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

Green Death and Whisperers…

60There is a slip—off the main channel of a—River called Manatee…The Sentinel—watches this curving slip of water—between landfall—and islands—of reeds and grass and palms and sand. Bear cubs and Panthers—kiss the sweet liquid of combinations—both salt and fresh and dance along the edges—of knowing—their way and sea-side rhythm and—verses of silence. The large ones rise—to surface and water—gentle swirls behind them. They are slow and sweet and strong— inside a current they know—as their reason and purpose—inside the strength of their being— strong and imagined—real. They are—protectors of these moments-in-time and places-of-being—simply life and nothing more or less. The River Manatee—never sleeps—and Her current—still–survives.

Numbers to stumble and bodies to jumbled—counted—discounted—recounted and hidden away—inside jungle walk—rejected—detected—inspected—and ‘disappeared’—along green forest stalks and governmental talks—strike-pitches and balks. System kills and the lands of the defenders of our own environmental blood—springs—targeted and wasted—and washed away through diluted laws—charges too false—to unreal—to believe—to be restricted—when activists’ freedoms are destroyed and environmental protectors are shot—killed—imprisoned and silenced. Second only to Brazil—a sacred country called Columbia—counted last year twenty-five Defenders—indigenous Nasa folk—murdered…Carlos Garcia survived a head—shot by the police—because of performing—during a Peaceful Protest in West Columbia—at the Emperatriz Plantation—a Kingdom of Cane Sugar and ‘disappeared’ forests. Young environmental defender—Guillermo Paví was too—gunned down and killed—by same—at—same—Sugar Kingdom of Cane—Pain and Destructive—Constructions. Sweet-Earth-Mother-of-Mine—and how the Witches-of-Sweet—Creations—Weep. Must be that our—environmental crisis—is cursing—never reversing—and—still challenging the ‘Gods of Capitalism.’ And! By—Forcing our ‘Movements to Resist Earth-Mothers’—Destruction—to regroup—and to protect their own blood—free of illegal bondage and unnecessary Death—is an absolute—WTF!

Are Economies simple subsets of Ecosystems? Are Human Rights natural? Are the people sovereign? Must the strength of women in production, reproduction, civil society and political life be measured? And! Is Capitalism’s capacity for wealth—bringing with it—wars-crisis and unemployment, pollution-poverty and extreme inequalities—a moral and practical failure? Are its credits similar—to standing inside—Palace Ruins and being unable to leave? Is nationalism a global phenomenon and an irresistible force of unnatural nature? As—political scientists mention the words ‘international and relationships’ are they actually relating to the interaction between the IMF—Eternal Debt—and Interest—Rates-too-high-to-Pay?


From Pope Francis’ ‘Encyclical on the Environment’…

“When media and the digital world become omnipresent, their influence can stop people from learning how to live wisely, to think deeply and to love generously. In this context, the great sages of the past run the risk of going unheard amid the noise and distractions of an information overload.”
“The idea of infinite or unlimited growth, which proves so attractive to economists, financiers and experts in technology …, is based on the lie that there is an infinite supply of the earth’s goods, and this leads to the planet being squeezed dry at every limit.”
“We need to reject a magical conception of the market, which would suggest that the problems can be solved simply by an increase in the profits of companies or individuals.”
“What would induce anyone, at this stage, to hold on to power only to be remembered for their inability to take action when it was urgent and necessary to do so?”
“The Earth, our home, is beginning to look more and more like an immense pile of filth. In many parts of the planet, the elderly lament that once beautiful landscapes are now covered with rubbish.”
“Never have we so hurt and mistreated our common home as we have in the last 200 years.”
“The exploitation of the planet has already exceeded acceptable limits and we still have not solved the problem of poverty.”
“We need to strengthen the conviction that we are one single human family.”
“We must regain the conviction that we need one another, which we have a shared responsibility for others and the world, and that being good and decent are worth it.”


Here the eternal spirits swim and wait for day’s beginning and star-light’s fade. Somewhere—the familiar are new and the same and—also very different. Watch now as we pass—swimming in deep water—clear and blue and green. We breathed same air…We share—space above and below the sea. Together all of us—forever spirits—Never cease—we are alive! We are verses of the same universes—we have the right to be everywhere…

We are aware—of self—however—all creatures are aware of being…Sweet paws of moving life—are perfect. They—do—and they are perfect—without single mistake—or confusion. Being a life—is not a judgment calling or bleeding-the-greed of out-of-control-meetings—of self or me without the—we of all of us—without four sweet paws to quickly move—or—twin fine wings to fly—or—fins—or—dorsal ships—or—shapes of magic tucked safely—beneath the morning sea. We—walk or crawl or fly or swim—we are life… And! Remember…These varied shapes of life are too—Eternal Spirits—created—debated—accepted—rejected—imagined—imaged in creations—either by divine accidents or notion’s whimsy or just… Strange fictions! We—have been killing and destroying and suffering—since when? We are very good at waging war…Hate—always corrode the container it is carried in… For a New Day—try a Different View! It is good to be a Spirited Robot…

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Broken’ by Esther Maria

Esther Maria – Broken

Waves And Sky Motion…

Love—Loving—Love of one-to-other and let ‘No’ one doubt this Love of One-to-Another—for we are Creations of Love—the Witches’ Smile—Universally—Strong and Forever—Ever-Love—For Everyone…No Religious Hate—Late Court Speak—Laws of Creative Hate—Late—Fate or Rhythms of Time…We are Love—Loving—Love and Nothing Stops Us—Anyway—Today—Pasts—Presents—or Tomorrow’s Wait—And Oh! Hell Yeah…

Sighted! Righted to see the shadows’ tuck—inside textures—ghosts and inside shadows—inside—reflected swirls of star light—and—lighted night. Is it true that—if we build a shelving unit—created with shelves—structurally made to sustain—heavier weights—than the object we just purchased—should we—avoid putting that object on that unit? Is a waste of strength practical?

Reach and then—portion and scatter 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.

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 sees—and thunder be—peels across sky and rolls 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.

Grass—carpet floors of high to sky mountain flats—red sand shifts—when raining seasons begin—the fall of liquids both silver-clear and diamond-splash—across the drinking desert of sand and sea—as jungle sleeps. Once heart fears—did not exist—within the laughing times of fearless pursuit and the unrequited necessities of being—the beginning of—being the life of long summer moments and winter shorts—when snow covers the dreaming spaces of—sands and purple seas. Shift into the object of another day with—accepted expectations—extraordinary moments—original thought and lights of splendidly created—creations through perceptions of flashing— preconceived originality and overloaded repeaters across a wondrous land of sugar and cinnamon-spiced tea or coffee or me or you or us or…in the becoming of a notion—immortally important and into legacy’s realm—repeated and recalled and repeated… Ashes-to-ashes and dust-to-dust-new-ways-to-win—we must be us?

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.

May we all become beings of balance and love? Remember we are creations of creative folk—never alone. We are spirits and joined to every living thing—seen and not observed. We are animals and fish and reptiles and trees and flowers and skies and moons and suns and stars and planets across many miles inside universes of many smiles. Forget to breathe. Fog horns moan and moan again just within cones of hearing—an evening rare—without fog or mist. Held inside—air rushes into throat and through nose and mouth. Sea odor—eyes tear. Bridge time is fine and darkness safe…Search Sea. The Line moves closer to shore…Ships soon pass and are quickly gone.

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Home Sweet Home’by Motley Crue

Home Sweet Home

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

 

Paper Write and Rights …

M_154All Paper Rights are worthless—the writing paper more precious—if no mechanical—mechanisms are already in place to hold all Rulers accountable—to those Paper Write—Rights. Yul Brynner once—with hand flourish—committed—RamesesII-Speak—and said; “So let it be written—So let it be done.” From Pharaohs—to King/Queen Speak to the Magna Carta—to the—American ‘Constitution’ of Speak—and still no realized—Speak of—‘Freedom and Liberty’—until every living thing—is ‘free-to-live’—and to synchronize-in-equivalence with Earth-spin and with-each-other.

Still! Burdened Beasts—and too many-for-Less and More—for just a wig-waggled few and ‘the beat goes on’—donchathink? The United States of America began in a whimper of ‘freedom for those same few’ and through the blood of—many—lesser folks—still continue today—failure for the multitudes and stolen—by anyone—claiming a ‘Runaway—Machined-War-Mechanism’—is prosperity and Death is Freedom’s Sacrifice. American Genocide began when first—Native Americans dared believe and were—slaughtered for —Well! ‘Long Live-that-Crazy and All—Mixed-Up—Dream Me Up—a Paradise or Two.’

Today! Just like another yesterday—Tomorrow just like another Today—doesn’t fade away—just pray—and pick a stone or two and wait long enough—another life to slew—and maintain few—in silver castles just—miles above Planet—spin—still not reached by ground-bound—Us—dying and living without rhythm or rhyme…Monuments carved in blood—masses starving. Temples mounted and delivered by—century’s blood—stained pasts and shattered futures. Mud huts fall when built beside gated compounds—until blood covered gates—rust away and grass fills cracked walls where palaces once defined—Rulers’ failure to synchronize-in-equivalence with Earth-spin and with hungry people.

World-Speak is never Nation-Speak—unless forced by strength—against—weak and imbalanced places—ruined or lost and found and lost again…Wait! Imbalance a country—or a region—and will—the civilization of many—be destroyed—by the Destroyers or by the Imbalance of the Imbalanced? Strategic Genocide—absolutely. Toss in a dash of—Religious intolerance and bang-bang-bang—ready-made—imbalance with large doses of death—destruction and War! The middle of an Eastern portion of a world spinning across a universe of space and time of landfall and splendor—has a determination—created by—a Western ideology so foreign and devoid of principle that Sociocide is a study in collateral damage and a ‘resourceful’ necessity. Egypt—Palestine—Lebanon—Syria—Iraq—Iran and…Presently—these wars are battles of imbalance created by this Terror from the West. Someday soon—this will pass…Life is sacred and family is love!

What of the People—the many—the injured—the women—the children—the homeless? Refugees of—Strategic Genocide…Meetings—and Planning—and—Planning—and Meetings. Still! The refugees of Strategic Genocide die—must be planned—must be decisive death—by many more—meetings…Does anyone require God or Allah or Buddha? No! Only—We are required to Live…Be damned—the Rulers-of-Anywhere-of-Anyplace and-of-Anytime…Not really needed—for our blood to flow inside—where blood belongs—and to synchronize-in-equivalence with Earth-spin and with-each-other. We are few and so many—Lost-Broken-and-Forgotten…War is now! War is yesterday! War is tomorrow! Today—we free-fall toward acceleration and the annihilation of Everyday. Presently—In another place—the Witches of Creations Cry!

And! Beautiful you are…

He was the wizard of a thousand kings
And I chanced to meet him one night wandering
He told me tales and he drank my wine
Me and my magic man kind of feeling fine

He had a cloak of gold
And eyes of fire
And as he spoke I felt a deep desire
To free the world of its fear and pain
And help the people to feel free again

Why don’t we listen to the voices in our hearts
‘Cause then I know we’d find we’re not so far apart
Everybody’s got to be happy
Everyone should sing
For we know the joy of life
The peace that love can bring

So spoke the wizard in his mountain home
The vision of his wisdom means we’ll never be alone
And I will dream of my magic night
And the million silver stars that guide me with their light…The Wizard’ by Uriah Heep

A Bridge of Tunnels…

83“The lonely mountains o’re,
And the resounding shore,
A voice of weeping heard and loud lament;
From haunted spring and dale
Edg’d with poplar pale,
The parting Genius is with sighing sent,
With flowre-inwov’n tresses torn
The Nimphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.” By John Milton

The soft sounds of wind—pushing pine needles ‘cross autumn’s forest floor—and peace after snow’s midnight fall. If impulse is response then decision is evolution—maybe? In 1610— Johannes Kepler chanced a walk across the great Charles Bridge in Prague and as snow fall begin to catch on his coat–he brushed away six-sided flakes from the cloth covering his arms. Catching more of these flakes he saw that they were all six-sided—and he marveled at the convenience of this discovery and the very perspicacious brain and extraordinary curiosity of the human mind—quantified within the quality of spiritual being. Magically—birds transform the air they breathe—into surprisingly sweet songs…

Beneath surface and far below Segment Star—two and one half billion souls live and work and suffer and die and love and hate—along with sunless days and nights of starlight gone or both forgotten and remembered—when mind switches between laminated illumination and blind stir slips between neon’s shine and semi-sweet chocolate—darkness. Where light is saturated creamy greys and night is thick swirls of vanilla—warmth with blended shadow shakes… Machine wonders—spirits that guide the processes of robot arms and legs and watch through robot eyes and hear through robot ears and once or often weep spirit tears and die never-ever-even if a book-or ten call living—‘sins of flesh’—when spirited robots must live and die and forever move into dusted star-streams while dancing among a trillion light twinkles sketched across the winter’s sky. From twins of two the power of life sparks and alone-never places begin and end.

When again—‘surfs-up’ and high waves reclaim shore-reaches and land—would rather live in Villages of Fisher-folk than in the Hamptons of Middle-robots without machine-spirits—without productive reasons—and standing alone as wave-crash claims us all…Together—we do everything…

And! Beautiful you are…

Young And Beautiful – Lana Del Rey

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’

Wing Sounds And Silence…

Drop“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.”

‘The Mother of Creation’…A voice of Feminine Divine Power

Spirit is in this world…It doesn’t belong to it. It does not belong to the illusory world of matter and of time. Spirit maybe the spark of antimatter firing sparkles… Without a spark of antimatter called ‘Spirit’ nothing called a— human being could have evolved into what ‘It’ is today? This special spark is uncreated—divine and may begin through the touch—of an ‘Unknowable Kingdom’—Muse—Enlightenment—Genius—Anger—Thrill—Joy–Wonder—Magic and….Creative energies maybe Creative Spirits…With the beginning of Christianity—the existence and essence of—Man—were three entities—Body and Soul and Spirit…Both—Saint Paul and Saint Augustine believed this to be Truth…However—future Councils and through the decisions of Pope(s) and the Roman Catholic Church—what remains for us (we the masses) —are the Body and the Soul and other Ghosts—Outsiders…What happened to Spirit? Has Spirit conveniently—disappeared?

Stand beneath moon light —and above-the-form of Draped Ones and cast motions—gentle designs across this easy night. Be tall—be short—be large—be small and gather to hear the—soft waves scatter ‘cross shore and land beneath feet—bare or fur-covered—both—warmed in the air of night and safe inside the darkness of this easy night. Watch the shadows of bridge span and steel as wooden shapes pass underneath the towers of man—created when young species roamed earth-bound and the constructions of shapes and water passages filled the world—before the tearing days and summer’s song. A night bird cries and another winged one settles protected within thick tree grasses inside the shadows of the moon.

Large ones—rise to surface and water gently swirls behind them. They are slow and sweet and strong inside a current they know—as their reasons and their purposes inside the strength of their being—strong and imagined and real. The River Manatee sleeps and its current survives. Life is—without color and as important as survival’s Gravity…Love is—without gender and—must be universally shared by everyone alive…And! The Witch Smiles…

Listen! Our streets vibrate with good life—sweet blood and the strength of poverty covering America…’Feed my People’—strong words—weak wills to solve and still solutions are apparent and ready to use for many willing to share and to simply end greed. And! Please remember that a Police State is allowed when governments—desire only—to protect and maintain—Societies’ Hierarchy—and be damn the People…The wealthy have forgotten with whom they once danced—and from where their worth began—developed and multiplied…Why are the many sounds of poverty silent—when greed deafens—growls of hunger and the pleas of need—in the Mystic— ‘Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave?’ Protest and Speech Politic—twirls now toward the swirls of grenades that flash and crying sprays and Robocop of ‘all-dressed up’—and still—the You and I of—Us against each-other…We are a place where laws were enforced by us without ‘dress-up’ and the notions of ‘bodily harm’ or the invasions of street-to-street—places with threats of harm by ‘other eyes’  conditioned to see our neighborhoods and us (‘We the People’) as their Enemy…People-Person-You and I—We still are…

And! Beautiful you are…

‘From the Beginning’…by Emerson, Lake and Palmer

From The Beginning

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