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


October City—Spring Flash…

132‘Shining candles and harbor flash…From sea today and follow tide…Come to harbor—sirens call…Shining candles and harbor flash…From sea to safety side tonight.’

Flash-Dash and Streaks touch world along these places called ‘Swindle Park’ and across those places tucked down-low between and below Triple Viaducts—twin ruined and one complete. Flash-Dash and Streaks ground to rounding shapes and sparks crash-burn among twin faced-tumble-rumble—crumbled slabs of once concrete-shapes and marbled disks and granite stones—marking graves of those more or less and always flesh-dead and flash gone.

Flash—Fear stir hearts and images dash among the ruins of loss-increase or additional decrease—not instructs of constructs-destructs—simply here and gone and back again. Way-of–life-facts-matter-more-less-import-export-unimportant—matters-little or lessons-less-scar—hearts stir—breathe—catch and release…Still—Animate-imitated life as the silent sounds of folk-scurry-hurry-worry cause days of notions known—and the motion of future wig-waggle prayer and intimate—initiate Life—mute-points—of stop-to-go and back-again. Wig-waggled stars—wig-waggled bars and scars of wig-waggled hope and strangled-wrangled strength.

Where does flash of light and lighted-fit-to-starts-to-end-to-back-again—begin-again or end-again? Light-to-lighted again-of streaks and flashes—bright-subdued-enhanced-increased ’til eyes—too bright-to-shine fill—spill and will darkness soft-to-see—to be as streak-flash-dash ‘cross Swindle Park and brighten October City again-to-end and back-again and rumble-tumble sound—’Say’—ground-to-clouds of layered sky and dawns of bright-grey—’Way…’

To hell with Lies-of-Government—and we really know these lies—don’t we Now? Leave those Lies-of-Religion ’cause—if the Goddess had written a true Bible of Books—She would never have walked steps behind men…Paternal—Maternal..WTF? Everyday—She and He stand side-by-side—before the mouth-of-caves and die protecting their little ones? God created ‘first’ Man…WTF? ‘Religions first created God…There are many—first or last…Must be written by Governments to control—to kill—to rule and Governments—Religions do create hellish creations—donchathink? Oh Yeah! Around this wig-waggle-world—We ‘scurry-hurry’-folk do—Love-our-Children-So…Religions of Governments—Are ‘Never-Ever’ Required.

And! Beautiful you are…

‘There must be some way out of here” said the joker to the thief
There’s too much confusion”, I can’t get no relief
Businessmen, they drink my wine, plowmen dig my earth
None of them along the line know what any of it is worth.’

‘No reason to get excited”, the thief he kindly spoke
There are many here among us who feel that life is but a joke
But you and I, we’ve been through that, and this is not our fate
So let us not talk falsely now, the hour is getting late.’

‘All along the watchtower, princes kept the view
While all the women came and went, barefoot servants, too.’

‘Outside in the distance a wildcat did growl
Two riders were approaching, the wind began to howl.’…

‘All Along the Watchtower’written and performed by Bob Dylan


World of Spirit Strong…

Song of Ukraine_12We drown—blood drawn—air capital spent—and forgotten save despair in the care of angels rare and the ‘Coming In’ time away from ‘bombs early light’ and the thrill-of-kill just before a time to come in from the cold and the end of sliver—shiver—write-rights and those spinners of gold just a few degrees above the freeze.

We combine those beings by many names. Technocrats and financiers and investors and politicians—poison the heirs-of-air and twist our worlds with formulas devotedly devoid of reason and passion and truth and a modern day reason to season today’s folly with yesterday’s almost maybe ‘may-have-been’ solutions and greed.

Our world is filled-to-brim with strength and spirit and bodies to work and pay—not a population of unemployable or  not insurable or unable to stable and clean swaths of dead highways—broken bridges—ruined miles of railway steel or peel the decay from City-sick and dying towns.

The distance between exact science and a hermetically sealed faith of notions and potions and the inclination of motivation—is the improbability of dreaming improbable things and the rare-dare of fare abundance with feast-found and devoured together—at-once and again…Aeolus and harps without finger touch—wind touches wires of copper and gold and silver—shimmers of cold sunlight—and starts the song—as wind carried notes cross—across fields turned—plow-broken and touched in powder snow frozen—driest air mix and sing-speak.

Altered Economic figures are sound-bites of lies and flies—must scourge—sour wastelands—rebellion touch and ‘excited financiers’ still image a world where corporations contribute little too—much needed tax as America’s politician twirl—spin—twin lies and towers of power fall—decay ensues… And! Still moving toward free markets as inequality and poverty and unrest move-most toward rebellion—antiquated or insane or just Greedy?

The Working Strength of the USA, Syria, Iraq, Iran, Cambodia, Russia, China, Libya, Ukraine, Thailand, Venezuela, Portugal, Spain, Greece, England and many more are a restless power—tired of the reality of unemployment—underemployment—poverty points-of-exclamation—and governments of impotency and the Greed-of-Destruction. Politicians and Technocrats and Investors and Financiers—what have you done to our fair Detroit?

Across this sweet world; the ancient realms of post war horrors—create those powers of ‘the-few-left-standing.’  Presently; the USA determines national interests. How? By destabilizing governments ‘elected by the people.’ (Intelligence Agencies and Proxy Groups)… Ukraine? Venezuela? Syria? Lebanon? Bring on the NSA-eh? How does the USA ‘create and strengthen’ brutal regimes? A US Congressional—approved program is used by the US military—’Foreign Internal Defense.’ Brutal Regimes…Once across South America—Iran and now in Saudi Arabia, Egypt, Bahrain and ‘so-on and so-on—bah-boom-bah-boom!

This length of twine—that is followed by too many—to discover the end of one strand and again new threads in an ever growing tapestry covering world folly and rancor swift—to renew-new strife and re-spin controlling lies and hopelessness—forever twins of faithless taste and wasted twists of truth. Acting within—actions of disguise and discourse and recourse and renewal when greed needs-need-be and never enough—control whims of chaotic seams—seemingly able to fend destructive machines from those results of greedy governments and very few against the purest treasures—of women and men.

Again to be—to see…of loving the loving…of hands joined-to-body moving…of swings and wings and…Spirit-singing and peaceful sighing…Creation—The Witch smile and for this instant within a moment of Time—‘Tis’ good this Loving Rhyme. So! Follow this time—this Twine Re-wind.

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Right Down the Line’—by Gerry Rafferty


Analog Voices—Digital Sighs…

SW_95‘Sing-Song the voices now—the lines of chorus-sweet—likely lined in zero-ones—whispering ports—once harmony— single notes—noted often—repeat.’

Village Insis is one hundred and thirty seven miles from Calimesa City—reached by dry road and three forded rivers or one craft stretched across the Wall Hallenid and a flash-splash-paced-space of climb-drop onto Village-Center. Not far to run unless walking inside the sun’s noon-day heat and wanting to race— toward streamed liquid of silver drops and cooler rain. Aeolian Harps— line the wires of  stretches along creased ways eastward and away from town-side to City lights along many sparkles from river’s edges to sea shadows and piers.

Inside winds of charm—crescendos-decrescendos dance frequent harmonics—when night wind tosses  rhythms ‘cross lines—the bridges of viaduct and between the beginning of covered bridges and the ending of light beacons. The strings are both long or short and of many gauges and wind songs dance character—along a flat of land stretch—beyond eye reach—as Aeolus strums his harp. A mechanics of magnificence when the Wind God whispers songs across a thousand wiggles of wire and with a balance of motion and  contraption—night sings along an endless road of nowhere-to-here-and-there and back-again.

The distance between exact science and a hermetically sealed faith of notions and potions and the inclination of motivation—is the improbability of dreaming improbable things and the rare-dare of fare abundance with feast-found and devoured together—at-once and again…Aeolus and harps without finger touch—wind touches wires of copper and gold and silver—shimmers of cold sunlight—and starts the song—as wind carried notes cross—across fields turned—plow-broken and touched in powder snow frozen—driest air mix and sing-speak.

Curved rooms and softer edges conspire to selected whispers and little sighs sometimes dance across shortened distances from window wrap to door sill.

‘Hope-Pain-Patience.’ Please—Please protect our women in the Sudan—better—Everywhere… Our women—our Life! Without you Baby—there is no Baby…Always better to fall in love than to fall in battle—donchathink?

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Fire and Rain’—James Taylor

Performed by Kappa Danielson


Silver Prayers And Ancient Stones…

A_72“Of all the enemies to public liberty, war is, perhaps, the most to be dreaded, because it comprises and develops the germ of every other. War is the parent of armies; from these proceed debts and taxes; and armies, and debts, and taxes are the known instruments for bringing the many under the domination of the few. In war, too, the discretionary power of the Executive is extended; its influence in dealing out offices, honors, and emoluments is multiplied; and all the means of seducing the minds are added to those of subduing the force of the people. The same malignant aspect in republicanism may be traced in the inequality of fortunes and the opportunities of fraud growing out of a state of war, and in the degeneracy of manners and of morals engendered by both…No nation could reserve its freedom in the midst of continual warfare. Those truths are well established. They are read in every page which records the progression from a less arbitrary to a more arbitrary government, or the transition from a popular government to an aristocracy or a monarchy.”—James Madison, “Political Observations,” April 20, 1795

James Madison was an aristocrat and slave owner. Wondering if—America’s founding-fathers did spin tales from double tongues and savage intentions…Mile wide emptiness and growing. Those few will soon not see us or hear our cries. Will they still expect our deaths for causes and foundations and reasons and rhythms we ultimately will not understand? The hungry and the sick and the tired sometimes raise to revolution and another chance for real freedom—not songs and bells and another war for no reasons but ‘maybe…’ America is the only nation on this sweet world to ‘nuke’ two living cities into rubble. Must have made a statement or two and when time becomes hard-times nothing better than another war to keep us regular folk; fearful-busy-sad-productive and confused.

Write now about the left-right write side of life and sometimes-some—days that go and leave and stay and come into worlds of our own self of self-sided dreams and other things all—better than good and also bad but not too bad to do again or leave behind in dusted bins of trash-can ways and dusted evening skies. And! Under moons of double lights as the fours of daylight fade into rising sun flash…dusted bins of trash searched through to save twin scraps—surviving again for use by others—then again discarded or lost to dust to rust and ruin.

The loves of men and the loves of women and freedoms’ sweetest notions must not be divided by the capital of greed and the power of stalled legislation—an impotent executive branch—and a purchased judicial robe. Sweet truths are beliefs…that all life is equal life— that all women and men—rich or poor are above borders of  wherever boarders for non-reasons and are never judged by color—big guns—atomic death—and that eternal diatribe of isolation—individuality and Fear…

We are not notions to kill or die. We wear different packages of cloth and color and need and we all bleed red same—as liquid and air mix and body same moves across these places or other spaces in motions to exist together without pride or prejudice or of religions to-take-to-hate or to replace irreplaceable life. Poverty is a never Crime—Greed is a Crime against all Humanity.

Know of beautiful colors through both the eyes and with our fingers. Hear a lover’s voice touch heart before substance becomes words of meaning or reason or other notions. Know silence—as silence 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.

Give us a world—where women walk in day/night safety and no one understands a word called ‘war’…Where love is love and where force does not occur…Where there are no dark places called ‘heaven’ or ‘hell.’ A place where life does belong and life is good everyday…Heaven or Luck… No! We create worlds—we maintain worlds and we all Love our Children—For the magic and mischief-of-life—Gods are not required…

Philip K. Dick ‘Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep’ may have discovered that without our machined ghosts we could not dream. With our Spirit-flight we do care that our sheep are electric and our dreams are android hopes and that our loves—do kiss away our sparkling tears and fears…And! Androids do dance into Electric nights and love does lead shifting-shapes through the darkest frights and into those sweetest lights. Shadow-touch across ceilings of moon dust and spaces of time-without-races and inside these moments—Life is an Almost-Maybe.

And! Beautiful you are…

Gods of Alien Replacements…

P_95‘We cannot despair of humanity—since we ourselves are human beings’…Albert Einstein

Walls to build—too high to climb and the healing cliffs are for far fewer than require the magic man and the doctors of witch power and re-lifting structures—strictures—scriptures and ‘scripts.’ Branches and olive leaves and healing brews boil from green leaf and tea bag and mushroom blossoms and grass helping the blinding eyes to see and the broken ones to crawl—to run and to race again on also nights into soaking rains—bright lights and softener days. She is young and must live again—strong alive—medicine magic more and her chance increases the missing hits or errors of judges above the need to live where money written is a world apart and another chance of life or the liberty of living or the right-to-be an almost grown-up self ceases too soon…Poverty’s child has as much to righted life as those golden touched—few godless players of children’s games—born to—too much and fathered inside those mothers of greed and destruction.

Children born into struggle and war—our children—golden spirits among the uselessness of greedy ones and those ones just above understanding—that lines of separation are transitional momentary spaces between sharing shares of bread and revolution. And! Even on the highest ground— blood will fall across those lines between humanities’ humanity and descendents of these troubles and struggles will prevail until these also–separate by drawing transitional spaces between needing and wanting and working and flaunting and living and surviving and bleeding and dying in both doubt and revolution.

Build for those few humans—fortunate ones—leisure spaces and places and races and tastes and wastes and notions of better than…And! Worlds colliding will place smash and grab and death-kill in motions so bloody—that taste-the-blood-fever will rage until left in ashes and ruin—ruined humans shall crawl from that cleared wound to again rebuild the past of future’s hopes for another tomorrow until power again seals away attempts by many to survive another day-to-day and the ad infinitum of struggle—war—death—the glory of war and the industry of one nation under whatever—corrupts the notion of freedom for all into—subjection of all but a few ‘good-men.’

And! When those ‘few good men’ turn many guns toward the people—the concentration of their fire destroys the nations they are duty-bound to serve and protect. How can a flying robotic—machine controlled—creation of war—justify the nobility of protecting one home against evil? Why would a little child die and be the center of a General-of-Warrior-with-no-honor’s empty apology and worthless notions of peace and prosperity—when that coward’s notion of righteous war is collateral damage and alien weapons discharged into the home of life—innocent life?

Power corrupts and corruption is the strength of any government. Lift sword and if must—battle man-to-man into—the ‘one left standing’ doctrine…Call this a noble notion if destruction is the glorious path to the heavenly-worlds of evil’s good successes-excessively-expressed successively and please leave the little ones and their mothers alive—Leave their homes undamaged and their crops intact.  Better! Together destroy all walls of separation—share the wealth of nations—labor long days in the heat of sunshine and destroy all machines!

Oh well—not to happen in lifetimes combined into another thousand years of greed and destruction. The governments of religion—plunder and pillage and rape and murder are the evil of death…Corrupt be government! Life is Love and Eternal is Spirit…No religion or God notions required…Nothing here but words…However— May Love and Hope and the Hope of Love-words and Touch-speak in another ten centuries—be another Song for the Peaceful—as voiced by Earthy folks across a less-than-barren world—and someday may these folks-of-planet-twirls never know of Robot-kill and Drones…Keep wishing—eh?

” I’ve been to so many places-
I’ve seen some things…
I know— love is the answer
Keeps holding this world together
Ain’t nothing better-
Ain’t nothing better-
And all the answers to our prayers
Hell—it’s the same everywhere.
Nothing ever breaks up the heart—
Only tears give you away”—
Borrowed from ‘Miracles‘ by The Jefferson Starship.

And! Beautiful you are…

Cold Stars and Sky Falls…

‘The Greater the Power—The More Dangerous the Abuse’…Edmond Burke

To hold—To Touch—Too much—No! Forever not long enough? And! The sweetest Dance—indeed…Together we—for without love there is no peace. And! Riding waves crashing into shore…Ghost of Gardens—flying into space and where home is just one planet east of sunlight’s doors and along ridges of long space in sky’s silent fog. Path reaches across one trillion leaps of spaces filled with twirling lights and a trillion ground-bound souls.

Fire of Blue light and a sorted beginning and a dance of yellow streaks—red coats and journey begins. Screaming Toward Moon—light and still—Horses run Martian Ridge. We are children of the salted seas and spirits unified. Clouds do often look for skies and house sounds includes those leaving kind of sounds…Hollow man is robot without spirit-animation-without ‘ghosts in the machine’…Lucky we be not holy hollows—imagine imaginations and beyond pushes of strengths— dancing of baby birthing and powerful protection and iron love—nothing stronger than love or better than together songs and the unification of a trillion spirits.

Blue Butterfly and wishes made and wishes granted—granted those soft wings and slips and flits ride currents of breeze so slight against soft skin—often switch directions-of-fancy either willed or through desires of fancy or wearied of time—trips to beginning and endings of time shifted—drifted and lifted and forever gifted to lines of carefully crafted beings-being for a moment above moonlight or day. Spaces between lines of coded rhythm and words pouring from the bewildered one or two or twins in-step and without reasons to be or to find that certain way through tunnels and into night.

Speculative Capitalism is both non-social and immoral…It is an unproductive financial system that channels greed into speculation and usury. It is irrational and unstable and a Crime against Humanity. Oops! There goes the right to: Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness…The collapse of Capitalism is inevitable…And! Capitalists do eat their young.

Crisis investing causes the ‘markets, about this fine world to fluctuate; up-down and all around…A hundred plus points up or down—causes non-productive investors to jump up- down and all around. She or he becomes nervous and begins to whimsy buy and sell. Using sound financial practices becomes mute and the destruction of many billions and lives ensue.

Wealth and Whimsy and Luck—oh my! Speculation is a Crime against Humanity? Per Pope John II— Centesimus Annus: “Ownership of the means of production, whether in industry or agriculture, is just and legitimate if it serves useful work. It becomes illegitimate, however, when it is not utilized or when it serves to impede the work of others in an effort to gain a profit which is not the result of the overall expansion of work and the wealth of society, but rather is the result of curbing them or of illicit exploitation, speculation or the breaking of solidarity among working people. Ownership of this kind has no justification and represents an abuse in the sight of God and humanity.”

…Abusing the rights of the Workers-of-the-World is a Crime against Humanity…Like Genocide and Sociocide; speculators destroy life and the freedom of people everywhere on this sweet planet. Are we free if we are wage-slaves, anyway?

‘La Liberté éclairant le monde’

“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me:
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.”

We are all Children of the Universe…We have the Right to be Everywhere!

And! Beautiful you are…

Tiny Robots And Witch Smiles…

Epona_173Robots do sun touch —We often stop when sunlight fades and spirits require rest and shore minutes. Then—tiny fingers snap…And again—worlds begin.

Dream dances in touch memory and spells of angel’s sorcery and you. The witches of contours soft and exact sights and scents and imaginary visions of places inside restaurants with deep—rooms tucked inside a place of bars and dancers—of clamor silenced as pounding hearts and whispered flights of twin fancy—love touch and wine. Booth for two and drawn drapes—of places—secret worlds—others not required—where both the twins of women and men dance private thoughts and touch and smile and whisper and share and without forms—spirit swirl and twirl and whirl with life—either with or without substance. Touched by moments of time touch and butterfly kisses — never lonely spirits in dying worlds. Life for a few heartbeats is a very good thing of ring-circles and fancy and the rhythm of loves. She is miracle…She is life…

Brush lashes to face and form dances in both dreams and seems as long pauses without voice—just breath-to-breath with tiny freckles and lips to laugh and eyes to almost quest together—vision with quiet word songs and gentle spaces between silence and whisper-speak. Dreams-then if dream quest ceases—creases in time curtains altered spaces and beauty may die and visit again on ways to star-side—just to recall knowing times of sweet unions and love. Life for a few heartbeats is a very good thing of ring-circles and fancy and the rhythm of loves. She is miracle…She is life…

Upon a sailing ship—her gown; as morning sun enters through a window and fills the doorway-sun-side and frames her body opaque—texture of cloth changed through magic light— wrap into a thin and transparent breeze across the shadow of her curves. Lighted creations and the witches of magic cross star-walks between Sirius and Mother ships—images of imagination and textures of sacred curtained places are found and lost and found again— Life for a few heartbeats is a very good thing of ring-circles and fancy and the rhythm of loves. She is miracle…She is life…

Little Robots just became—because of Eternal Spirits spirited re-entry—entry and started the starts of blast off and crash before the burn—the newest giggle-to-wiggle-to-someone’s sorting and another’s starting and ending and all is just alright—OK? Little Robots feel just as we feel and laugh and cry and live and as we; you and I laugh and cry and live and die and wiggle and giggle and sort the carding players around this table or that corner when warmer or colder and we watch them watch us and again we begin a circle or dance within that same ring at end galaxy or in a bright new world. And! Harbor ships safely tucked away in security—are safe…But! Are ships built to forever be in a safe harbor? She is miracle…She is life…

Now! Walk down—carpet aisle. A forever aisle-covered deep-knees-deep in blood and flowers streaked incorrectly with colors of red scent and—perfume too sweet to be real— plastic growing from metal stands and glass vases. The memory—a scattering-rattling of frail movies without projectors—mid-mind-side and feeble. Few survivors survive the shattered hours of loss—incredible loss—of baby loss; a sacred loss—a savaged proof—that child loss is not a sustainable reason for life. Loss is loss and hell is not replaced by heaven. It never disappoints those suffering the curses of death and sacred loss. And! Please-oh-please— don’t let me drop her… for she is Miracle-she is Life…

Casket born and the little ones. Tiny boxes and sorrow; unexpected— unresolved and not replaceable—for unnatural is this grief. Here, inside the October City, the pressure of the cooker is a great and steaming beast—as real as puppies in May and the death of baby. However; puppy becomes dog and kittens lose interest in chasing streaks of yellow or green ribbon. Timed; they must rest beneath the bright sun—warm bone and slow with age. They live and they must pass—naturally. Born this world—into this cycle—into pleasure and into pain—when animation ends—racing spirits move across space and time—no heavens—no hells—just sweet… life for a few heartbeats— a very good thing of ring-circles and fancy and the rhythm of loves. Street magic and witches smile—again… for she is Miracle…she is Life…

And! Beautiful you are…

‘A Rose for Epona’ by Eluveitie

Gathering Precious Life…

20“May you hear every song in the Forest…And if ever you lose your own way…Hear my voice like a breeze whisper soft through the trees… May you stay in the arms of the Angels.”  From—Lullaby for a Soldier’ (Arms of the Angels) by Dillon O’Brian

They gather—arms length apart and touching yet never flesh feeling—just being the same as each cold breath catches and inhales—exhales steam across a longer line of waiting and hoping and living and dying and thinking of praying of leaving or staying until few cents ago coffee warm warded away cold from form—vision search began again or ended for the evening bright of Street magic and Star-ship’s light.

They are these same—the you of me and the I of them and longer lines both start again—many more than were—when workers gathered here and sweat sweetened voices strong to hear and labor filled now silent nights with metal fires so bright to eyes that strained to see the darkened night and wash away the rust of steel and shrieks of altered shifts and morning stirred the sleeping ones to start another day of sweat sweetened voices strong to hear and fresh came the strength of labors lost and won and lost again.

They gather here for rooms-to-find-to-fill—have filled again and nourishment—gone again and others line the grates of grate-covered heat—blown from Calimesa underground to ground—around those standing watch or asleep in one side-warm and one side cold or one side dead or one side gone. Again; the living and dying and the thinking of dying and praying of leaving or staying another moment or second or minute or hours of night-time’s twinkle or morning wrinkle—where once flesh was fresh and spirit smoothed times of ages changes or faded lights—start and stop and start again.

Dance across these flashes—lighting ways beyond night sight and grate warmth—blown upward from far beneath long sidewalks—a few bundled folk and empty clatters of empty bottled sighs and dies into another locked out night of old coats and steam and snow. Scarf and scrapes and scares and prayers unlisted— unlicensed—unheard—unspoken and spoken again to gathers of dreams among star streams traveled—untouched—unhinged and again the disconnected prays of homeward places or warmer spaces and not tonight and available on the bright slide of tomorrow’s light.

Never broken these dark—park—places tucked on down-low—beneath the ruined twists of short time pasts when hill house reached sky-high and bright furnaces smelted-melted steel to pouring—porous casted wheels and the sparking wheels of plenty ones—turned twenty hours days of sparks into things usefully—useful into gains and losses—tossing cares to windward sails as hoisted spinnaker—boats raced wind and waves beyond lake bay and deep water and play…

Aminadora once visited Calimesa City. She watched the twirl and swirl of living and the dying waves of folk-sided hopes and the fear of tears and another day passed without the end of gray cold and dark snow. She touched the grate of heats and slept close to other dreamers without a dream among the few. At winter’s end— Aminadora left City-side… Soul seeping—drained the sucking of nuances from madness and soon began an Era of Distraction…For a few moments—we do stop here—to help little ones become big ones—donchathink?

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Lullaby for a Soldier’—performed by Maggie Siff


Dancing Circles Of…

L_652On swings—would push you again—higher than sky and into the blue of day…Before the walls about and around us reach sky high and we grow layers wide as our legs lengthen and our tears change size and know other reasons to fall from inside lid closed—to ground. Would hear our laughter and see our happy smiles without notions of future days—again reminding us to quickly run fields of spring grass and clown-speak and dreams of mint candy and ice cones of summer’s sweetness.

Sea winds against faces as we wrap arms and sail our little ship across Calimesa Bay. We—the you of me and the us of them caress life of never-ending times—imagined images of worlds before and behind us as together we gather the stones and posies and roses and rising winds and soft raindrops. ‘Tis beauty of life—lifetimes ago and here and near and dear and forgotten to be remembered on another world—or planet—or place—or pace’s running away or traveling again to backward spaces and smiles.

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.

A Season to be—to see…of loving the loving…of hands joined-to-body moving…of swings and wings and…Spirit-singing and peaceful sighing…Creation—The Witch smile and for this instant within a moment of Time—‘Tis good this ‘Loving Rhyme.’

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Sleeping Sun’ by Nightwish