Spirits Sell Dreams Again…

771Winter Landscape, with Rooks

“Water in the millrace, through a sluice of stone,
plunges headlong into that black pond
where, absurd and out-of-season, a single swan
floats chaste as snow, taunting the clouded mind
which hungers to haul the white reflection down.

The austere sun descends above the fen,
an orange cyclops-eye, scorning to look
longer on this landscape of chagrin;
feathered dark in thought, I stalk like a rook,
brooding as the winter night comes on”…by Sylvia Plath

Early morning—sounds are soft ‘gainst ear—and—movement here—does not play darts—and goes—and—stop or start. Reflect—don’t think—and—happen—as life happens—in a sweet flow— of quiet seashore—and moonlight—bright. Waves gentle—gently removes—sand castle winds—fade fast—as eastern stars’ twinkle faith—and—roars of today’s—day touch future stops and goes. We are—barefoot children—of yesterday’s—todays—and tomorrow’s sunlight—bright. We leave—behind—dances—little paws—marks—in semi-wet sand—cool—and— without ever-care-never. Pipers play and children dance—into ragged-sorted-night—and—as they dance—Goddess flash—darkness—thunders and—those claps-of-little-hands—and—rings join—little songs and laughter—only as a child laugh–sings. A piper of the raggedy—sorting day—the role of rolls—the answer ones—and follow dance—behind-beside and before—the flute of silver crafts—and—the simple-dancing song. ‘A better day,’ they shout—and—everyone agrees—if you please.

If no one died because of War—how different would worlds appear—to be—to see—to hear—to here—to know? And! While snow run ‘cross deep knee—tuck and stumble—carry-to-steps—afraid to breathe-stop—fearing too high—places—not our own—or theirs—then coming spirit winds—round panting lips—face red—wishing air flow—and a knowing—you hear—are here—just as you disappear…And! If spirits sell—would—only dream you back again?

“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.

So! Pixel me a thought today and watch as pictures fade away.

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Round Midnight’…by Julie London

Broken Glass And Beaker Folk…

4‘Memories that fade away
Have not left their mark
But you live on, every single day
In many different ways

It’s the truth between his cunning lies
That hands him his suspicious alibis
Persuading with your force will never be the way
To our destiny

Suddenly we’ve lost the force
To close our cursed doors
No one seems to realise
That wolves are in disguise

It’s the truth between his cunning lies
That hands him his suspicious alibis
Persuading with your force will never be the way
To our destiny

Your engine was so strong
But the road was just too long
Hope is not the end
So never lose the faith

As long as we can say
They can never take away
Our freedom, the most precious thing we’ve ever had
The reward from the blood, we’ve ever shed

His quest for higher truth, life of eternal youth has just begun,
in spite of being on the run
Many virgins wait for him to come
Persuading with your force will never be the way
To our destiny
Our destiny’… ‘Safeguard to Paradise’ by Epica

  • (Illegitimate: not carried out, made, or constituted in accordance with the law, the rules governing a specific activity, or social norms and customs…Unlawful—Illegal—Illicit—Dishonest—Prohibited—Criminal—Banned—Proscribed—Forbidden…) Wondering if—‘Being’—is Illegitimate?

The Glass Beaker Folk—glass handlers all—gather ‘round petri dish—dishing out samples—of small fleshy beings—and large bark folk—decide to mix—and their creations—are forms-of-forms and other-forms of twin-spin shapes—‘cross planets’ twirl—simple complexities—arriving with baby cries—little howl—-And! Wondering—if one—stares into eyes-of-disarray—one—finds an honest illusion—without confusing-disillusion—or solution—keep-seek—or chose-to-lose? Wondering if the gods of Beaker Folk—created—creations—with wrong formula—uses and mixes of—humor and myth…Immaculate contraptions—birth—and dissonance for—every-other—sun—sister-brother—reasons and rhyme—along with bottled time—working cords—yesterday’s—today’s and tomorrows’ sighs.

A historian—wrote that future’s Child— “did not need to be told that the angel of death had passed over the land; they had heard the beating of its wings”. So! Wondering if—‘The reason the Dead—do not return—nowadays—is the boredom of it.’ One fare-to-fix—One fix-to-fair…Life is precious through any form—Life animates…Every style-type of flesh—be stone—bark—smooth—fur—as sweet life goes—becomes and ends—and becomes again…’Tis good donchaknow…

Stand beneath moon light —before-the-form—of Draped One and cast motions—gentle designs ‘cross this easy night. Be tall—be short—be large—be small and Be—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 an easy—light. Watch shadows of bridge span—and steel—as wooden shapes—pass underneath those—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 those shadows—of the moon.

Once Star Child said—‘That along a Martian Ridge—one line—eye stretched far—was a stutter of thorn—then throne—then grain—then throne—then repeated—until distance—failed seeing and sight disappeared when ridge—merged sky—and—matter dropped—from surfaced rust. And! On these staggered thrones—Writers’ names etched’—crystal tags—attached—along the top-front—of every throne.’ The Spacer—thought these folk—may have belonged—to some type of ‘Club’…Creative Spirits do—gather—one-time-or-maybe-two—to watch sky—etch forms—dissolve—appear and disappear—while often dancing ‘cross—so many places—to many races—as often they appear—only to disappear—and reappear—again—once-in-a-while—you know…

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Safeguard To Paradise’—by Epica

Love—Life—And Back Again…

London_1073‘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.’

The death of ‘middle warders’ on surfaces—are many and rarely varied. Renewal—of hidden—memories and power—in times of—sorrow—danger—and fear must—prevail. Wealth—again moves—poverty descends—from above—as sunlight firms—and from—this ground—levels of those—dwellers and their children. Life—ends—as—life—begins. Life—also creates-stop-start—inside—thousand world reach—where liquid—spins and evaporates.

Across time—lighted atmosphere—with spaces—absent of everything—save—views above and across the—angled galaxy—war of rearranged-arrangements begin—and—still end—in victorious—losses. Some obtain—more-of-less while some—lose everything to—other dwellers above—these spaces—or below this ground—stretched places—caves and cave-ins—where life hides from death—and—waits the end—of silent-lightning and the reaches-of-teaches—flash.

Once again—against—these skies—spinning whirls—of land and seas—of salt and lakes of salt—less spree—warriors stage—wars of rearranged-arrangements—act and actions—where—wealth distributes—to winner’s joy—and to—losers—sorrow. The dead—discarded beneath soiled blood—inside rocky notions—victories of death and legend. Forgotten—are response to—battle—and the rhymes that end—in hunger and rearranged—arrangements.

For these are—short days of peace—remember pleasant moments—above ground splendor—and days-of-nights and nights-of-days—as knights begin—an—uncertain dance of—daze. Swords-shields—never rust and the lightning—of solar dust—gather in place—of suns—along a galactic twirl of swirling—world—filled brim high—with the salted seas—as—breaking winter waves—on shorelines’ length—a billion lakes—without salt—yet—filled with many lights—of star sparkle and life.

Do the religious—measure by rank and legend—higher than reason and world happiness—also become—the first practitioners of—Totalitarianism?—When—reason is rejected—as faith demands and self-interest becomes self-sacrifice—then—give up reason for—thought control—genocide and starvation—why? An infallible ruler—a declination of life expectancy-life-spans-hopes-dreams—and the elimination of unapproved thought by a church and the inquisition—fancy living—or maybe—be—‘never-‘evers’? ‘Nearer my Gods-to-Z’s.’

These are—days of women—of men—and—of children. Days of—reaffirmation and survival’s rearranged—arrangements and—of offerings. They are—creations of ways—of means—of love-hate—and care—in heart shape—reasons and certainly—uncertainty. The times—of these creations—are tiny—moments before—another war and death songs—are always—gentle moments—just after those last days—battled—when reasons are few—and responses—always necessary. Always! Rearranged—arrangements? Blood feeds form—and those forms cease—flesh without it?

Peace—happening-happens—future-present and learned from past touches—brushes—painted blood—flood of regrets—endless wars—sorrow worship—dead—dying all the time—without rhythm—without rhyme…Still reach-teach—beached and—still. Woman—Man! We stand—equally on this—hilltop rise—same battles to fight—same hungers—same pleading—needs—together…And Warrior—She! —We need—most—because without—we do not exist…Remember?

And! Beautiful you are…

‘London Calling’…by The Clash

So Strikes—The Minds of Us…

333“Courage is grace under pressure”…from ‘The Old Man and The Sea’ by Ernest Hemingway

We—determine—destiny—as spirits and as flesh? Angry Gods—do not exist. Angry men—matter little—except to scrubs—of scurry selves—beings—just spinning matter of expressions. Rude—the kings and queens—of foolish speak—when angles fall—toward earthbound trivial…Moment Gods—require no explanations—when fear rules—these angled angels. As flesh—we return—turned peace—to war and gash—slash ‘cross—another spin of earth. Battle— disturbs the strength—of peace and the balance of life. We war—against nothing—save ideas and the—ideals of anti-life. Remove religions and governments and kings and queens! Better-to-fall-in-love—and not—fall-in-battle—donchathink?

We work these fields—beneath sing-song wires and lengths of wave grain—toward the forever of sight—out-in and back again…Brushed wind—white tunics—seagull wings—flapping over soil black and breeze seeded—hand to bag—to sky—to flip ‘cross ground rich—water ditch—return again—‘til tunic—lost shapes—into the bluest evening mist of planet wash and evening spin…

We turn now toward—forked road—ways beyond sighted-righted places—and our stars of guiding trails—twisted—misted—shakes and quakes—push-pull us—toward left trails or right paths…Guiding compass—lodestone—or stars—point the way—only one direction—to go and to return—toward—this direction taken—always pointed—is pointed—toward us…

Look—ahead—we heart ask—to find a way—anyway and without voice touch—we know those traveled roads—of desert keep and ground soaked reach…Our hands are covered—centuries deep—dust—with must-do-to-will-not-be—and secrets of the good—of evil—and the surest evil of—good—too great—to see—forgotten heart fears—drying tears—gone voice—silent with—pretty pity and reverence silly-speak—squeak folly—or death…

We cannot know—standing here—if earth twirls at universal core—or still stranded and branded—dust ships swirl across a patch of dark grey—dawn and waiting for rainfall—to clean-wash us and our perch—we hear—here balance upon. Here—hear now—heart cry—sobs—without light—and—waiting without warning—then—just waiting—just begins—to want—again. And! What happiness—happens—is possibly happening—on dust speckled earth-side—through goals higher—than justified—to vindicate happiness—for dust speckled us? Or? Is a dust-speckled ride—a stand-alone stride—alone goal without end—without beginning—without purpose—but-to-be-point—free?

We are not means to an end—others—may wish to accomplish…We are not tools—to be used. We are not servants of need-greed-to-be-freed—or bandages for other wounds—nor sacrifices to gods—come whimsy or rushing wings—gift bearing things—beads—baubles—glitter or flash…We are not born to be wasted or wasted-to-be-born…

Candle light—warms ‘cross tables—rooms—windows-to-windows and sometimes just east-north of darkest—planet spin—where night grin—grim news—‘cross space wig-waggle and eyes search sky—die—search and die—until starship light—lights—night and candle light fosters— hope—before freedom ends—then begins—again. ‘One Thousand Tears’ are longer time—than years of fears—pass star night and moonlight fails. And! You and I are not—ever—born to be wasted—right?

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Born To Be  Wasted’…by Alexander Perls

Fancy Us A World Today…

1147‘The young man goes out looking for the diamond in the sea
the old man rows his boat to shore and falls with twisted knees

And you’ll drown before the water lets you in
Yeah, you drown before the water lets you in

The feeling that I feel the most is the one that follows me
all across the starry coast from sea to diamond sea

Says you’ll drown before the water lets you in
Yeah, you drown before the water lets you in

I think the thing I wanted most was just never meant to be
a thousand waves, a thousand ghosts their sorrows follow me

And you’ll drown before the water lets you in
Yeah, you drown before the water lets you in’…“The Water Lets You In”—by Book Of Fears

Would ride—music—out-to-place-where-music-be-then—note-pop—toward—cease-crease time—then quietly—wade away? Tis Ok—alright—donchathink? Once we—held hands—jumping us—from flying whirl—to spinning-twirl—then—back-again. Good falling—when landing gently happens—just before the fall ends and begins—again. What is both exciting and scary—Life? Are we defined by choices of our own desires? What if—‘We-Be’—once crossed a length of space—wig-waggled—from planet-side to earth-ride—Mother Ship—deep in splendid—Petri-dish—love and to form—‘we-do’—from Zoo land reach and gravity teach—among the WTF of creations’—relations—with ‘We-Be’ and ‘They-See’? And! Is life often scattered among the illusions—of perceptions or reactions—to perceptions’ folly—in this ‘runaway—alternating dream.’

Religion has preempted the field of ethics—turning morality against man—and usurped—
the highest moral concepts—of our language—placing them outside this earth—and beyond the reach of We-Be’…‘Exaltation’—is taken to mean—an emotional state—evoked by contemplating the supernatural. ‘Worship’—is the emotional experience of loyalty and dedication—to something—high and—above man. ‘Reverence’—is the emotion of—sacred respect—to be experienced on one’s knees. ‘Sacred’—is superior to—‘not-to-be-touched-by’—any concerns of man or—earth side whines or whimsy. These concepts—do name actual—-emotions—though no supernatural dimension exists. These emotions are experienced—as uplifting or ennobling—without the self-abasement required—by religious definitions. What is their—source or reference in reality? It is the entire—emotional realm—of man’s dedication to—a moral ideal….It is this—level of emotions—that must be—redeemed from—the murk of mysticism and redirected at its proper object—‘we-be-us’ folks—donchaknow…

Entity Religion—is in constant enmity with one another? Satirizes self-contented morality and suggests that—-in the end—all religious groups are going to engage in violent and selfish acts— regardless of their professed moral teachings. Just another Government and ‘governing whimsy’ is corrupt—nasty and destructive. Religions’—-immaculate contortions—‘American Style’—twist in-out of ‘the Separation of Church and State’ producing a ‘Governmental Right to Legislate Morality?’ Wrong! For only Lovers-have-Lovers’-sacred-right-to-Love. Love is being…Morality is a selfish word!

Portion-for-us 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 crash booms—into the silent space—-between raindrops and life…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 up—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.

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…

Woman—warrior—Man—warrior…We will together—if required—die—protecting our children and our homes…Man Warrior—know—as you dine in candle-light with Woman Warrior—She is Equal—She is Everything…Isn’t it interesting—in this ‘paternal society’ of a ‘WTF’—‘Good old Boy’ world—that without Woman Warrior—‘We’—could not physically appear? With her gentle touch—She spins these spits of dancing DNA—touch and born—this day—across these Spinners…

‘Fancy Us’—a world where precious women—walk in day/night safety and precious—men do not know a word called ‘War’…Where—love-is-love and force is—‘Never-Ever’ …Wherever—Whatever—and Never is heaven or hell…A place where—life-is-belonging and where—life is—everyday—Good…Heaven or Luck… No! We create worlds—we maintain worlds and we love our children.

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Black Water’…by The Doobie Brothers

Intervals Begin Anyway…

WS_621‘Wooden Ships’

“If you smile at me, I will understand
‘Cause that is something everybody everywhere does
In the same language
I can see by your coat, my friend
You’re from the other side
There’s just one thing I got to know
Can you tell me please, who won the war ?
Say, can I have some of your purple berries?
Yes, I’ve been eating them for six or seven weeks now
Haven’t got sick once
Probably keep us both alive
Wooden ships on the water, very free and easy
Easy, you know the way it’s supposed to be
Silver people on the shoreline, let us be
Talkin’ ’bout very free and easy
Horror grips us as we watch you die
All we can do is echo your anguished cries
Stare as all human feelings die
We are leaving, you don’t need us
Go, take your sister then, by the hand
Lead her away from this foreign land
Far away, where we might laugh again
We are leaving, you don’t need us
And it’s a fair wind blowin’ warm
Out of the south over my shoulder
Guess I’ll set a course and go…”

by David Crosby—Paul Kantner and Stephen Stills…

Intervals begin and—Gods of Greed—square pairs of—Hopes-Choice or Loss. Once again—little while—becomes longer time—Children of Earth-side spin—again—sleep—without hunger—and war birds—disappear—somewhere—inside morning mists…Is it true that—after body dies—devoured by vultures—land based physical creatures—finally free-fly? Language is our means of expressions—inverted—and succumbing to stranger contrivances? Are we speak-masters—sharpers—of too many twists of travel—to be true seekers—of peace? Expressions—happening—often degenerate—often decline—inclinations—to impression—without expressing—impressive—rhymes or reasons—anyway?

Across—dark dividing distance—between world twirl and star lights’ twinkle—wrinkles space-form—benders of light join—twisting dances start—once and ending twice—only to start the stop—of eternal jolt and bolts of flashes—across many skies—of many places seen and known and started and stopped—only to again-begin and again—to sweeten life together—dance—with drum beats—racing hearts and together strength. The ‘I’—is welcomed into ‘We’—powers-to-be-a-sea of them—and the gentle ends—of ‘Me.’ And! It is OK to ‘Dance the Night Away.’ Machined wonders—spirits that guide—the processes of robot arms—robot 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 ‘cross twinkles—sketched across the winter’s sky.

And! Beware of the middle of middling places—where middle robots produce the non-productive station—of stationary worlds—no twirl spots without—tops of fashioned—fastening clamps to fantastic swirls—of chaotic-creative—creations. Spaces—without the creations of wonder and joyful—productive productions—crease and cease—along ribbons in space-time and—the continuation of any reason to be—a being—melding into together and universal power. We are—light and darkness—silence—but for a moment—then flash ‘we’ across forever—riding with—sweet Witches of Creation—come—midnight blue and Life…

“Governments are power systems. They are trying to sustain their power and domination over their populations and they will use what means are available to do this. By now the means are very sophisticated and extensive and we can expect them to increase. So for instance, if you read technology journals you learn that in robotics labs for some years there have been efforts to develop small drones, what they call “fly-sized drones,” which can intrude into a person’s home and be almost invisible and carry out constant surveillance. You can be sure that the military is very much interested in this, and the intelligence systems as well, and will soon be using it.” by Norm Chomsky…

There are times—when good silence—makes ways for righteous noise—when sound-speaks another word-or-two—then makes way for again good silence—behind the tucks of night-light and morning’s hush. Of Freedom—with no concrete meaning—attached to the word. Freedom—as idea—must have definition? If Freedom is a principle—it should have definition—to allow implementation…Opened-Eyes—Opened Mind? And! Seek protection—from ‘taking-a-stand’—refusal to admit—the nature of what is accepted—is supporting plans—designed to achieve serfdom? Still! Love or believe in Freedom…What crime is committed—if ‘crime’—is not crime and has not—occurred—in memory-man…What crime when ‘no-law’ provides for it?

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Wooden Ships’…performed by Jefferson Airplane

Blue Wrinkles of Code Balloons…

57We here—hear—waking sounds—music touch—ear-side before mind-side slides—sweet song—scent-speak and cradle squeak—and we hear—visceral seer—sans reason—also there—with care—memory spaced—raindrop wide—with memory tides and spiritual rides—tis OK—without sometime thoughts—donchaknow. And! Suddenly the regularity of phenomena—no longer measured rigidly—now burst into the probability of theory—though dynamics and universally common—plain-speak and stench—drenched in fractal messages. ‘Pixel me a thought today and watch as pictures fade away.’

Fire—Blue light—‘sorta’—start-stop—dancing—yellow streaks—red coats and journey starts. Screaming—moons toward—light and still—horses run Martian Ridge. We are children of those—salted seas and spirit trees. And! Clouds often look for—skies. …Hollow man—is robot without—spirit-animation-without ‘ghosts in the machine’…We be not—holy hollows—we be—imagine—imagination—beyond pushes of strengths—we dance—baby birthing—powerful protection and iron love—nothing stronger than love or better than together songs and the unification of eternal spirits.

Butterfly—kisses—wish made—wish chant—and grant—soft wings and slips and flits— ride currents of breeze—so slight—against soft skin—often switch directions-of-fancy—will by—choice or wearied of time—trips to beginning and endings of time shifted—drifted and lifted and forever gifted—to lines of—crafted beings—being for  moments—above moonlight and—day—bright. Space between lines—of coded-cold-color—fine word pour—from puzzle—one or two—twins in-step—and reasons to-be—to-see special—twin-twines—through tunnels and into the night.

Launch now—code filled balloons both alpha and numeric—fluid—lines of rows—switch—crosses—across drops-of-lengths—between space and press and touch—and—a distance—between winter’s flakes and snow. While dancing dream’s mind-merge—spirit winds a clock of choices—known by forgotten—dust-swirls—desert winds and salted seas—as foam merges with sandy shores. Rain bounce—by moonlight—against a million miles of asphalt streets—where tiny sprites of weeds—meet—push through—to break the symmetry—of path—life once again—is the birth of nature’s chaos—and nothing is as natural—as creating—-creations. Life’s power is—eternal notions—of—goddesses and gods—witches and warlocks—wizards and shamans—and—the blood-bond of women and men—creatures-features— and the dynamics of Love. Remember! Love is sex-less—without form—without flesh—and—-when shiver—shapes humanity—love—is touch—magic required—as beings require air—mixed—blood red.

As we form—precious life—forms-form—we name—-speak love—hunt-save-spare-care—and as others—find us—avoid us—hunt—devour us—chaos of circles dance ‘round—mystery of times—begin and end—start-stop—while chasing creation—‘cross—apparent universes—known and unknown and the forgotten times—of today’s-yesterdays and tomorrow’s days of future’s—stop and start. Ad infinitum—or maybe ‘cross into Nemo Universes—of never-were—never was—or may still—never be… We are all Children of the Universe…We have the Right to be Everywhere!

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Walking in the Air’ by Howard Blake—performed by Nightwish

Purple Night—Denver Light…

NA_149“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

Purple lights—fading into—night dark—and ribbons of—coming and going highways—somewhere between Colorado bound—along I-80 and I-76—and a southwest slant ‘cross—Nebraska nights and into—Denver’s lights. 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! 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—brief the flashes—together spread the separate into—singularity—no more than once…

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 bury—an idiom—not conveyed by—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. Still! Sweet Witches-of-Creation—smile—womb-spun life—comes and goes—without road-speak and Interstate shriek…

Our nature to run—with—or—from—the many or the few…See often—through curved ceilings of doorway—when curved light enters—twenty-one windows round—these openings—to escape places and leave regions. Still! More spirit than body proper—until chemicals—those of doubt and satisfaction rule body—self ending—sometime—in time—without 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.

Twilight and Dawn departure and gates to swirl through—go-to-spaces—between places—both here or there or again back to another here—to fear—to find—to die or to live again—in places without time-signs in parts—or sums to hold again…Ecliptic twirl and galaxy cross—spaces when composite—forms appear-to-disappear—Serpent speak and Eagle reach—Ophiuchus—holder—or bold—once again— Quetzalcoatl boys and fair Gaia girls—wander star-gates through—and touch-find—found reaches—useless rhythms and trouble—times. Or— Ophiuchus high— stands above sun—rises—feet crossed—Galactic wider and planetary—substance filled from brim-to-rim and back-again…

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…

‘America’ by Simon and Garfunkel

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


Sun Toward Third Spin…

K_197Just caught ship outbound—Sunlight—toward third spin—shaped seas and peaks almost hill-high and wide as desert cross—pause—to wait and back again…Long way home—but getting there. This ‘wind’—must keep winding through sharp curves and peaks—too high to climb—when going home sometimes runs—ruins of circles…Follow smoke curls and— Listen to the sounds of sing-song-choir along—a line—where sea meets sea and sky appears above—forgotten shimmers—of water—stretching beyond eye watch and body wait. Walk into—the salty waves of that dead-sea—between melody’s songs—and disappear—into mists and sea sounds and other dawns.

Where liquid—touches ground and neon streaks—sky borne—a river peace—mere yards from lake’s feed and black sand’s part—depart—knurled oaks bark—And! Face carved watch—the changes of day’s light and night’s bright—all with star shine and moon’s spin. When do voices begin—to bounce—and then become simple—echoes? Where do lives end and their moving on—becomes anecdotal? Why do years—speed away—when minutes—create epoch features—moving creatures and—life? We are—the proof of far removed parents—when gods ruled and created woman and man—in places—from Sirius to Mars to Earth and beyond. 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 beginnings—that these truths or fictions—have lost and been lost—in history…

Beneath these heavens—our sea swirl-twirls—and—we hear the whale sing-song—our mother— into her necessary sleep. The whale sing-songs the heating of—our blood-self until—warming is not—a non-fear. She rises—from emerald seas and from black sands—where tide pulls against current—and—the alignment of moon-light is perfect—and is orderly in its dispersal—upon the dustless night. And! We—exist…Not distraction—by what we are not—for we are not—not by displacement or alteration—because we always exist—in timeless harmony and within those trails of stardust—spews—quickly from alternative engines and speed—and—power…Life motions—Life moves—Life modifies—And! Spirits Dance…

And! Goddesses create Heavens and Earths and Moons and Suns—and—pass—Spirits to flesh—and—from flesh—back again to—Spirit forms and substances free… Correct notes—piper of silver flute and held against heart ‘beeps’ of—a roaring sea—pass others into light—and—set others across star streams beyond sun—beyond sea and beyond sky…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…

‘Can’t Find My Way Home’…Blind Faith

Blind Faith- Can’t Find My Way Home