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

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

Star Light Secrets…

Stars_11165There and perched high on dream-side—at flips of mind-sigh—we move across—this universe so fine. Alive and gone and alive and gone—‘til counting-time catches us with mind-sides swirl—sight of mind-light bright—brings another way to see…And Oh! What a wave to see—to be—to know and again to have seen. Yes! To have seen—so it seems and to see it all through Love! Again…

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?

Steel Riders pause by waterside as tides of water—kiss shoreline—wave length along with one hundred sounds—as gulls ride the dips of above and around piers of ruined wood and splintered ages where once—Calimesa City stood—and tide changes—mattered to boat anchored and ships sailing against the evening lines. 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.

These are the salty ways of salted sea and flecks of foam scatter—along shore-sided shifts of sand from wet-to-dry and dune rise—above and beyond watered edges—before ruined boardwalks remind-nothing-of- something—once savored and watched and known by forgotten ones—once upright writers of the times—and the sounds of ‘days of a future’s past.’ Still! We all cross spaces along these places of—the races in time gathered—and night ships crossing heaven’s ragged ridges…

Slaves of speed—those things filling corners of—house scatter and caves overwhelmed by many needs— requiring covers to crawl into and away from storm’s wrath—drenched in sweat and rain and dried with winds of howling sounds and lighted by the flash of light streams—traced along the edges of cloud swirl and twirl and reflected from a trillion eyes shining bright into those nights of storm and clutter—and later—mist lifts from a million places outside caves and houses and homes now forgotten and almost gone.

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.

“Not everything that can be counted really counts, and not everything that counts can be really
counted“… Albert Einstein.

“The moving power of mathematical invention is not reasoning, but imagination.”… A De Morgan

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Bohemian Like You’…By The Dandy Warhols

The Witch Weeps…

94“Street wise from the boulevard
Jesus only knows that she tries too hard
She’s only tryin’ to keep the sky from fallin’

Any man who says it’s Heaven and Hell
Prob’ly got somethin’ useless to sell
You ask me if I’m saved, but what’s it to ya?” from ‘Saving Grace’ by Erik Francis Schrody

Life is not a resource. Life is being…Trees—fish—animals—reptilian alive—life. Since life is being—then everything on this precious earth and in our sweet oceans—lakes and rivers are—beings. We too are members of this stream—our existence and freedom and balance are interlocked—in these motions and rhythms and rhymes. Dependents we are and we rejoice in the music of nature’s symphony and universal spirit-speak.

Life is not a resource. Forests are not board-feet. Our precious animals are alive and well and multiplying within circle-life and when undisturbed—are balance and the harmony of earth twirl and whirl across space—required for survival and never for—the commercial aggravation of money changers and the idiocy of gain. Precious must be protected—by wise beings—removed from destruction and worshiped as our only method to survive future days and darkest nights. Unless! Flash we stop and our carbon-based trickle ceases equal value and determination.

Life is not a resource. When forest covered this place—land once stripped is now concrete jungles and scattered sky-buildings layered from portions of little to—too much. Resource-speak twisted this place into battlefields and crime and punishment and the damage of civilization and the end of peace. Nations began with ‘battle-cries of freedom’ and the blood of poor laborers and slaves—created hope for many and freedom for—few. Life is not created—to be purchased or sold.

Life is not a resource. The middle of an Eastern portion of a world spinning across a universe of space and time and 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!

Life is not a resource—and Colonialism is the destruction of Society. Western civilization believes life is resource. However; life is interlocked and dependent and precious. Resource is another tool for wealth creation and the capitalization of destruction. Until decisions of an illogical accumulation of life as resources cease, the world will gain nothing and the drones of war will continue forever.

Life is not a resource. 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 miles.

Are we the builders of grand places and the ancients of straw homes in tomorrow’s futures? Often music calls spirits to dance ‘round a late night fire somewhere in distant time—We began 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 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…

’Saving Grace’ by Everlast—Erik Francis Schrody

Petri Dish Warriors…

1‘The circle safely closed—Tis’ good this Loving Rhyme. 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.’

When you are chasing shadows for your next meal—freedom’s whimsey ends. It is a world we inhabit—it is not me and it is not you—Then! What are We…Spying and ‘Brother Guv’?  Nature’s control—uncontrollable—instantly forever and beyond scopes of science and of imagination. Rarely—fairly sized bits of spaced-placed spins—swirl by the twirl of Terra-formed globes of—mother-ships and heaven rips—along the ‘ins-outs’ through—wormholes and folded space—distance short—through tomorrow’s-daze and reaching toward—yesterday’s-today. Gods roar—small voices and the sky wars begin and end as Watchers—on Walkers Hill gather—and record the might and flight of Petri dish warriors and ‘thou shalt not’ killers form time and place—scatter across one thousand worlds of sin and spin—begin and end and then—begin again.

Petri Dish creations appear—to first crawl or redraw—soups of shimmer and microscopic glimmer— and from those mud pots—creations—cover a globe of twirl—along and around fresh or salted or brackish soups—to boat-float about—by single constructions—to ships of destruction—to curse the folds of space-time purpose—with cathedral towns and roundabout stores…Then! How does the Acts-of-Survival—intended-by-life be bound and drowned—revived to-only-die-again? Babble towers—divinity curses—from Volapuk speak—to the Esperanto’s lyric touch and still to more and other and another—ad infinitum—til good is better to best almost and then—back-to-begin—again. Qwerty and AC/DC speaks of—rhythms and rhymes in ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ and still the ‘1’ of life to ‘0’ not and then back to life’s ebb or spread and hacked—back—again to-begin and then-to-end—again.

Words may—too often influence and warp the processes—through how—we know-what-we-know-we-now-know—or almost future—know-what we almost-may understand—sometime—in some-place-in-space—somewhere-in-time…And! All fits—all places—mostly—almost right-writing and writing-right either incorrectly or almost-always finding fit—too and almost—never-quite-writing-right-correctly…So! Write word-speak and text/message masses—via earphone-to-headphone and standing by—that understanding may begin and start again—in one thousand places—through six thousand spaces—mixes with many—impresses a few—and almost—maybe—enlightens one and with many sounds and through the swirl of syntax twirl—the many may forget the few. OK! But still right bends truth-to-left and back again—’til what—may be true is false again and false once truth is back—again.

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—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. 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.

And! Beautiful you are…

‘DreamCatcher’…by Cusco

Diamond High and Dusted…

F_12Augusto José Ramón Pinochet Ugarte became the dictator of Chile because the United States of America backed his take-over of the Civilian Elected—‘Socialist Unidad Popular’ government of President Salvador Allende on September 11, 1973…During his ‘unelected rein of terror’— at least (3,200) people were killed—(80,000) people were incarcerated and more than thirty thousand folks were tortured…Why?

On diamond highs—along shore sand and reed—circle the Twirlers of Sabayin Swirl—often fill the slash and crash of evening tide—with scarves’ streaks and tracks—before tide’s arrival—to clean-wash season’s waste and taste. Bloom sellers—Peddlers of flowers delicate and barbellate—white carnations and seasonal red roses. And! Enough weapons to destroy our own world…Circle the Twirlers of Sabayin Swirl and the Song-of-Anne-asks—‘why kill when dying is just another way home?’ Without ‘me’ everyone is free…Eternal spirits ‘we’—not the ‘id’—not ‘ego’ not—‘me-we’ against worlds…

Why failures of a financial and economic nature—when Neo-liberal Capitalism (the economics of Reaganomics—trickle-down constricts—mumbles and ends tumbles—shrinks to drips—from splash
to direly drier—than known—before lies begin and ‘never happens’—prosperity’s ‘never really was’ without bang-bangs or shudders-shatter by hope-for-or almost-happens and those policy measure-treasures—onward ‘blah’ forward—as revolution’s creep-deep without anything better than word-speaking lies and no restructuring of major institutional failures? Questions long and answers with motions toward revolution and the beginnings of new steps away from Neo-liberal Capitalism and toward the justice of just the ‘US’ without those pathetic few finding jet-side and seeking those ‘new worlds’ a hoppity-skippity—space twist—toward new suns or old stars aligned with something new or stagnation—start-stop and financial panic becomes death through revolution.

Where to hide—when star-drive failures and distances to-moons-away—sway in the hope of fleeing— become the hope of sharing the shares of corporate machines and the independence of individual greed—and evolution bows it hungry head—collapses and rests beside life for lifetime reasons and survival’s true reason-to-be-to-see and to-be-free? Neo-Liberal Capitalism is not a ground-middle…Greed by another name whether called ‘classical liberalism’ or a collection-of-collectors-planning-centrally—is still the evolution of greed—scattering seeds of disconnection and realizing revolution either in the present or just a moment into the future…If laissez-faire’ is a doctrine of classical liberalism then a variance equals a ‘market economy.’ Those few—having the ‘where-with-all’ may successfully spin the twirls of markets…Majority has no ‘where-with-all’ and still spins of twirling markets destroy those with and those without…Oops! And greed will ‘getcha’ if you don’t watch out…

French editor and cartoonist Stephane Charbonnier said; “I would rather die standing than live on my knees.” A ‘slave-owner’—Thomas Jefferson advised that; “the tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time.” He believed the people must warn the rulers that taking up arms against the government is legitimate if the government fails to protect the people’s liberty. And! Greed will ‘getcha’ if you don’t watch out…

And! Beautiful you are…

‘In the Name of Love’…performed by U2

The Seconds Next…

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

I think it’s time we stop, children, what’s that sound
Everybody look what’s going down…” Buffalo Springfield

Not games of ‘I’— not a place of mine or yours—but of ours-our-lives—of we and us—scattered across the Universal Find—of fine places to live and to die and to again—begin—living clusters—angel songs—along the rhythm and rhyme of time…We do not need ‘Biblical Scourges’ and ‘Days End’ prophecies to end—our own ending-beginning—we are able to fulfill demises—devised by devices—ourselves…No great Lighting Gods or Evil Hosts required.

‘People Free’ create the all-of-best creations. Priceless-Plunder-Shares—shared by the creators of creation’s best are not gifts—are creations deserved—expected—rejected—accepted and built again—improved—imported—exported and to the creators—People Free…’Wage-Slaves’ do—own the creations of their creation—grown from their lands—harvested by their sweat and irrigated by their tears.

Searching now as then and again in a forever reach of reaches—stretchers—stretching toward silver tongues and voices of gold—still—wondering why—maintain societies’ hierarchy—when social voices— many sounds of poverty silent—when greed so deafens—growls of hunger and the pleas of need…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 only 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 a ‘force’ of ‘Police’ quickly—becoming the ‘Enemy’ of the people? America is awash with Swat Teams—Tanks and ‘Copters and Drones and—Snipers—Outsiders—Insiders—to Gas and Spray and Kill and Arrest and Convict and React—not Pro-Act…We are all people-of-people not Corporations-of-Departments—or Police-folk-to-combat-People-folk…We are neighborhoods—we are parts-of-parts—within-little-parts. The American Constitution—while written by rich-white-men—teases the People with words of Equality—Liberty—High Hopes and People—Strength: And! Still—’once upon a midnight dream’ we are just ‘Us’—little parts-within-ourselves and still unincorporated…Just Together!

In his new book, ‘Rise of the Warrior Cop’, journalist Radley Balko illustrates that the militarization of police departments developed—several decades before 9/11. He mentions—a few appropriate applications of modern—tactics and weaponry—obscure—routine use—each day—against U.S. citizens—accused of ordinary crimes, in ways that would have been repugnant to the nation’s founders. “To say a military tactic is legal, or even effective, is not to say it is wise or moral in every instance,” the president noted in his recent speech. “For the same human progress that gives us the technology to strike half a world away also demands the discipline to constrain that power—or risk abusing it.”

Evolve with us—from what ‘we-be’ into the may happen places of ‘second-next’—Once written—‘pretty words’ from ‘pretty-people’—pontifications all— an admonition regarding the dangers of armed and standing government forces—to people today—and for us—totally—acceptable for armed government storm agents—all dressed in garbs of armor and battle to rape—pillage—and plunder—private places in night’s ‘middling safety’—not to apprehend violent fugitives or thwart terrorist attacks, but to Enforce laws against nonviolent, consensual activities? Happens how and now and when and everywhere and why?

Protest and Speech Politic—twirls now toward the swirls of grenades that flash and crying sprays and RoboCops of ‘all-dressed up’—and still—the You and I of—Us against each-other…We were 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’ often conditioned to see our neighborhoods and us (‘we the people’) as their Enemy…People-Person-You and I—We still are US…The New York Times reports; “according to Pentagon data, police departments have received tens of thousands of machine guns; nearly 200,000 ammunition magazines; thousands of pieces of camouflage and night-vision equipment; and hundreds of silencers, armored cars and aircraft.Why?

Von Clausewitz said: “War is politics pursued by other means.”

And! Beautiful you are…

‘What’s Going On’…written by Renaldo “Obie” Benson, Al Cleveland and Marvin Gaye…