Mimics—We—Robots Be…

44“Beyond the Palace hemi-powered drones scream down the boulevard
Girls comb their hair in rearview mirrors
And the boys try to look so hard
The amusement park rises bold and stark
Kids are huddled on the beach in a mist
I wanna die with you Wendy on the street tonight
In an everlasting kiss…” Bruce Springsteen

We are those everlasting—over-again—Robot folk—little once—remembered little—learned—forgotten and then remember—all over-again—Robot folk—we be. And! Sometimes a useful life—is not grand—nor big—is just—a continuation of Spirit Dance… Concerned or just ‘how now’—the highest international authority on Planet Spin—called the ‘International Court of Justice’—did offer a precedent to how law abiding States—respond to—International Terrorism.

Between the beginning and the ending of the US war against—Nicaragua (1970-1987)-tens of thousands—sweet bodies were destroyed—and their country ruined…Call the ‘Contras’ and America will seed decay—into the subliminal shapes of non-recovery—destruction and ‘Fears into Tears.’ A Nicaraguan dictator—Anastasio Somoza—falls—proxy scrambles—the Neo-Nazi—Argentina generals—the National Guard of Nicaragua—America’s Military Industry—and may the sky—slam—close—to block the block-by-block—destruction in Managua’s precious neighborhoods…Because of—‘Sandinista Reformers’—‘The Planners from Planet US’—became terrified—and by José Figueres—father of Costa Rica’s democracy—statement—that for the very “first time—Nicaragua finally has a government that cares for its people.” Terror USA—found the insights of a leading democratic figure—in Central America—so unacceptable—that Figueres was completely censored from the Media Industry of the USA. ‘Freedom-of-Speech’—WTF?

And! As the National Guard of Nicaragua—bombed—destruction—upon Managua’s neighborhoods—fire-smoke-rubble and shapes—shifted from living-to-dying—an Embassy cable was delivered—to the White House advising that— it is “ill-advised” to tell the Guard to stop—the bombing—because this would— interfere with the policy of keeping them in power and the Sandinista out. Remember! The Sandinista—were— true ‘Freedom Fighters’…Also remember—that Anastasio Somoza—removed—the Nicaraguan national treasury—and flew to Miami—FLA…President J. Carter—then carried—the ‘Guard’ commanders out of the country in planes with Red Cross markings—(this is a war crime) and reconstituted—the Guard on Nicaragua’s borders…

President R. Reagan used them to launch a large-scale ‘Terrorist’ war against Nicaragua, combined with lethal—economic warfare…And! The Industrial War Machine—found that— LFSGD. Why implement—a large scale war—against Nicaragua? Oxfam stated that “Nicaragua was…exceptional in the strength of that the Sandinista government’s commitment…to improving the condition of the people and encouraging their active participation in the development process.” Reason enough—eh!

When the US’s War against Nicaragua ended—Nicaragua—pleaded its case—and—The World Court accepted their case—ruled in their favor—condemned—the “unlawful use of force,”—which is— International Terrorism—committed—by the United States—and—ordered the United States—to end—this crime and to pay—reparations. The United States—dismissed the court’s—judgment—with—contempt. It further—announced—that it does not—accept the—jurisdiction of the court…Is ‘Happiness’ really found in a ‘Smoking Gun’ or through ‘Superior Fire Power?’

Wondering now—about—sporadic simple groups—are these objects—transuranic elements—in the study of symmetries—nearly impossible to construct—not likely to be found by chance—but still necessary to the—complete structure—of the theory—of Sporadic Simple Groups…Freedom—for or from a Peoples’ Will—still be the imitation of everlasting Robot or we Robots be? Just you wait-and-see…

“In the day we sweat it out on the streets of a runaway American dream
At night we ride through the mansions of glory in suicide machines
Sprung from cages out on highway nine,
Chrome wheeled, fuel injected, and steppin’ out over the line
H-Oh, Baby this town rips the bones from your back
It’s a death trap, it’s a suicide rap
We gotta get out while we’re young
Cause tramps like us, baby we were born to run”…Bruce Springsteen

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Hurdy-Gurdy Man’…Donovan

 

All—Just Want To Be…

1265

‘Do you wanna be an angel
Do you wanna be a star
Do you wanna play some magic
On my guitar
Do you wanna be a poet
Do you wanna be my string
You could be anything

Do you wanna be the lover of another undercover
You could even be the
Man on the moon

Do you wanna be the player
Do you wanna be the string
Let me tell you something
It just don’t mean a thing

You see it really doesn’t matter
When you’re buried in disguise
By the dark glass on your eyes
Though your flesh has crystallized
Still… You turn me on

Do you wanna be the pillow
Where I lay my head
Do you wanna be the feathers
Lying on my bed
Do you wanna be the cover
Of a magazine
Create a scene

Every day a little sadder
A little madder
Someone get me a ladder

Do you wanna be the singer
Do you wanna be the song
Let me tell you something
You just couldn’t be more wrong

You see I really have to tell you
That it all gets so intense
From my experience
It just doesn’t seem to make sense
Still… You turn me on”… ‘Still You Turn Me On’ by Greg Lake

Routes of ‘0’ and ‘1’ slight shifted—sighted lifted—as wig-waggle space—digits’ size—the adder surprise—machined ghosts and wraith swirl—of spirit twirl and whispers—along space ride—world—wide divide —robots’ form and earth swarm—end-to-begin—begin-to-end—to start-short-again—recalled to warm—across the sky and die…Open one hatch—to latch—day long into—places down—tuck—between flowers’ reach—and bullet—teach—where little hands pick—circle twirls of petal swirls—and—small eyes dart to other place—from inside gun smoke—to—far beyond bam-bam-pop-pops or fear—of tears or reverses-verses—of never far enough—to recall—reminders—of once again—begin…

Cause—measures’ matter—changing mean worlds—may need—many more minutes—than humanity lasts—in pasts-presence—and futures-ago—tomorrows. Like beach moves—a shoe full of sand—one time—one shoe-then again—then again—winds discounted-then recounted and forever—change—one shoe at-a-time—takes long days—to change beach places—in the wig-waggle of time and space. On worldwide—other place—where race-to-stop—to never goes—away spaces—never—far enough—to silence—bam-bam-pop-pops—sight—right from clutching ground—to standing away— a corner—of concrete floors and—rusted doors—gate high and wasted.

House scatter—overwhelmed by many needs— required covers to crawl into—away from street dash and gun flash—life—clean—in sweet rain and dried with winds—of howling sounds—lighted by flash—bang-bang crash—as traced along—the edge of cloud swirl and twirl—as reflected by one million—eye shine bright—into those nights—of bam-bam-pop-pops where—smoked—nasty places—tucked just outside—of caves and spaces and safe—homes—where little hands select—roses—no thorns—and little ones laugh—between flower reach and bullet teach.

The water’s edge and skies of blue and pink and red and orange and yellow—as earth spin sets sunlight to softness and twinkles of sky-lighted-canvas—sheets the blue-gray into darkness and stars light the sailor’s way along the caverns of space and place and the race of time. Still! We all cross spaces along these places of—the races in time gathered—and night ships crossing heaven’s ragged ridges…

We do not summon gentle love…It whispers to our spirits—and touches us beyond the flesh of resistance and routes of layers and lives inside walls too high to be climbed or under or around or about the shouts of daily doubts and flight. Love heart touches and reaches—into body frail and those impossible attempts to hide among thrones of thorns and weary costs already paid and already spent. Listen—just listen. And! Love reminds us of the equality of equals—woman and man and the spirits of all trapped and—living sentient sentences of life inside body—minding body.

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Still you Turn me on’…performed by Emerson-Lake and Palmer

Still You Turn Me On

Tossed Moon Memories…

1874‘Where bound you?’—Ask voices ‘cross way—from night—day—shift twice—tune-memory-forgotten and answer—Remember? Side-way Space—touch—three star-shines’ length plus—planet spin and just beyond Forgotten Moon…Remember? In the Glide-way Hall of Twirl-world—take off skyward in wig-waggle soft—time and match speed—beyond light drag—dream-match daring—space into bits of byte-chunk—tunnel wide—touches heaven’s length—heart-beat time and blood vein long….Just a little ‘meant-to-be’…Remember?

Push from Witch Magnificent—Creation’s womb—just in time—long before—sky fall touch—Earth-spin west—then—east again and seas to south beyond—where—lines slant deep—just as—round circle top—world light-night—is long—is short—depends on—view points—open minds—north winds and times of day…And! We do ride sea—boards of light ‘cross—back-lit waves from shoreline to ocean—lines—where sky touch—water fine then—back to sand again—again and again—begin—to end again…Drown now—in Water deep—or Heaven’s tracks—between the Stars-and-Mars…Remember?

It is OK—when scented moments—mind trick memories from start-to-stop and pause—cause light-years ago—to present places and races—to mind front—almost touch—tease slight—flight-of-forms known—love-touch-spirit—twirl—when love is mind’s eye strong and after-kisses tastes—last long—then form-is-warm and need less—than want is long and lingers—until night cease-crease softens into sleep-sweet…Remember?

Taste of you—in mind rhyme—time and ever-dream—moments deep—twilight keep and never-ever traces of—endless touch—no rush—just together—‘us’ and the harmony of ‘We’…Remember? Walk-talk—now us—hand reach and fingers clasp—inside Needles Park—beneath Bent Bridge—brown hedge and ridge where green grass—gone brown—cooled and the waves below—Lake Shine—bounce moonlight…Remember? Yeah! We do—OK?

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Crockett’s Theme’ by… Jan Hammer

Crockett’s Theme

Stained Piers And Smoke…

C_941Along planks of wooden pier—smoke curl and life sleeps—in quick nods and thin wakes—then upright—moves—along shores where fog lines—touch—city highs—above pier stretch and common reach…The giant sights—flash serpents’ wind—‘cross valley wide—ribbon thin—wide-wine crawl—slow moves-shakes—side-to-side—land crawl—to stop by waterside…Lateran light and boats rock still—men shore—land as day fishers take places—loom from smoke and disappear—into the morning mist…And! Tambura—now count-mix-play—the start—of start-stop—beginning—day…

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 plain—moves ‘cross these places or—other spaces in motions—to exist together—without pride or prejudice or religions-regions—to-take-to-hate or to replace—irreplaceable life. Poverty is a never Crime—Greed is a Crime against all Humanity.

Must touch— beautiful colors—through both the eyes and with our fingers. Must hear—lover’s voice—touch heart—before substance becomes words—of meaning or reason or other notions. Must know—silence—as silence calls—senses—with thunder and noise and music and notes chaotic or symphonic simplicity—as duality ceases and singularity melts—into universal unity and truth.

We watch Newsy-News and Gossip delivered—by-money-for-money and especially written for our desire to believe—the unbelievable…Financial cliffs—foolish babble—and scandals and garbage in-truth-gone-catastrophic—and always—brought to us—by discount prices and junk food gospel. Do not allow—nationalistic spins and materialistic nonsense to confuse the Revolutionary messages—from the People of our World. Beyond the shiny beads and cheap trinkets we; ‘made in America folk’, are also these people.

We just arrive—small ones and large ones—eternal spirits—always going somewhere—to remain—to leave—to arrive-to-leave and to return—again…Madness of believing—in order—when order is—only pleasant chaos…We—are always going somewhere…Or maybe! We are always—just—heading home—OK? Philip K. Dick— ‘Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep’—may have discovered that without our machined ghosts—we cannot dream. With—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—darkest frights and into those sweetest lights. Shadow-touch ‘cross ceilings of moon—dust and spaces—of time-without-races and inside—these moments—Life is an Almost-Maybe.

“Histories of ages past
Hung in light and shadows cast
Down through all eternity
The crying of humanity
‘Tis then when the Hurdy Gurdy Man
Comes singing songs of love
Then when the Hurdy Gurdy Man
Comes singing songs of love.” By Donovan Phillips Leitch

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Both Sides Now’ …By Joni Mitchell

Both Sides Now

 

Sea Of Sibilant Rhymes…

1277‘Refusing to acknowledge an active force in things and instead “simply to absorb this force into a command of God’s – a command given just once in the past, having no effect on things and leaving no traces of itself in them – is so far from making the matter easier to grasp that it is more like abandoning the role of the philosopher altogether and cutting the Gordian knot with a sword’– by Gottfried Leibniz—from ‘On Nature Itself’

“The third then handles those words that end in a sibilant or near-sibilant, and the last picks up everything else. Signals are distorted, sibilant, and overly compressed…‘Sibilants are louder than their non-sibilant counterparts, and most of their acoustic energy occurs at higher frequencies than non-sibilant fricatives.’ Sibilance is a manner of articulation of fricative and affricate consonants, made by directing a stream of air with the tongue towards the sharp edge of the teeth, which are held close together; a consonant that uses sibilance may be called a sibilant, or a strident.”

Counter now—Mt. Over-World—not demons’ wrong by rhythm or rhyme—not times’ happen—when both forgotten and known are lost and found through sets of eyes—right-sighted—united—divided or shared ‘cross ending starts—as beginning—to finish one race and begin another time—another race—to wind-wined—win—to lose or race—place again and again—ad infinitum…

Spirits now carry this soul-touched shiver—into—under hills—dark spaces—where life is born or formed from spark or care or wash or wear—and always—far from lights and sparkle…Coven Isles—remove from ‘Martian’ Beach live once and—recognized by diamond eyes—now dry of surface rain—though still alive and seen through other selves of other times and other places. ‘Tis driest in desert winds—away from darkest sights and silent nights—sleepless slights of magic lights—‘cross crater crash and runners’ dash into caves where life is born—cycles form and disappear into light-slight and—fright…

Music calls and spirits dance ‘round late night fires—lost—somewhere in distant times—We began before the stars—And together we melt into the mist…Of muted voice and silent rooms of—Blood touched throat and emptied tombs—Bridge walked toward and skylight’s scream—By taking flight and falling dream. Warming suns of days ago—With salted mist and taste of tongue—Lights of passion—times of rain—Wolf cries shout of sands and home. Across this universal stretch. Window shine in candle’s light—And let us touch another peace—Of safety sleep and lover’s reach.

And! Beautiful you are…

By Eluveitie…’The Call Of The Mountains’

The Nine Day Mile

62“Time drops in decay
Like a candle burnt out.
And the mountains and woods
Have their day, have their day;
But, kindly old rout
Of the fire-born moods,
You pass not away.”… W.B. Yeats

We do not summon gentle love…It whispers to our spirits—and touches us beyond the flesh of resistance and routes of layers and lives inside walls too high to be climbed or under or around or about the shouts of daily doubts and flight. Love heart touches and reaches—into body frail and those impossible attempts to hide among—thrones of thorns and weary costs—already paid and already spent. Listen—just listen. And! Love reminds us of the equality of equals—woman and man and the spirits of all trapped and—living sentient—sentences of life inside body—minding body.

On 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 ‘cross 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.

Listen and hear—the many-edged sounds of laughter and the salted taste of tears. And! Once books printed—did exist and often read—about the firelight of thousand Candles Street and in scattered places beneath orange colored sky towers—dirt streets along—Bridge Ridge and Liberty Park…The Martian outreach—was a hard travel for Noah and his family…They had reached out to him—the Builders of Star Ships—the ready ships of Earth Spins and moonlighted paths along new waterways—of places to begin—other fleshy forms—a place without the Red worlds. These were the Making Forms—the places of rocks’ motions and creature speaks and the songs of the Glass-Beaker Folk…

Riches flow about the words of sound—tongues known and tasted—treasured—accepted and often heard in other spaces-places seen—felled or yelled against gloom—gathers where sunlight is wishing—spaces scattered among stars of reaches—stretches across skies of night and spaces between word sound—and light. Sand and leaves—together speak—rustle—whisper—murmur and moan of death—not found—of life—not known. And! Still—notions of her away sounds and her silence. Feathers and Leaves and Sand and Ashes and Seas—quiet see—and thunder—‘cross sky and wave splash onto shoreline—and skylines—and time. The share of poet-touch and story-spin—of exile’s faith—of disaster’s private pain—as speech native—fails—creative spirit—often maims—creature-speak and often confuses the never-place-of-everywhere.

We begin before the stars—And together we melt into the mist…Fire and shadows ‘cross a sky—Color moon of blood and gold—Simple songs and thudding drum—Stars light up another home—We move by wind across this place—In sunlight waves and dancing twists—Of silver rain and stretching space—Ship’s gentle streaks in skies of grace—With muted voice and silent rooms of—Blood touched throat and emptied tombs—Bridge walked toward and skylight’s scream—By taking flight and falling dream—Warming suns of days ago—With salted mist and taste of tongue—Lights of passion—times of rain—Wolf cries shout of sands and home—Across this universal stretch—Window shine in candle’s light—And let us touch another peace—Of safety sleep and lover’s reach.

Never back turn on seas and—the notions that eternal spirits are always in motions—of the—been there and maybe already done that—a couple of times—maybe—eh?

And! Beautiful you are…

‘The Water Lets You In’…By Book of Fears

Sweet Spirits Laugh…

743“Isn’t it a shame
The reaper said
He is quite alone here
And still waiting for you
Oh I really did fail for the first time
Spoke the fiddler, poor old fiddler
The fiddler on the green
The fiddler on the green
It would be nice…

Take my hand

Just hold my hand
I’ll take you there
Your pain will go away”

…from ‘Fiddler On The Green’—by Demons and Wizards

Spirit Dances…the chances of creations—combined in shrieks of plenty—night cries—disturbed wings—motions—seen—never noticed—always—a happening of life-death and future days and forever pasts. We are sweet spirits—laughter ‘cross these starry nights— to plunge into another —day—somewhere—someplace—placed in time—at almost—ever-spaces—inside the wind. ‘Tis a good wind—‘tis a good—day. We are ever here—even unknown-to-know—the knowing of Spirit’s speak and notions’ seek. We—live only—along this stretch of sand and—along with the catching up of tide flow—believe the ice and water before and behind us are—our ground—our chapter of seasons lived and written against the sands of shifting grain and the wind. Care for life and alive and steeped in the reality of earth-beat and washed in the eternity of spirit and—even alone—never lonely or forgotten with passing days or endless years of grooved space and the distance between here and there and everywhere.

Rigid to—regularity—then—sweet chaos—systems dynamic—‘dynamo-hum—where’s that dynamo coming from’ (Frank Zappa) —And! Suddenly the regularity of phenomena—no longer measured rigidly—now burst into the probability of theory—though dynamically and universally common—plain-speak and stench—drenched in fractal messages. Pixel me a thought today and watch as pictures fade away. Input-Output’ and many layers hide—within? To count those hidden layers do—counters—count the ‘Input’—one or count the Output two or just ‘1’ and ‘0’ then reverse the flow—skip entry once—to find point then—continue while—depending upon the flow—within? Matters not the incline of the incline—matters—those inclined to forward—reach and backward—catch?

Stop—‘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…

“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.”by Ernest Hemingway…

Survival’s portion—portioned and scattered across understanding simplicity—and the variances in relativity—either linguistically determined—or silenced by rain—loud—gentle beginnings or the whispers of fire-fly wings and lighting…Wait! Eyes—tightly closed—to hear thunder—rolling across separated skies—as unseen flashes—knight the ocean—and crashes boom into the silent space—between raindrops and life…‘Plant your flag on—truth…’ Science eternally dances with superstition…Once and often either—momentarily wins something-of-else or another choice-to-follow…Crossroads to matter—chances to spark—and destiny always flirts with other up-and-about—perhaps…Real Sea—we’ll see—and another and another—of water-ships and places far away…This is here and between landings another beach—reach and as quickly discovered then thrown away…Dragging the lines of surf’s fall and rise—as waves dash high into moonless sky and crash along miles of sand and shoreline. Sea inhale and exhale and breathe again and time marks nothing—when endless and everlasting.

A World where women can walk in day/night safety and men do not know a word called ‘war’…Where love is love and force is Never …Wherever—Whatever—and never is heaven or hell…A place where life is belonging and life is good everyday…Heaven or Luck… No? We create worlds—we maintain worlds and we love our children. So! Pixel me a thought today and watch as pictures fade away. So! Pixel me a thought today and watch as pictures fade away…OK?

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Fiddler On The Green’by Demons and Wizards

Lemon Whirls and Gumdrop Twirls…

M_135“We took the blood of the earth
and fell in love with death
with life itself as an excuse
Black is the sunlight shimmering below;
it flows through life and the guilt we share
We’re hiding in chorus as starry eyes close,
and seasons part in farewell;
‘cause we drained her blood, then forgetting her face
to hide from everyone”…from ‘The Last Hour of Ancient Sunlight’ by Draconian

Walked to once war—places—of warrior kill and spill of red along the sandy streams of green spaces—dreamed graces and where man—gun—marches—of rustle and rice mix—water—man—gun—to run—to stay and wait for the standing dream-scenes—plays and dances of red colors and life runes—places in ruins along sandy streams—of greener spaces—dreaming graces—places found and now not remembered—OK…We cannot kill a man’s family and expect forgiveness. Come by drone—by rifle—by bomb—by war or proxy—no one can forgive another for the murder of his own blood…Family by family—street-by-street—village—town—city—region—no matter and absolutely—no forgiveness. ‘And! While I breathe—I Hope…’

Planets of beginning’s end, and flashes within war clouds on high and on lighted skies for a trillion miles across the sky. The Alpha and the Omega—where Titans rule Atlantis—and—men of great—remove or rule places in time—now gone and a history of never was—on both the Earth and in the sky. We are—before Floods and long before parts of Genesis—that sometime happened—on—sometime worlds or other spaces—of other places and other times. Our Garden of Eden—not Sins—and then—tossed off-world? Eden could—have been better than ruining—by—T-Rex or consumed—by stronger uprights. Eden and sin and serpents, oh my! We are the proof of far removed parents—when gods may have ruled and created women and men—in places from Sirius to Mars to Earth and back—again? Our rulers and our ruled and our voices and our religions have rewritten our beginnings—in so many places and in so many—might have been accidents—that—these truths or fictions—have blurred the start of lost and the loss of—start. And! Still—the rest is yet to come—why not? ‘And! While I breathe—I Hope…’

This garden is hilltop high—we come here—almost twice—to plant flowers and remember sometime—with our voices. Tree lined field already picked and plowed of life—crosses—path as—resting—inside good woods as we look down—toward cattle and fence and trees and fields and a creek bed dry—except for trickles of water caught by pools and deposited by rains covering this hill and that valley just last evening. ‘And! While I breathe—I Hope…’

These—everyday—fail to notion-grasp the chance—of peaceful notion—depending 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 another—another dance before smoking tears or tomorrow-sorrow—death—peace—good life—ways forgotten—gone. ‘And! While I breathe—I Hope…’

“The circle safely closed—the web building starts—the markers of builders old and builders new. Star Guide—folded into original shape— until it is—again required and opened to read and follow—‘cross sky-bridge….Bang-Bang-Bang and let the game begin—again…‘Tis’ good this Loving Rhyme. So! Follow this Time—this Twine—Re-wind. 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.” ‘While I breathe—I Hope…’

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Rebel-Rebel by David Bowie

Circus States of Stasis…

S_44“Love came to my door
With a sleeping roll
And a madman’s soul
He thought for sure I’d seen him
Dancing up a river in the dark
Looking for a woman
To court and spark

He was playing on the sidewalk
For passing change
When something strange happened
Glory train passed through him
So he buried the coins he made
In People’s Park
And went looking for a woman
To court and spark

It seemed like he read my mind
He saw me mistrusting him
And still acting kind
He saw how I worried sometimes
I worry sometimes

“All the guilty people,” he said
They’ve all seen the stain-
On their daily bread
On their christian names
I cleared myself
I sacrificed my blues
And you could complete me
I’d complete you

His eyes were the color of the sand
And the sea
And the more he talked to me
The more he reached me
But I couldn’t let go of L.A.
City of the fallen angels”…’Court and Spark’ written by Joni Mitchell

How sweet word sounds—worlds—as every utterance touches rhyme and rhythm speak—unlike—gathered watches of waiting and watching—a sky-speak of whispers—into the air of night—another spot of raindrop flight—landing ‘gainst—warming sands and salty seas…Riches flow about the words of sound—tongues known and tasted—treasured—accepted and often heard in other spaces-places seen—felled or yelled against gloom—gathers where sunlight is wishing—spaces scattered among stars of reaches—stretches across skies of night and spaces between word sound—and light. Trilingual editions both same or exiled—silence long and the knowing word—of these places—away from the sounds—of her and the notions of—her quietude. Sand and Leaves—together speak—rustle—whisper—murmur and moan of death—not found—of life—not known. And! Still—now notions of her away sounds and her quietude. Feathers and Leaves and Sand and Ashes and Seas—silence see—and thunder be—peels across sky and rolls onto shoreline—and skylines—and time.

Touch now…And! Feel the intimacy of rhythm or rhyme as touch–speak hides deep— inside—the formality of syntax creep and syntax crawl—where ear-here—hears echoes buried—an idiom—not conveyed by any dictionary’s spaces between word-speak and why…The share of poet-touch and story-spin—of exile’s faith—of disaster’s private pain—as speech native—fails—creative spirit—often maims—creature-speak and often confuses the never-place-of-everywhere.

Word—whirl and shoulder-speak—between things and folks—now world twirled and swirled—communicated—debated and always—translated…Why? When silence of touch—the space of race—cross the beast—of peace—and whispers of dare—chance the softest face to love—gain—lost and gained again. Word whirl…The masters-of-idiomatic usage-of-etymological-implications-of-an untranslatable language-discovered-said-remembered-to-be-forgotten-translated and written another way at another day-in-time. Samuel Beckett’s—‘Waiting for Godot’, ‘Endgame’, ‘Molloy’, ‘Malone Dies’, ‘The Unnamable’ and ‘Tetes Mortes’—first in French…Were then translated by the writer…Did Beckett first thrill-to-the-spill—the conception of these writings in English?

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Court and Spark’…by Joni Mitchell

Joni Mitchell – Court and Spark

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