An Earth of Outs…

7‘Karl Marx considered capitalism to be a historically specific mode of production (the way in which the productive property is owned and controlled, combined with the corresponding social relations between individuals based on their connection with the process of production) in which capitalism has become the dominant mode of production. The capitalist stage of development or “bourgeois society,” for Marx, represented the most advanced form of social organization to date, but he also thought that the working classes would come to power in a worldwide socialist or communist transformation of human society as the end of the series of first aristocratic, then capitalist, and finally working class rule was reached.’ Stages—and—wages—and—cages—Oh my!

If Earth Outs—wish destruction—mankind—stop everyone—from being—sparks—of—creation—for—our children…And! The end of body human begins…Not with shifts of fantasy— arrays—preys and delivery—too soon-to-end-begin—-and—end-again? Robots be—forever we—and carry the wary—protecting little ones—without self-worry or worth…Without them—we do not fail—we do not wail—we disappear—with no learning—yearning or memory—left behind the matter-or-this-matter. We touch hands—and on these autumn shores—our eyes—pupil-wide—to—gather moonlight and star-dusted smiles—die and nothing remains…So! Take—to heaven—to hell—Beam—up—away we go!

They arrive—and suicide—begins the end of civilization. We are—world-colony—and use—stop and start and stagger—another Earth diminishes before—new illumination and enlightenment. They strip—bare—ground—quicker than we—consume—our way across-planet-sides. Off-World—Ones—devour—sour—our own—too many—our ownership—of—slaughter—our—mother-world and the failure—of protection—insignificantly—significant. These fools and folly of off-world—end—our only way to continue. They fail—to see their vision fade—into star-stream and moon-dust. They remove—our Love…

So! Come then—damned angels of death—and test us—deep in—wooden belief—in victory-scatter—across worlds—not seen and never known. Do not—longer—wait—damned spacer. We will meet each of your substitutes—head-on and with fine swords—and—endless firing—with necessary death—sings-shrieks—all along these towers—these homes—these beaches—these reaches—and—far—beyond these seas. You—select—places toward spaces—where—we die. We will dance with—dragons and—happily die. War against a—now visible—foe is—good war and—death against—tyrant is—good death. Pick carefully—this world—change with simple death—-and our—slight chance to win. Take— our babies—into—your heavens.

There is a rear door that guides—toward—another Column Room. Tessie—likes—purple scarves and dotted cloth. Jona likes—go-hide-places-on and other rooms—off—big column and down—darker halls. No one comes here—except Crowman and those ones—the Hurts. And! Not so many of them around—not—since last rains. Crowman—never worries about the timing—of this—because—he has never known time.

‘I have seen this thing before, to no one but the Hurts and they listened to him always, since the beginning of things, of days or nights or evenings or mornings, or when things were and were not. I know this place like the farm, the river when fish were fish and would swim right by the bait.’ This is the road. A hoppity-skippity-small little road not needing a reason, rhyme or paving covers over sidewalk – cracks that if “you step on a crack or break,” something that rhymes with nothing by a word that names the place where sidewalk ends then starts again.’

Crowman stands on—eternal legs and starts down—the ‘hoppity-skippity’ road. He stops—the Hurts join him. He skips toward them—they skip toward him. He turns—and—a little light flicks just skips in front of him. A little flitting light of sparkle and little else. From—eternal mind he sings—words—a short sighing melody—nothing else. “Beret, and when — not much mmm-more.”

Little Tessie through a small hole between her front teeth whispers, ‘Butterfly…’ No question, not statement, not fact not…not ‘Almost a Crowman!’ ‘I know this!’ ‘We Know!’ ‘I know—this Sparkle!’ ‘Know Spark!’

Then Butterfly whispered: ‘This is this line—I have waited and watched and wanted and needed and loved you since Day’s End. It is—it is—it is a little hoppity-skippity prayer of a little road that begins. ‘

The Hurts—laugh—and so often laughter hurts. Not this time—of day—not this time.

‘Angel?— Nope… Gone?— Naw…With Us?—Naw…Then Gone OK?—Why—Nope…Then?‘

Angel touches—angel and—angel touches—the angel….Light—touches—light and Crowman almost knew a nothing or something that did not—matter the matter—or—irritate the matter. Light smiles and yes—Tessie—Angels do smile.

And! Beautiful you are…

‘What did you do in the War, Dad?’…by Sonata Arctica

Sail Songs—Then Gone…

Somme_33“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.” ― from ‘A Farewell to Arms’ by Ernest Hemingway…

Is there a formula or a discussion in the Scientific World for the existence of ‘conscious’—‘spirit’? Are there only three dimensions? Is ‘time’ added to those dimensions? We— physicals—have five senses. Normally—Normal? Why is everything beyond normal—considered or called—nonsense–hallucination—superstition or miracle? Our world is a magnificent construction of many constructions. We believe—or do not believe—in derivations of inclined-living or higher-self or soul’s purpose—or spirit or great beyond-the-mean- averages of life and death.

Do we simply wish better—’Self’ or ‘Angel’ beyond the physical? Do we remember other self—before birth and after death? If we do—then are ‘We’ Eternally universal Spirits? Do we see outside our rejections and failures—as learning to be better or do we forget—We-be-We? Remember when warmth was without fire—Remember when our mother’s blood fed us and whispered love into our blood-hungry spirits before we became—Scientific?

What of spark that travels into the light of—joining life inside and outside the days of pasts’-present’s—future. Behold Spirit Dancer! Do remember—when warmth was without fire and strength absolute without—the Science of dimensions and senses and all was: nonsense-hallucination-superstitious-religious—without name. Before time—wig-waggled across universal spirits—began—‘We-Be’.

Witches are—the power of lives and life and choices and dictates and control. Witches are—fire builders—raining oils—falling from somewhere-to-there—without distractions…The Coven hurls great sounds and flashes across sky and through the clouds. In worlds—Cosmic Travelers visit and see—deserts and fertile valleys and green and salt and clear pools and the warmth of Blood-taste. Escape into this city—filled to brim with witches and ghosts and spokes in times’ harmony—choirs-of-one-chorus and harmonious—enchanters along with magic—made-of—lace.

This is the time of winged fire breathers and statues of motion and beaches of rocks without sand. Horses—without wheels spin and donkey flocks—carry unarmed soldiers into war covered places—blood without sound-shriek and taste. This is—mystery place. This is—dream stop—timed—clock without time. A minute starts without beginning or time or reason—rhyme—to begin—or end moments later—and cease—both—notion and substance. Realm call and words spoken are never—sound. These words flow ‘cross bands of bounded paper in font digital—and fashions—stitch upon silk cloth and imagination.

We form the notion of eternity and dance upon timeless patches of cover—underneath—blue of skies—before rain-dusted night drive us underground—to places of swings and scenes of grass covered deserts in light and sparkle. Escape to City—the Sity—of oil rain—crumble towers and rust color skylines—tucked just below sky ceiling. Walk upon the crusted sea and into days-of-nothing-less. Across skies ago—wails of the finish—of together and life and custom and speak and thought and reason and living—dying-to-stop.

Immediately—reverses gone. Motion and the familiarity of home-stop and vision of little candles burning in—windows—home lights—world end—extinguish and gone. Sailors without sail and soldiers without war and the need to succeed in twinkling flashes disappear—across sky above earth-spin. They disappear—we end. And! End civilizations. We became world-colony and use and stop and start and stagger and another Earth diminish before new illumination and enlightenment. Strip—bare–ground quickly—we consume our way across world sweet—planet fine. ‘Off-worlders’ devour our own too many and our own slaughter of mother-world and the failing of protection—insignificant.

Fools and folly of off-world stop our only way to continue. They fail to see their vision fade into star-stream and moon-dust. They remove—our Love…He looked up and said…”Scan the sky-sweet baby. Must leave… They will kill you. Somehow—Go to them. And you will not die.” She too looked and saw his face, “Without you, I am dead…Without us we end. Without you and me— no Baby and without—we are…” Bank wide and Somme River wet—fell—physicals—sixty thousand—spirits all and stories to-be-or-lost-to-see—inside smoke—wiz-bangs—life chokes—barbed wire and tears—‘cross ‘Crimson Fields’—sixty thousand—one day long —lives too—gone.

We are few and so many—Lost-Broken-and-Forgotten…War is now! War is yesterday! War is murder! War is ‘Crime against Humanity’…Ask—or—It does require time—however—today we free-fall toward acceleration and the annihilation of Everyday.

And! Beautiful you are…

“Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In”…written by James Rado—Gerome Ragni (lyrics) and Galt MacDermot (music)…performed by Digital Dagger…

Star-Dusted Moons and Chorus…

53

Walk the path of these days and past’s presence and today’s—tomorrow dreams. We are builders of grand places and the ancients of straw homes in tomorrow’s futures? Often music calls a spirit to dance ‘round a late night fire somewhere in distant time—We began before the stars—And together we melt into the mist…We are all Children of the Universe…We have the Right to be Everywhere!

By the fire light of these dwindling tribes—children marvel at both the dancing flames and the warmth of lights against the nights and outside—shadows beyond their eyes. They listen and stories tell the beginning of things now gone and of those grand places— no start—just—imagine and see—in minds’ own spaces—desired regions of before dream and after ‘wishing was true…’Paint now pictures—loving these caves and these walls and these tribes of we and me and us and them and before the storm and after the end of rains and winds and bumping things and silent shrieks once loud now absent from ear and fear and tear. Sounds of life—‘cross a million miles of rock and rolling—till another day of storms and another night of passion—shadow dance beneath a star-lighted ceiling. Once again—share moments and lives and the power of life. Blood and love is the matter of the matter and the survival of these survivors of wherever gods and whatever storms. Instincts trust in…For anticipation may—often fail?

We are not resource. Forests are not board-feet. Precious animals are alive and well and multiplying within circle-life and when undisturbed are balance—the harmony of earth twirl and whirl across space—required for survival and never a commercial aggravation of money changers and the idiocy of gain. Precious must be protected—wise beings—remove from destruction—as our survival of future days and future nights. Unless! Flash—we stop and our carbon-based trickle ceases equal value and determination…We are not resource. When forest covers this place—land once stripped—now concrete jungles—scattered sky-buildings and layers to portions—to little—to—too much. Resource-speak—twist these places into battlefields and crime and punishment and damage civilizations— and cease—peace. Nations—  ‘battle-cries of freedom’ and blood-pours—poor laborers and slaves create— hope for many and freedom for few. Life is not—a purchase or a product—sell. Eternal Speak—of—all Life—Eternal Spirit—Forever! Instincts trust in…For anticipation may—often fail?

Hear pitch perfect spirit chorus pushed from moon-side to earth-side and back across ear-to-ear and from throat-to-voice and again out into spaces of hearing voices and silence. Create listener—speaker—and the quiet times of silent-speak. Gods—we create—creation of images dreamed and beamed to radiated radiation—we spirit-dance these sounds without vibrated-vibrations or derivations’ chaos there be—than we see and be—both the life of songs and silence…Not so often—the choir of silence—sings-songs the gatherings and sweet rolls of honey bread and wine. Soft conversations—land’s across—diners where breakfast—breaks-fasts of night and sleep-ends in shrugs—stretched—muscles—twitched and sounds—reminding lives of living gently—cross clefts of treble wires and bass notes—tucked beneath a bottom line. Falling trees in dawn lights at the center of creation’s place—vibrate notions and sounds both of illusive—illusions and illustrated—illustrations. We! Gods of these creations—find this to be something good—that is part—Way… Instincts trust in…For anticipation may—often fail?

Robot now and then and once again when creature walks splendid winds across another place of times—remember and stories of this and that—told by any-to-any-listening—of robot tales and adventures as the course of discourse launch comes—songs of sailor’s speak and wig-waggle ‘cross a thousand skies—complete with warrior legends and the strength of priestess kiss and home returns. We all sail here—the sailors of these moments—friends and family and the you of me and the me of us and all—eternal spirits we be—the power of life—inside folded space or outside yonder rim-spin—we are…Instincts trust in…For anticipation may—often fail?

Brush to lids of my own eyes with sweet your lips and touch deep my heart with spirit dance your strength as my own—often fails. We—you and I—do spin worlds together and taste soft wine in starlight bright and setting moon so large that reflected eyes lock these mind spaces in forever memories of life. Tis—good this dream…Tis sweet this Night…

‘Winter Trees’ by Sylvia Plath

“The wet dawn inks are doing their blue dissolve.

On their blotter of fog the trees

Seem a botanical drawing –

Memories growing, ring on ring,

A series of weddings.

Knowing neither abortions nor bitchery,

Truer than women,

They seed so effortlessly!

Tasting the winds, that are footless,

Waist-deep in history –

Full of wings, other worldliness.

In this, they are Ledas.

O mother of leaves and sweetness

Who are these pietàs?

The shadows of ringdoves chanting, but chasing nothing.”  

 

And! Beautiful you are!

‘Stardust’ …by Delain

Especially Special…

123“If you want money more than anything—you will be bought and sold. If you have a greed for food—you will be a loaf of bread. This is a subtle truth: whatever you love—you are.”—by Jalaluddin Rumi

JSOC (Joint Special Operations Command) and its lack of Congressional Accountability—and; of course, the might of ‘War-Machine USA’ is responsible for military actions either directly or by proxy across seventy-four sovereign (define—you pick ‘em) nations on our sweet world. The Executive Branch drives this machine of ‘kill-drill’ and no country is ‘off-limits’ to the military forces of America…JSOC is the ‘armée privée’ of Elected Presidents reaching into a past of genocide and into the misty future of faultless ‘kill-drill’ and civilian destruction. Even the CIA is occasionally restricted and occasionally ‘the Pres’…must pass-along a hop-along smattering of metering—that ‘kinda almost truthful information’ to his hip-hoppity group of hand-lickers [(Intelligence Leaders of the Intelligence Oversight Committee(s)]. Bah-Boom and let Drone-spray begin…

Assassinations around the globe—never reported or snorted—unless the odor-of-the-ooze reaches a press of free writers accidentally sniffing the night air and tripping over the forgotten bodies of JSOC whimsy—rhyme—or reason. They do embrace drone strikes and night raids and missile attacks using special ordinance and cluster bombs—oh my…And! The US military is a worldwide Landlord…Based in Germany, Japan, South Korea, United Kingdom, Italy, Turkey, Iraq, Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Qatar and more… Licensed to ‘Kill-Drill’ in Afghanistan, Egypt, Iran, Iraq, Jordan, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Lebanon, Oman, Pakistan, Syria, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan, U.A.E., Uzbekistan, Yemen, Georgia, Ukraine, Bolivia, Paraguay, Ecuador, Peru, Yemen, Baluchistan, the Philippines, Colombia and Mexico…. And let US operate in: South Sudan, Libya, Yemen, the Congo, Uganda, Mali, Niger (AFRICOM)—hey now!

Special Forces for Special Surgery…Since the middle of 2010—Special Operations have been presently-presented-as-a-presence in at least seventy-five countries…Oh no! JSOC strikes again and bah-boom—let Drone-spray begin again and again ad infinitum…’Kill-Drill’ and Civilians Die—Men-Women-Children-Families-Neighborhoods-Villages and…Genocide? Folks—Die! People are actually murdered?

There’s something happening here
But 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?

There’s battle lines being drawn
Nobody’s right if everybody’s wrong
Young people speaking’ their minds
Getting so much resistance from behind

It’s time we stop
Hey, what’s that sound?
Everybody look – what’s going down?

What a field day for the heat
A thousand people in the street
Singing songs and carrying signs
Mostly saying, “hooray for our side”

It’s time we stop
Hey, what’s that sound?
Everybody look – what’s going down?

Paranoia strikes deep
Into your life it will creep
It starts when you’re always afraid
Step out of line, the men come and take you away

We better stop
Hey, what’s that sound?
Everybody look – what’s going down?

We better stop
Hey, what’s that sound?
Everybody look – what’s going down?

We better stop
Now, what’s that sound?
Everybody look – what’s going down?

We better stop
Children, what’s that sound?
Everybody look – what’s going down?” written by Stephen Stills…

Forgotten singular—Me and as lips touch—the You and I often become US…Love? Eternal Spirits ‘Be—We’…melted into formless formality—form ‘We’ into a powerful creation of creative notions—motion we move and Life is good—OK?

And! Beautiful you are…

‘For What It’s Worth’—by Stephen Stills and performed by Buffalo Springfield (Neil Young, Stephen Stills, Jim Messina and Richie Furay)…

 

World of Spirit Strong…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Right Down the Line’—by Gerry Rafferty

Something Listed—Something Gifted…

T146“We took the blood of the earth
and fell in love with death
with life itself as an excuse

Black is the sunlight shimmering below;
it flows through life and the guilt we share

We’re hiding in chorus as starry eyes close,
and seasons part in farewell;
‘cause we drained her blood, then forgetting her face
to hide from everyone”…from ‘The Last Hour of Ancient Sunlight’

They paint—leave for ‘Coming In’ time. Neon glitter—shape-shifters-sighted-ones and blended against leafless limbs where standing trees fall and scatter across Viaduct’s—crumbled-tumbled stretches of stone tops—cream colored brick pieces and dust and rust and shadows of ruin or waste. Wheeled chairs race and wagons of faded reds and oranges and brown stripes with dull  yellow splash again blend and rend  groomed clones of oiled evening clouds and fading light as moons—of—three rise along earth line and spot shorelines before a greasy sea of salted rains without sounds and without life.

These are the ‘Coming In’ times. The ides of moments—ready flash and center of day to ready play and anticipate reason—discover—life does happen covalently or not—rejoice—-not to understand—or withstand—not to require and still OK…Momentum—drinks to spill—before air or fear—taste and waste rush before shriek-spear-kill where motion ends as hanging cloth covers wired thorns along ruined ditches of rain fill—flow from boot smooth flat-to puddles of  blood- mud wait—sun-play and dry air—wiz-bangs and life…

Smoke—rare air as blinding fog ‘cross both water edged—split sanded reeds and hill high vantage will seize—piece of crack stone and marble rim—broken faces—silent shriek and damage. Three ships down and seven constant slivers—shiver war and win to lose again. Harbor towns—two and  needless souls search bodies—left alive or fallen upright. And! From waterside—cannons fortress high—twin–slam—shells and balls—as death upon us and they and us and not and again—upon us. Ship pitches—wood and steel and souls—toward sinking-side with mast blast splinters and holes enough to die.

Water—butterflies—beetles—purple colors and birds emerge—from fog and race toward size high heaven or lights. Join—flying life and from colors of purple light into gull-white birds and gray liquid along a sparkle of beach sand and moonlight—bright. We! From heaven join Earth and now—again fly from battle  to  place and war seen—dead and those dying come this way— to fly—to watch—to learn—to leave…

Then! Gather here the shaped-shifters and one-sided sighted eyes to watch till wizards of crashes and dashes—cease games of pieces—ground motion-bah-boomed to silence or death as witch either appears or disappears into smoke—mirrors and magic shape ghosts—toasted by those lifted glasses memorized—memorialized and as quickly forgotten as recalled.

Brush to lids of my own eyes with sweet your lips and touch deep my heart with spirit dance your strength as my own—often fails. We—you and I—do spin worlds together and taste soft wine in starlight bright and setting moon so large that reflected eyes lock these mind spaces in forever memories of life. Tis—good this dream…Tis sweet this Night…Instincts trust in…For anticipation often does nothing..

And! Beautiful you are…

‘The Last Hour of Ancient Sunlight’ by Draconian

Martian At Eden’s Slip…

E_17

“the world is waiting for
a change within our hearts
the last card for us all, a new era starts
so hit the road out there
alight a new tomorrow
recall a far off time
step out here and follow”—
Edenbridge

Gaining speed-side-push-out into the swell and shove of beyond the bounds of pull down and racing to gate-less stars above Earth twirls and the edges of Eden’s slip and Martian descendants. Maybe-we-Be-descendants-of- the Martian family. Maybe-they-Be-the-travelers with Noah and an Armada of star-ships or an Ark called the Mother-ship—carrying the DNA of accidents or visions or hopes or fears to another place to adapt into have-to-want-to—creative creatures of rhythm and verse…Truth?—Religion-of-men…Prove that this is not Truth? Bible writers—Bring it on!

Humans—are creatures that should not exist within the laws of nature. Or—should we? Since life is Eternal Spirit; humans are in-step with all living creatures within the laws of nature…We are aware of self; however, all creatures of life are aware of being…Sweet paws of moving life are perfect. They do and  they are perfectly—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 quickly 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 or debated or accepted or rejected or imagined or imaged in creations either by divine accidents or notion’s whimsy or just…It is good to be a Spirited Robot—donchathink?

Nothing strange or different or odd or…Love is love and across our very own universe-verses of sweet song and sweet touches—music of  spirit fleshes a moment of maybe truth and be damned any religious trifling traps of the ‘oh-no’—‘thou shall not’s’—knots of fool squeaks and man—churches—fear of live—living or giving or being and…bible books and book’s bibles—written by a few walkers—talkers of flesh—to control  everyone other than these few powers—too must be sinful to rule and to dictate to anyone of the ‘We’ folk—of the world-wide planet of women and men. We are the power and they are the few— hear us roar when fear becomes hunger and balance shifts too far away from family and tribal dances again move around bright firelight into the outside darkest sight of changing night.

Strange fiction—Gods from Heaven shall come back and destroy the Earth in fiery stuff and suffering? Except for a pathetic few—all will perish? Hells-Bells—must be man-speak…We have been killing and destroying and suffering—since when? We are very good at waging war…Hate—always corrodes the container it is carried in…So! For a New Day try a Different View!

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Alight A New Tomorrow’ —by EdenBridge

Silver Prayers And Ancient Stones…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And! Beautiful you are…

Gods of Alien Replacements…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And! Beautiful you are…

Illusions of Freedom…

palestine_347She stands beside him, cave-side; children pushed behind them and when sounds roar across their place she throws her spear without fear save the saving of her little ones and she falls beside him…Death is swift on this little world of green diamonds and purple sea water. Quick death is free and for those left remaining; baskets of food—coal heat—wraps to body warm and the smiling time are costs of slavery and last as long as short life and hard work. Freedom is Illusion—Body free is Lie?

Global revolution and the reality of freedom’s notion are real and everlasting and deadly. Before ‘newsy’ motion and scattered screens across a distance of feet-to-inches incessant in headlines to bylines to lying truth and spin, mothers and fathers and sons and daughters have lined cave openings and died to protect the sacred freedom of home and community. Freedom is Illusion—Body free is Lie?

Again gathered before camera to drama-dance on stages—so a universal audience may witness both success and failure as trumpets of sound and fury nudge folks to march in directions of locked-step confusion contained by the armies of ‘lesser evils.’ And! Damn the army that dares to launch death and destruction against people. When does the army of a nation kill a nation of people? First bullet fired—first blood spilled and Freedom is Illusion—Body free is Lie…

A revolution of war is our war. We watch yet we also die. When our women fall we die. When our men fall we die. Their hopes for freedom and a better life is our hope for freedom and for life’s sweet moments to stretch into those minutes of sunset light as it kisses the line between water and sky. We gather and stand together because sight is not through eyes but observed as a gathering of eternal spirits and life. We protect body—because life is the forever time and we dance across a spectrum of color and desire to forever remain free… Freedom is Illusion—Body free is Lie?

Something better comes this way? Sometimes yes or no or in the many may-happens or would-have or could-have occurred on that warm summer breeze or in the cold-cleaned air of winter. Again, we gather and stand ready and our spears may fly and our arrows may both bounce or pierce the flesh of someone else or another brother or sister or mother or father. War ensues and even the winners die. In battle or through accident or by sickness death always sparks another change. Still; it is always better to fall in Love—than to fall in Battle… Donchathink?  Freedom is Illusion—Body free is Lie…

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Time After Time’_Cyndi Lauper (2011 Human Rights Campaign Dinner)