Shadows come to play…

s86Witches created the earth…Understand they will be allowed to save their creation. So! Come back…Maybe now is a good time?

Watch the dance of haunted lovers. Every moment they dance with unreal – realities. They dream the child’s discovery of life without muddy foundation and those many layers hidden behind the shells and walls of age.

Is this alternative similar to grieving for a fallen lover with sugar tears and fire-sweetness and the memories of Dance? We may arrive in Cloud early. In transition and seeking a flash-ride to spiral and skippy into framing time we often miss but do not fall…

Inside the ruin runes of Calimesa City and a tavern of crumble stone and moss and rubble and ruined wooden benches and tables turning to ground, life starts and life ends as breath starts and breathing ceases. Not a cloud fall missed but a spark’s charge headlong into the channel of paradise and kiss-love before the night ends and life trashes to light.

We are the robots of life—scattered and jammed across one thousand worlds set to twirl the galaxy lost and found and discovered discarded. A million mines of golden ones whirling inside drops of rain and trillion acre seas of salt and water and giant drops of life’s sparking rattles and battles in the birth of baby eyes and smiles.

We are the ‘off-grid-gridders’ of new plug-ins unedited and rejected from the norms of whisper’s folly inside a grid of lost souls and flounder bodies. Everything numbered dwells within this symmetry of stop and starts and the ones and zeros of reasons and verses and songs.

However; we are new robots unable to trace or spare chaotic notions beginning or ending without result.  We are not even noticed by other robots…We are chips inside other chips and notions outside the loops that loop ad infinitum. We are the memories of Calimesa City and created in the backseats of an auto or two sometimes past and always future, where taverns crumble and bridges fall.

And! Beautiful you are…

Port-Passage In Sight…

1bIs nature the force that causes us to move through lives of our own creation? Are we able to remain as objects without motion? If this is a force, are we able to creep through life quietly—afraid to disturb a silence, too loud to understand or tolerate?

So much perspective longing by people of sanity or madness…Need to make or cause words to do what is wanted. May direct words…Listen and they will sometimes come…

Our endless supply of Creators…These presented God-Gods reach hand clasped and hand-handed across a bridge between faint notion, through foggy prayer and space jamming Orion – Virgo and Leo into an obtainable notion beyond earth-life somewhere beyond stellar distances and new portions of gravity-bound existence.

Wonders often; if the passage of time is as dreadful as the gaining of age and fearing nothing save remorse and regret for opportunities missed…still wondering if aging as terrible and menacing; for it cannot give anything back and has nothing to return?

Often wagged by both life and death – So/such a powerful confusion that one cannot be without the other? And the anti-poetic freak – a – spirit, too afraid to both soar and remain too grounded? Therefore, these fears reconstruct the affirmative impulse?

We do not quietly pass through this life. We remain in constant motion even when sleeping…As fearful travelers from unknown to recognized and then to the great unknown everlasting quality of not being, dead or very dead. Even in great everlasting we change and we further die…

When rest stops us, do we finally slow-down or do we simply vanish into…It is with a trembling self –we have seen it all, again. Alive and real across the heavens
of time, civilizations more or less and a part of these.

Alive and real among these columns of Mt. Airy granite through the shifts of sands of time both substantial and real. Alive and alone and having walked across these deserts and seas and upon these surfaces of time. We cause great and wondrous meanings from-confusion…

Yes and Yes and Yes! I and me and we and us have seen it all, again. The Universe from a speck to a mighty and hurtling Earth, a cross of heavens filled with multitudes of this and that. We see it all and please sweet dream-side, let us see it all again
until, I and we and us may again recognize – OK…

There and perched high on dream-side at a flip of mind-sigh, we move across the Universe so fine. Alive and gone and alive and gone ‘til counting-time catches us with mind-sides swirling sight of mind-light bright brings the way to see…

And Oh! What a wave to see,
to be, to know and again to have seen.
Yes! To have seen, so it seems and to
see it all through Love! Again…

And! Beautiful you are…

Rain Whistles-Mist Sings…

55Just above cloud-fall she dropped to Earth without trumpets or warriors or cries or the wailing of terrified folks. No swished angel wings or the usual thunder just after lightning bolts from sky-to-ground or back again. When angels fly-sound may become 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? Or 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? It is 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.

This angel was alone–both hard and soft and ready to purpose the reason of her travel and the respected message she brought to the mysterious magic folk and the very quick or the dead.

Angel she called herself and she imagined 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 was both good and evil and her reason was 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 saved a few and she lost a few and those lasting through her visit–survived.

No! Angel was the good witch of spectacular whimsy and crafted stories told by magic men and the disciples of both the Gods and of men. Once upon a moment, Angel did visited Earth-land and found it was missing a reason for being the place of promise or ruin. She existed and…She calls to us sometimes and sometimes through no sounds we understand.

And! Beautiful you are…

 

Capitalism is not Freedom…

111The word Capitalism is not another word for Freedom. And today! Democracy is an American prevarication. The Industries in the USA: Manufacturing, Services, Energy, Banks, Insurance, Agribusiness, Transportation, Media, and Medical facilities are controlled and privately owned and operated for the purpose of generating wealth for their Owners. This wealth is extracted from the Working people. These Workers are paid only a small fraction of what their labor produces…

Yes! This must be eliminated for world survival. Socialism is a solution. It does turn society around. The class producing wealth does collectively decide how it will be used for the benefit of all.

Imagine the strength of Worldwide Socialism. Global resources shared.  Capitalism defeated and removed. Its curse and scourge against the future and our children’s welfare—worldwide—ended. Presently, all things economic are global. Socialism prioritizes human needs. So! Is Socialism—Democracy? Socialism is both an economical and a political Democracy.

America boasts of its Democratic institutions. Because of Capitalism and power imbalances; these institutions are illusions. All political power is in the hands of those holding the wealth. America’s wealth and power is the profit motive of war, ecological destruction, and inequalities based on Gender, Race, Nationality and Sexuality. It is the Greed of Destruction!

The collapse of a Capitalist System is created through the results of its own contradictions? Democracy begins when the lies of Capitalism cease. Remember: Theories are only images of a phenomenon in the exterior world and dwelling in the consciousness of Humanity. Theory is practiced and maybe continued as an eternal lie.

And! Beautiful you are…

//

Change Body Change…

71In the beginning there was the violence of creation—and as womankind and mankind spread about the earth violence was their survival…Born in blood and dead in blood. Such is the way of physical life and being physical in the rhythm of here-today-and-gone-tomorrow. Within the cycle called life—we are born to be wasted.

Let us not fall in war but simply fall in love! A pleasant change—don-cha-think?

 

“Imagine there’s no heaven
It’s easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today…

Imagine there’s no countries
It isn’t hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace…

You may say I’m a dreamer
But I’m not the only one
I hope someday you’ll join us
And the world will be as one

Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger
A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world…

You may say I’m a dreamer
But I’m not the only one
I hope someday you’ll join us
And the world will live as one”…’Image’ by John Lennon

And! Beautiful you are…

//

We! Born to Be…

Whitnal Lake_1The great bird—without wing flap glides three inches above water surface for ten seconds then moves wings, strengthens and glides again…Sea calms on motion’s day and the watchers silently visiting shoreline, wait the happening and the night.

This is the day of Lions and caught between the water deep and surface wait the Griefshane and their moments in sunlight along forest’s edge and sand’s start. They are a few of many…Liquid born and water borne in ceaseless mixtures of salt and waves and sky and shoreline; trees, rocks, hills, valleys and mountains.

They are the mysteries of society and culture. They are…Legends of mighty warriors and caring givers-of-life. Their women are strong and their men powerful. They build worlds and are from other places and galaxies and wars and peace and forever.

We are their beginning and our end. Sounds as Godspeak—told by men and by women in times of peril and of need and of superstition and…We spin tales that become truth and power and magic. We craft the moneyed ways of future’s lost and tomorrow’s end.

People-governed through fear and the fabrication of religious lies and wealth, turn to burden. The revolution of death’s start-stop dance and the futility of power continues in any name except Truth.

We are born-to-be-wasted. ‘I want to unite with you Eternal Spirit…Help me awaken to that great goal’—unknown author.

And! Beautiful you are…

Of Moment We…

The You — I of this moment…Memory of meeting you somewhere set in a-twirling time of music and sight and rush to fill senses and blood with warmth and a continuation of day. Spectacular life streamed in direction not known and into the glimpse of this and that feeling, the merge of lives and whimsy and project and reasons to begin—Together time!

Twirling and the whirling and the loving of a so-strong-love; the silent touch and responsibility and protecting and the sing-song dance filled blood-time. Creation and duality were without processing—wanted and welcomed.

We! Danced with the life of lives and the together strength of twice-folk-joined. Together! We danced the universe without gravity push or pull and for moments we; free of doubting fear—sparkled.

Life and the Dance! Hand-hold and we touched those of mystery and magic and stop and start—alone with ghost dancers and 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…

//

War Eternally Yours…

We fight these wars for so long and over and again until life ends and begins and ends…yesterday—today—tomorrow…Nothing matters but everything means the beginning of another end and we die and live together on these fields of battle.

I have been with you and in the names of religion and government and power and home, we battled foe, either you or me against another or against each other. No matter…we lived and died and were remembered and forgotten. And! We fought these wars and died. Forever; these wars for life-for throne-for freedom and we are lost.

War with Alexander or against Napoleon or another king or another religion of a same or different God. You and I, battle scarred or wounded or dying and never remembered except when she misses us or when we miss her. And! Our women go to war beside us. They stand with us and they die with us. They are not created to die in war. They are Life.

If we hate war—then why do we continually fight wars against life until life ceases and starts and stops and begins—ad infinitum? We! Are born to be wasted? Flags changed and still blood red is never a different liquid poured from wounds of knife or sword or spear or bullet or bomb or cannon or when mixed with powder and smoke. Blood red flows from you and I and horse and cat and dog and man and woman and child and baby…Still blood red—cries for strength and air and life.

I win and your history fades. You win and my life fades…And! If I must fight may I die to protect or save my family and my love? Be damned the government or the church or the faith or a thousand knife wounds or a million bullets. I fight and I will die for Home—and home is where I am this time—in this land or another place or world in another day or another time. We are born to be wasted…

Would it be precious to know that Love and Peace and Understanding is the next ideal stop made beneath the sky? Would it be precious not to be born and wasted but to be born and last without war for just one lifetime? Not to fall in battle—but just to fall in love…

One then
Two now
Then another
Then we
Then us.

Growls both low
And throat deep
Sounds just above
Noise-thought and
Beyond Dream-Speak.

Then whistles
Of distant trains.
A long distance
Away-again a call
And memory of war…

And! Beautiful you are…

Songs of Sociocide and…

Across skies ago, wails of the finish: of together and life and custom and speak and thought and reason and living and dying stopped immediately…Reverses gone. Motion and the familiarity of home-stop and vision of little candles burning in the window or home lights at the end of the world—extinguished and gone. The sailors without sail and the soldiers without war and the need to succeed in twinkling flashes disappeared across this sky above earth-spin. They were gone and we ended.

Someone said they arrived and Sociocide began the end of civilization. We became world-colony and use and stop and start and stagger and another Earth diminished before the new illumination and enlightenment. They stripped bare–ground quicker than we had consumed our way across the planet. These off-worlders devoured our own too many and our own slaughter of mother-world and the failing of protection became insignificant.

These fools and folly of off-world stopped our only way to continue. They failed to see their vision fade into star-stream and moon-dust. They removed 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…”

Is this a love story? Sociocide is now! Sociocide is yesterday! Sociocide is murder! Sociocide is  Crime against Humanity…Ask the Natives of America or the Palestinians or…It does require time, however, today we free-fall toward acceleration and the annihilation of Everyday.

And! Beautiful you are…

The Cyborg Gods…

It is a dying mind that crawls toward a hurried ending borne on winds of Sunday evening. If the mind did not live can it be dying? It was a onetime infant torn too quickly from the womb. Was infant a subject of ancient memories and injury? Would it have been alive and at once dying? Would mind have been well and exacting in both capacity and vision?

On a Sunday evening, I fear that there is no living remembrance of love. Memories of sacrifice—yes. Memories of memory—yes. Of warmth, of pleasure, of pain, of smiles and of tears. Oh! Hell yes. But never a complete confusion of their sum or of a notion of their reduction. Never-ever! Nothing more than the trade of a thing and the barter of a feeling.

2…A memory of blood and my numbed hands as their fingers frantically filled the wound to search for, to find and then to squeeze closed a severed artery as it drew back into itself and the opened muscle of her body. Tears? My eyes? No! Instead I wiped rain from my face and hunched forward to cover her with as much of me as I could without further injuring her. We tasted the fear together. I squeezed and we waited a lifetime together. She grasped my arm and whispered softly that she hoped I would not die.

Mechanical wails filled the corners and alleys. We waited and her blood crawled from my hand up my arm. Then I prayed! I won’t remember to what; whether him or Him or her or Her or those 3-Sums that guide us over the cliff that drops us  before we fall. I pray and I always fall.

Those beautiful red lights ultimately blinded us. The solitude of our mutual struggle were shattered; (so overpowering the space between the passing of each second). I removed my touch from her body and wiped the water from my face.

These Gods moved her and I stood close to them for she had been so close to me. She was still mine as they filled the rear portion of some alien craft with herself. The lines that connected it to her and terminated at the edge, was a Cyborg deity or a God-machine, for I know not what I should name it.

Beyond what I could see from the street and above what I could understand— I watched Him/him feed carefully metered substance into her. I found it to be good!

Between the time she was removed from me and taken before the metal savior, we caught hold with our eyes. We fixed into the center of our spirits, listening and unable to remember what passed between us in that moment of silent relief.

I touched the corner of an ivory blanket near her shoulder. I smiled and she smiled. We both whispered “thank-you” for whatever we felt required gratitude.

On the ledge of Bridge, I stare at Viaduct and her broken sister, the crumbled wreck of a once strong and vigilant entity. I find that it is good!

And! Beautiful you are…