another sky. ‘Rocket’s red glare and bombs bursting in air’—wiz-bangs everywhere and certainly never-peace-everywhere—ever—good-enough-to-matter-to-the-matter—anywhere and We Cry

And! Beautiful you are…

‘On Every Street’—written by Mark Knopfler—performed by Dire Straits

Spinning Triangles…

5from the ‘Thunder—Perfect Mind’

“For I am the first and the last.
I am the honored one and the scorned one.
I am the whore and the holy one.
I am the wife and the virgin. . . .
I am the barren one,
and many are her sons. . . .
I am the silence that is incomprehensible . . .
I am the utterance of my name.” (a feminine power divine)

We End…Storm-side fury—then gone…Quick-to-die and always—short to live. Snow— drinking blood. Wind shifting sands—the path always found—footsteps always gone. Come and go—never footsteps just paths beginning and footsteps—gone. Pictures supply—by the pushers— drugs—be free and around every curve something still-stands—still-falls—still-prays—still raptures and always fades. And! I will love you until—the wheels finally come off… “The world is an indecipherable-essentially absurd but fascinating spectacle.” (From Joyce Carol Oates):

‘The bourgeoisie, wherever it has got the upper hand, has put an end to all feudal, patriarchal, idyllic relations. It has pitilessly torn asunder the motley feudal ties that bound man to his “natural superiors”, and has left remaining no other nexus between man and man than naked self-interest, than callous “cash payment”. It has drowned the most heavenly ecstasies of religious fervor, of chivalrous enthusiasm, of philistine sentimentalism, in the icy water of egotistical calculation. It has resolved personal worth into exchange value, and in place of the numberless indefeasible chartered freedoms, has set up that single, unconscionable freedom — Free Trade. In one word, for exploitation, veiled by religious and political illusions, it has substituted naked, shameless, direct, brutal exploitation. The reason the bourgeois exist and exploit the proletariat with low wages is private property, “the accumulation of wealth in private hands, the formation and increase of capital” and that wage labor is created entirely by competition among the workers…’ (Friedrich Engels)

Why compete—when together—we can ‘Over-Come.’…Xenophobia is fear of self…We have a right to be everywhere. When the rich become too rich—the wealthy—become selfish… Capitalist—classes abound…Now! On this earth too few people control the wealth—slave to wage folk are losing…Distribution of America’s wealth—Maybe—‘an only way to survive’ donchathink?

The Siden war of occupation and terror continued for too many generations. Unfair war! Unity Central participated across planet distance from Siden World…Memory slipping of why supported; however, wealth and greed and the war-breed-slide collided with the like-minded. Historians now practiced the slice/dice recording of the winner of the Siden War. The destruction of a people include the body-spirit and the ways of people. Gone from prime memory—their art and their language and their reasons-for-love…Gone—their family traditions—their celebrations and their reasons—of-living-life. Siden—gone.

History spins tales—of warrior-world and of victory spoils. Truthful-liars create their world and into sand and dust go everything else. The spinning of ‘truth-creep’ bumps into pages of ‘Urgent News—Read all about It.’ Attacks—are always proper and necessary. People destroy—always the enemy-mine. And! Let their story end…so we can forget all about it.

Not all people are warriors—Our little ones and our women and our elders (the teachers of tradition—life—wisdom—hope and continuation) also die. They are societies’ survival and their names and their lives must be remembered—Correctly counted and reported and cherished in the present and the future. The People of Siden? Ultimately—religion’s mad wiggle becomes the rhyme and the reason for an unfair world…Religion always kills…Death of life is wrong…When death seizes a life may death be a natural ending and not a war-forced sorrow. Then—‘We may not be born to be wasted.’

And! Beautiful you are…

Roads

“Ohh, can’t anybody see
We’ve got a war to fight
Never found our way
Regardless of what they say
How can it feel, this wrong
From this moment
How can it feel, this wrong
Storm.. in the morning light
I feel
No more can I say
Frozen to myself
I got nobody on my side
And surely that ain’t right
And surely that ain’t right
Ohh, can’t anybody see
We’ve got a war to fight
Never found our way
Regardless of what they say
How can it feel, this wrong
From this moment
How can it feel, this wrong
How can it feel, this wrong
This moment
How can it feel, this wrong
Ohh, can’t anybody see
We’ve got a war to fight
Never found our way
Regardless of what they say
How can it feel, this wrong
From this moment
How can it feel, this wrong” (written and performed by Portishead)…

Sail Songs—Then Gone…

Somme_33“If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.” ― from ‘A Farewell to Arms’ by Ernest Hemingway…

Is there a formula or a discussion in the Scientific World for the existence of ‘conscious’—‘spirit’? Are there only three dimensions? Is ‘time’ added to those dimensions? We— physicals—have five senses. Normally—Normal? Why is everything beyond normal—considered or called—nonsense–hallucination—superstition or miracle? Our world is a magnificent construction of many constructions. We believe—or do not believe—in derivations of inclined-living or higher-self or soul’s purpose—or spirit or great beyond-the-mean- averages of life and death.

Do we simply wish better—’Self’ or ‘Angel’ beyond the physical? Do we remember other self—before birth and after death? If we do—then are ‘We’ Eternally universal Spirits? Do we see outside our rejections and failures—as learning to be better or do we forget—We-be-We? Remember when warmth was without fire—Remember when our mother’s blood fed us and whispered love into our blood-hungry spirits before we became—Scientific?

What of spark that travels into the light of—joining life inside and outside the days of pasts’-present’s—future. Behold Spirit Dancer! Do remember—when warmth was without fire and strength absolute without—the Science of dimensions and senses and all was: nonsense-hallucination-superstitious-religious—without name. Before time—wig-waggled across universal spirits—began—‘We-Be’.

Witches are—the power of lives and life and choices and dictates and control. Witches are—fire builders—raining oils—falling from somewhere-to-there—without distractions…The Coven hurls great sounds and flashes across sky and through the clouds. In worlds—Cosmic Travelers visit and see—deserts and fertile valleys and green and salt and clear pools and the warmth of Blood-taste. Escape into this city—filled to brim with witches and ghosts and spokes in times’ harmony—choirs-of-one-chorus and harmonious—enchanters along with magic—made-of—lace.

This is the time of winged fire breathers and statues of motion and beaches of rocks without sand. Horses—without wheels spin and donkey flocks—carry unarmed soldiers into war covered places—blood without sound-shriek and taste. This is—mystery place. This is—dream stop—timed—clock without time. A minute starts without beginning or time or reason—rhyme—to begin—or end moments later—and cease—both—notion and substance. Realm call and words spoken are never—sound. These words flow ‘cross bands of bounded paper in font digital—and fashions—stitch upon silk cloth and imagination.

We form the notion of eternity and dance upon timeless patches of cover—underneath—blue of skies—before rain-dusted night drive us underground—to places of swings and scenes of grass covered deserts in light and sparkle. Escape to City—the Sity—of oil rain—crumble towers and rust color skylines—tucked just below sky ceiling. Walk upon the crusted sea and into days-of-nothing-less. Across skies ago—wails of the finish—of together and life and custom and speak and thought and reason and living—dying-to-stop.

Immediately—reverses gone. Motion and the familiarity of home-stop and vision of little candles burning in—windows—home lights—world end—extinguish and gone. Sailors without sail and soldiers without war and the need to succeed in twinkling flashes disappear—across sky above earth-spin. They disappear—we end. And! End civilizations. We became world-colony and use and stop and start and stagger and another Earth diminish before new illumination and enlightenment. Strip—bare–ground quickly—we consume our way across world sweet—planet fine. ‘Off-worlders’ devour our own too many and our own slaughter of mother-world and the failing of protection—insignificant.

Fools and folly of off-world stop our only way to continue. They fail to see their vision fade into star-stream and moon-dust. They remove—our Love…He looked up and said…”Scan the sky-sweet baby. Must leave… They will kill you. Somehow—Go to them. And you will not die.” She too looked and saw his face, “Without you, I am dead…Without us we end. Without you and me— no Baby and without—we are…” Bank wide and Somme River wet—fell—physicals—sixty thousand—spirits all and stories to-be-or-lost-to-see—inside smoke—wiz-bangs—life chokes—barbed wire and tears—‘cross ‘Crimson Fields’—sixty thousand—one day long —lives too—gone.

We are few and so many—Lost-Broken-and-Forgotten…War is now! War is yesterday! War is murder! War is ‘Crime against Humanity’…Ask—or—It does require time—however—today we free-fall toward acceleration and the annihilation of Everyday.

And! Beautiful you are…

“Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In”…written by James Rado—Gerome Ragni (lyrics) and Galt MacDermot (music)…performed by Digital Dagger…

Layers of Flash…

Star_735“Know I’ve done wrong,
Left your heart torn
Is that what devils do?
Took you so low,
Where only fools go
I shook the angel in you

Now I’m rising from the ground
Rising up to you
Filled with all the strength I found
There’s nothing I can’t do”…From the song ‘Love Me Again‘…written by John Newman and Steve Booker—

We are not layers of flash and fear and afraid of flash and a million directions without notions of where and how to go or leave or approach or fade away. We are not human…we are alive—life—simple of reason and always on our way away to leave or stay or afraid to simply fade away…Climb now— branches high—winter nigh—leaves not springing—sprung—prior budding and climbing high and tucked just below frost line—mountain soft and night-time slow. Tree high and not moving twin-spin—slower—motion still.

Foreign—not home and light-year long—away from places seen and spaces known before earth-fall—tunnel bright—tunnel sight—and—a space of place between real—and among the magic ones. Planet guided—peace pleased—run coming to streaks of night flash and day dash and a clash of two…And! They come by copter churn-twist-chop—by lorries-engines-rush—by cart-horse-pull—by men stretch-manned-carried—and all wounded ones or twos or many more or less and behind the layered flash of red-pink-nights—we wait and wonder and gather-to-elves notions—of life to stay or life to pass away—today.

We are the daughters and sons of earth and of the starry heavens. Our history is alive—simple and true—except when suppressed and distorted for unnecessary gains and a perversion called wealth…We are the eternity of spirits—no need beginning and never ending. Such is the sweetness of life. Symmetry with no form except wind and rain and careful storms of chaos and figure. Go figure—the here or the now and still history is not preformed or manufactured except through the controllers—of spins and twists and the thrill of the lie. Or—go figure with the smile of Leonardo or the Lady’s laugh or the chatter of many minds or—just a few—of many hearts. Is it better to flee or better to dig livelihood from the bottom of one’s own grave?

Arrives—those machined boxes machine-sweet—and together in minds of same or alternates where we twirl the whirl and call the laugh or two as boxes open and away we—they separate into some things or less or the loneliness of crowd bridges or twin screw moments of those spaces of time without seconds. And! Yes robots—we—search blood and find taste good in mingle – tingle moments—touch-amazing—touch not those imagine sources of unnecessary wariness and one becomes another and brief the flashes together spread the separate into singularity no more than once…Again—again and again.

Wind across this liquid—sunlight and thick wave dance—lights and slivers of silver and gold. Followers watch for scraps or bits to fall toward their reach either diving for something new or rocking gently on this clear sea of warming suns and moonlight’s dance of song and silence. Our nature to run with and from the many or the few? See often through the curved ceiling of doorway when curved light enters twenty-one tiny windows round these openings to escape places and leave regions. Still more a spirit than the body proper until chemicals of doubt and satisfaction rule body self ending sometime in time without mere reasons to be except—a rhythm to complete.

We are the daughters and sons of earth and of the starry heavens. Our history is alive—simple and true except when suppressed—through layers—distortion—or flashes of fear—tears…We are the eternity of spirits—never having to begin and never ending. Such is the sweetness of life.

And! Beautiful you are…

Love Me Again‘…performed by John Newman

Star-Dusted Moons and Chorus…

53

Walk the path of these days and past’s presence and today’s—tomorrow dreams. We are builders of grand places and the ancients of straw homes in tomorrow’s futures? Often music calls a spirit to dance ‘round a late night fire somewhere in distant time—We began before the stars—And together we melt into the mist…We are all Children of the Universe…We have the Right to be Everywhere!

By the fire light of these dwindling tribes—children marvel at both the dancing flames and the warmth of lights against the nights and outside—shadows beyond their eyes. They listen and stories tell the beginning of things now gone and of those grand places— no start—just—imagine and see—in minds’ own spaces—desired regions of before dream and after ‘wishing was true…’Paint now pictures—loving these caves and these walls and these tribes of we and me and us and them and before the storm and after the end of rains and winds and bumping things and silent shrieks once loud now absent from ear and fear and tear. Sounds of life—‘cross a million miles of rock and rolling—till another day of storms and another night of passion—shadow dance beneath a star-lighted ceiling. Once again—share moments and lives and the power of life. Blood and love is the matter of the matter and the survival of these survivors of wherever gods and whatever storms. Instincts trust in…For anticipation may—often fail?

We are not resource. Forests are not board-feet. Precious animals are alive and well and multiplying within circle-life and when undisturbed are balance—the harmony of earth twirl and whirl across space—required for survival and never a commercial aggravation of money changers and the idiocy of gain. Precious must be protected—wise beings—remove from destruction—as our survival of future days and future nights. Unless! Flash—we stop and our carbon-based trickle ceases equal value and determination…We are not resource. When forest covers this place—land once stripped—now concrete jungles—scattered sky-buildings and layers to portions—to little—to—too much. Resource-speak—twist these places into battlefields and crime and punishment and damage civilizations— and cease—peace. Nations—  ‘battle-cries of freedom’ and blood-pours—poor laborers and slaves create— hope for many and freedom for few. Life is not—a purchase or a product—sell. Eternal Speak—of—all Life—Eternal Spirit—Forever! Instincts trust in…For anticipation may—often fail?

Hear pitch perfect spirit chorus pushed from moon-side to earth-side and back across ear-to-ear and from throat-to-voice and again out into spaces of hearing voices and silence. Create listener—speaker—and the quiet times of silent-speak. Gods—we create—creation of images dreamed and beamed to radiated radiation—we spirit-dance these sounds without vibrated-vibrations or derivations’ chaos there be—than we see and be—both the life of songs and silence…Not so often—the choir of silence—sings-songs the gatherings and sweet rolls of honey bread and wine. Soft conversations—land’s across—diners where breakfast—breaks-fasts of night and sleep-ends in shrugs—stretched—muscles—twitched and sounds—reminding lives of living gently—cross clefts of treble wires and bass notes—tucked beneath a bottom line. Falling trees in dawn lights at the center of creation’s place—vibrate notions and sounds both of illusive—illusions and illustrated—illustrations. We! Gods of these creations—find this to be something good—that is part—Way… Instincts trust in…For anticipation may—often fail?

Robot now and then and once again when creature walks splendid winds across another place of times—remember and stories of this and that—told by any-to-any-listening—of robot tales and adventures as the course of discourse launch comes—songs of sailor’s speak and wig-waggle ‘cross a thousand skies—complete with warrior legends and the strength of priestess kiss and home returns. We all sail here—the sailors of these moments—friends and family and the you of me and the me of us and all—eternal spirits we be—the power of life—inside folded space or outside yonder rim-spin—we are…Instincts trust in…For anticipation may—often fail?

Brush to lids of my own eyes with sweet your lips and touch deep my heart with spirit dance your strength as my own—often fails. We—you and I—do spin worlds together and taste soft wine in starlight bright and setting moon so large that reflected eyes lock these mind spaces in forever memories of life. Tis—good this dream…Tis sweet this Night…

‘Winter Trees’ by Sylvia Plath

“The wet dawn inks are doing their blue dissolve.

On their blotter of fog the trees

Seem a botanical drawing –

Memories growing, ring on ring,

A series of weddings.

Knowing neither abortions nor bitchery,

Truer than women,

They seed so effortlessly!

Tasting the winds, that are footless,

Waist-deep in history –

Full of wings, other worldliness.

In this, they are Ledas.

O mother of leaves and sweetness

Who are these pietàs?

The shadows of ringdoves chanting, but chasing nothing.”  

 

And! Beautiful you are!

‘Stardust’ …by Delain

Quiet Roar…

45‘You and me and Life about and as we shout ‘Love’ skyward—nothing will stop our Dance—You and I— Together! We know nothing alone exists without Love’s Power—Hour—Tower—Flower and Life… Life ignited—delighted—lighted—excited…We touch—hand-to-heart-to-spirit and let Eternal Dance begin…’

Walked – Now mind walk – Follow? Following smoke wisps or the sounds of sing-song-choir along the line where sea meets sea and sky appears above a forgotten shimmer of water stretching beyond eye watch and body wait. Walk upon the salty waves of that dead-sea between melody’s songs and disappear into mists and sea sounds and another dawn. Those little matters? Matter-less—Cease then gone—again.

Come now and dance into the Spider’s Web. Enter web-side. Hold the nothingness of thought without form until substance becomes madness? Beyond the bridge are those freedoms— Align birth and moments before and moments after the being present—lighting sky-flashes and thunder claps and gelatin combines with knowing vapor to travel heavens in timeless mist and harmony…Even as a vapor We—Exist…We are not distraction by what we are not—for we are not—not by displacement or alteration because we always exist in timeless harmony and within those trails of stardust spewing quickly from alternative engines and speed and power…Life motions—Life moves—Life modifies—And! Spirits Dance…

Still here—beneath these heavens—our sea swirl-twirls and we hear the whale sing-song our mother into her necessary sleep. The whale sing-songs the heating of our blood-self until warming is not a non-fear. She rises from emerald seas and from black sands where tide pulls against current and the alignment of moon-light is perfect and is orderly in its dispersal upon the dustless night.

Mother is the Dancing One—the Witch of life—Creation…And! Goddesses create Heavens and Earths and Moons and Suns and pass Spirits to fleshes and from fleshes back again to Spirits form and substances free… Correct notes—piper of silver flute and held against heart ‘beeps’ of a roaring sea—pass others into light and set others across star streams beyond sun—beyond sea and beyond sky…

‘These are summer’s small ones. Little boys—a lake—a sun—a length of blond hair—red hair— freckles and frogs. Brothers—little and younger—play in tiny waves-too small-to thunder toward sandy shore and pine trees.

And wind wanders through those pines growing in rows above—rocky places where shadow of— fern and grasses cling and mingle with swimming life—aquatic things—rainbow-colored trout and fish brothers—hoping to catch…These rafting days—orange and yellow circles filled with air and noise across a quiet bay.

These are singing days! Shouts and shrieks and whistles—across the harbor call—where wood-hulled ships rest—bell claps—rocking waves and setting sails. Snake twins—those boys—brothers of blood and the eternal bonds of water and of mud.

Water children held above the line—knowledge buoyant—unafraid and free—defeating for the playtime—gravity and restrictions of a drier Earth.

Sunshine—West-turns and slips beneath the sky. Nymphs forgotten—paradise found—Summer’s little ones.

Little beneath the scheme of earth and large beneath the stars. So bright! Those stars! Filling lake—sparkles silence—gems dancing and laughing diamonds…

Tiny—brothers sleep fast and safe within their dreams. And! Father listens—to brief and passing sounds of laughter.’

Do not allow Government to destroy—people’s achievements—their history—their language—their future dreams—happens and people become wind of ashes and gone—They never exist. Genocide destroys Flesh—and so much more than Bone—Genocide destroys Blood Rivers of Life…

And! Beautiful you are…

“Like the empires of the world unite
We are alive
And the stars make love to the universe”…From ‘Empire’ by Shakira Isabel Mebarak Ripoll

Especially Special…

123“If you want money more than anything—you will be bought and sold. If you have a greed for food—you will be a loaf of bread. This is a subtle truth: whatever you love—you are.”—by Jalaluddin Rumi

JSOC (Joint Special Operations Command) and its lack of Congressional Accountability—and; of course, the might of ‘War-Machine USA’ is responsible for military actions either directly or by proxy across seventy-four sovereign (define—you pick ‘em) nations on our sweet world. The Executive Branch drives this machine of ‘kill-drill’ and no country is ‘off-limits’ to the military forces of America…JSOC is the ‘armée privée’ of Elected Presidents reaching into a past of genocide and into the misty future of faultless ‘kill-drill’ and civilian destruction. Even the CIA is occasionally restricted and occasionally ‘the Pres’…must pass-along a hop-along smattering of metering—that ‘kinda almost truthful information’ to his hip-hoppity group of hand-lickers [(Intelligence Leaders of the Intelligence Oversight Committee(s)]. Bah-Boom and let Drone-spray begin…

Assassinations around the globe—never reported or snorted—unless the odor-of-the-ooze reaches a press of free writers accidentally sniffing the night air and tripping over the forgotten bodies of JSOC whimsy—rhyme—or reason. They do embrace drone strikes and night raids and missile attacks using special ordinance and cluster bombs—oh my…And! The US military is a worldwide Landlord…Based in Germany, Japan, South Korea, United Kingdom, Italy, Turkey, Iraq, Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Qatar and more… Licensed to ‘Kill-Drill’ in Afghanistan, Egypt, Iran, Iraq, Jordan, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Lebanon, Oman, Pakistan, Syria, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan, U.A.E., Uzbekistan, Yemen, Georgia, Ukraine, Bolivia, Paraguay, Ecuador, Peru, Yemen, Baluchistan, the Philippines, Colombia and Mexico…. And let US operate in: South Sudan, Libya, Yemen, the Congo, Uganda, Mali, Niger (AFRICOM)—hey now!

Special Forces for Special Surgery…Since the middle of 2010—Special Operations have been presently-presented-as-a-presence in at least seventy-five countries…Oh no! JSOC strikes again and bah-boom—let Drone-spray begin again and again ad infinitum…’Kill-Drill’ and Civilians Die—Men-Women-Children-Families-Neighborhoods-Villages and…Genocide? Folks—Die! People are actually murdered?

There’s something happening here
But what it is ain’t exactly clear
There’s a man with a gun over there
Telling me I got to beware

I think it’s time we stop
Children, what’s that sound?
Everybody look – what’s going down?

There’s battle lines being drawn
Nobody’s right if everybody’s wrong
Young people speaking’ their minds
Getting so much resistance from behind

It’s time we stop
Hey, what’s that sound?
Everybody look – what’s going down?

What a field day for the heat
A thousand people in the street
Singing songs and carrying signs
Mostly saying, “hooray for our side”

It’s time we stop
Hey, what’s that sound?
Everybody look – what’s going down?

Paranoia strikes deep
Into your life it will creep
It starts when you’re always afraid
Step out of line, the men come and take you away

We better stop
Hey, what’s that sound?
Everybody look – what’s going down?

We better stop
Hey, what’s that sound?
Everybody look – what’s going down?

We better stop
Now, what’s that sound?
Everybody look – what’s going down?

We better stop
Children, what’s that sound?
Everybody look – what’s going down?” written by Stephen Stills…

Forgotten singular—Me and as lips touch—the You and I often become US…Love? Eternal Spirits ‘Be—We’…melted into formless formality—form ‘We’ into a powerful creation of creative notions—motion we move and Life is good—OK?

And! Beautiful you are…

‘For What It’s Worth’—by Stephen Stills and performed by Buffalo Springfield (Neil Young, Stephen Stills, Jim Messina and Richie Furay)…

 

Acts of Actions…

43Walk around Village Square…A great man takes his son’s hand and they wander the snow-cover and light-fill places…Trees—huge and Sky—bright. Hillside and just above them—choir call—past songs—of moments and coming days, “What do you hear?” he asks.“Music,” the boy answers…”And what else?” Little children…hear the magic of sound—present and questions are never answers…“What do you hear—Daddy? I hear flapping wings of middle angels and the thunder of snowfall and the twinkling of lights and…you.” he answers.

Just above cloud-fall she drops to Earth without trumpets or warriors or cries or the wailing of terrified folks. No swish—angel wings or the usual thunder just after lightning bolts from sky-to-ground or back again. When angels fly—sound becomes the music of both rapture and fear…Why do arriving angels come in lots of two? Why either soft or hard? Why arriving as a girl or a boy? Are angels of any physical realm saved or seen by the nonsense of non- angels? Why do angels arrive here from somewhere other than here on planet-side-of-heaven? And! How do they cross heaven’s length from where-to-wear and back to where-ever they begin? Tis magic, wizard, dragon, fire, storm, calm, wind, rain and war?

Heaven’s gate is hard to find and many have perished-the-thought and died attempting to pass from star-gate to star-fall of the planet-slide of hell or paradise. Angel is alone–both hard and soft and ready to purpose the reason of her travel and the message she whispers to mysterious magic folk and the very quick or the very dead. Angel—she calls herself and she imagines her image as double self and triple purposed with a silent drum—of butterfly wings and the knowledge of both living and dying before the end of twin-planet sins times fourteen.

Power at the end of wit and the beginning of the rhyme of substance’s cessation. She is—good and evil and her reasons—either a knowing or a complete confusion to those able to see or hear or know or imagine her path from sky to planet-side. She saves a few and a few are lost and those lasting through her visit–survive. No! Angel is good—Witch of spectacular whimsy and crafted stories—often means—magic men—disciples of both Gods and Men. Once upon a moment, Angel does visit—Earth-land. Earth-land—landing is—missing—reasons to be missing the place of promise or ruin. She exists and…She calls to us sometimes and sometimes without sound—we—understand?

From these ridges of snow and ice, horse mounted—Iron Riders watch and wait from a mountain-top. Below the wide valleys of snow and ice covered trees and roads of dirt and rock across the villages and towns and ‘Sity’ scatter—from clearings and pastures and forest—they wait. These are warriors—women and men—armed to war against what requires life-death or more or less. Behind the clouds and dancing lights—planets spin about suns and above—lands—three moons—fill the intervals of darkness and the setting and coming of twin sons. Behind clouds and high above the Riders of Iron and Horses, suns—rise and set and—moons come to walk-dance across the sky.

Iron Riders battle for the love of home and for the happenings of war. They do not fight against what maybe or is not happening or for religion or for the government of destruction. Think about it: Isn’t government—word same—as religion? The days of controlled weather and magnetic storms and the rule of one against many—died times ago. Deliberate had the—One’s creations been and destructive—either planned for or occurring accidentally—because technology happens—with and without—complete control—especially if a ‘maybe war’ requires corrective measures and especially if a ‘maybe war’ just needs to happen. Build it and destroy it and build it over and again or just because ‘we can’ and you cannot win and since you will lose we need to change your thinking or your social structure and remove your past from everyone’s history. We win—we write—you lose—you cobble together what remains from rocks and sand. “Oh well! Don’t understand?—We do!”

Walk! Mothers and Fathers and families are forever—as are people and memories and songs and dances and sorrow and laughter and Life…Life and Dance! Hand-hold and we touch mystery and magic and stop and start—alone with ghost dancers and with us. At ocean’s crest…Breathe the scent-of-twined-together-spark in the harmony of push-touch and the rhythm of twin-strength Life…Touched hearts and eyes wide open…

And! Beautiful you are…

‘You’…by Keaton Henson

Aqui Si Hubo Genocidio…

87‘And the men who hold high places
Must be the ones who start
To mold a new reality
Closer to the heart
Closer to the heart
The blacksmith and the artist
Reflect it in their art
They forge their creativity
Closer to the heart
Closer to the heart

Philosophers and ploughmen
Each must know his part
To sow a new mentality
Closer to the heart
Closer to the heart
You can be the captain
I will draw the chart
Sailing into destiny
Closer to the heart’… “Closer To The Heart” by Rush

Imagine…A World once existed where women-folk-could-walk-planet-wide in day/night safety and men did not know a word called ‘War’…Where love was love and force never existed…Wherever—Whatever—Was never called heaven or hell…A place where life belonged and life was good everyday…We create worlds—we maintain worlds and we do love our Children don’t we?—The Government of Death is never required…

Swirling whirls of smoky fires to cook and fog mist touches life from mountain high to valleys of twirling-spirits and folks-of-flesh spreading across a triangle called Ixil. In a year of Blood- Past—1982—the Mayans of Guatemala were brutalized-raped-tortured and murdered—tens of thousands died…The chopping blades of Bell and gunfire and screams and blood-red-white—All—covers and color and shapes and detail and truth—disappear…Twisted court and procedure- speak-twist-truth-to-function-to-injustice…(“…avala una ilegalidad que lacera no solo los intereses de esta representacion sino al sistema de justicia guatemalteco” … “el sistema deja de perseguir la justicia centrandose unicamente en la materia procesal.”)… supports an unlawful lacerating not only the interests of the representation but the Guatemalan justice system “…” the system stops pursue justice focusing only on procedural matters…

A Guatemalan dictator—Efrain Rios Montt committed the murder of these freedom seeking folk…The United States of American aided and abetted and ‘blessed’ this genocidal rampage against these folks…Ronald Reagan expressed twisted assurance that Efrain Rios Montt was a Christian man of ‘great personal integrity’ and committed to improving the life of all Guatemalans…And! Furthermore—his administration would continue to support Efrain Rios’s progressive efforts—to commit genocide! Was Guatemala a Latin American beachhead for the USSR? Or was this ‘a concern for the interests of U.S. investors and fear that a democratic experiment empowering the harshly repressed peasant majority “might be a virus” that would “spread contagion,” in Henry Kissingers’ thoughtful phrase, referring to Salvador Allende’s Democratic Socialist Chile.’ WTF!

Genocide in Guatemala—Africa—Iran—Iraq—Palestine—Argentina—Ecuador—Honduras—and many other places across our sweet Earth is the absolute purpose of America’s war-machine and its Multinational War-Economy…NSA—and any American’s National Security Team(s) or administration—either Right or Left is a genocidal contraption—created to confound peace in the name of protecting Life-Liberty and other such Constitutional nonsense…Rich and White and the entire world is your-very-own-coaster—donchathink?

Dancing circles of…Maybe Life or love’s memory and the almost real of a now to then and back again—Creator speaks and upon canvas—lines and circles dance and dash as songs play and laughter reaches to diners’ corner and open doors call to inside secrets of ink motions and canvas wet with colors and the scent of orange and green and brown and yellow and perfume inside a night of air and dare and wear and fare or the future of moments again without the layers of walls climbed and discarded…Loving the love of—gathering together strength—of one or two or many more than them or us or we—be strength of Love—no rules to follow—no moral folly or man rules called Godspeak…when those ‘world words’ are the songs of death—control—fiction—suffering and the lies against Spirit—Speak and Life. Women Love…Men Love…Love is Perfection—is Touch—is Peace—is Spirit—Song and…No rules or explanations or ever-speak required.

And! Beautiful you are…

“Closer To The Heart” by Rush

Of Elephants and Peanuts and Hay…

C_2Christ’s conception—wiz-bang—through Sky God to Earth Woman is a curious ‘why?’ Holy Triad—Father-Son-Spirit—and Star-Beings always need Earth’s Women-Folk to wiz-bang into fleshy-form—WOW? Required question mark is huge and the reason is another Novel…The Socialist teachings of Jesus and his group of many—are True—“Do unto others as you would have others do unto you”—Good-Better-Best?…Twist and Bop through religion’s gov…into just another control of Capitalism—“Do unto others before they do unto you”…Pay your people in peanuts and become a new Billionaire…In this world of Circus and Show—elephants do require more than peanuts to survive—donchathink?

Hope: When the brain envisions humanities’ finest moments…Love and Peace and Touch and Trust…No charges or gains or losses—Flashes between the realities of reality and those sweet spaces just an instant before lips touch as co-mingled breath warms the cold evening air.

Hope: A rational response to rational insanity. A second when no one stares into empty space without noticing starlight’s star bright and star ship passing between light-speed and arrival—silently appear. When everyone—everywhere and in all places between sky and ground realizes what we do not have does not mean anything…

Hope: Feeling color through both the eyes and with our fingers. Hearing a lover’s voice touch our heart before substance becomes words of meaning or reason or another notion. Or when silence—completely fills all senses with thunder and noise and music and notes chaotic or symphonic simplicity as duality ceases and singularity melts into universal unity and truth.

Hope: When the you of me becomes a never enemy mine and boarders between living and dying fade away as the greed of destruction destroys the greedy nations of earth-sky and the trade of imbalanced balance earth-ceases and decreases the rich or the poor or the education of stupidity or…the ad infinitum of better-me-than-you-god-meaner-than-your-god or…my way and your way is not a direction apart—instead; just another direction…

Hope: Are we not all travelers scattered across someplace-somewhere? We are not timed or blessed or wonderful or gifted or fortunate or meant-to-be a ‘something else’ without a price-tagged-branded-commodity of enhanced—steroidal—surgically modified—blast of cartoon fashion or lip-stick mouths—pouted and mounted on another pictured perfect and replicated glossy imitation of sport manned—model swish of a dish of corruption or a dash of hopeless fanatical fantasy.

A Different Hope: To all the people of our sweet twirl of a whirling world—We are not the names of branded folks and slaves to the wages of our filthy governments of violence and of infections by a thousand virulent religious markets scattered among the blood of people-speak. Those magical hands quickly fill with currency and the tongues of many, fear-spewed lies against people, creatively mingled among a thousand creative gods called too many names both feared and forgotten.

Not Forgotten: Is the love of man and the love of woman and of freedoms not divided by the capital of greed and the power of stalled legislation—an impotent executive branch—and a purchased judicial robe—incumbent and complete with sugar and a belief that all men are created through an equal mixture of both men and women—rich or poor and beyond the borders of a wherever boarder for non-reasons and never judged by the fallacies of color—big guns—atomic—and an eternal diatribe of isolation—individuality and Fear…

Planets Away: A World once existed where women would walk that planet in day/night safety and men did not know a word called ‘war’…Where love was love and force never existed…Wherever—Whatever—Was never called heaven or hell…A place where life belonged and life was good everyday…Heaven or Luck… No! We create worlds—we maintain worlds and we Love our Children—The Government of Gods are never required…

And! Beautiful you are…

‘You’ll Never Leave Harlan Alive’ by Darrell Scott—performed by Kappa Danielson