Spinning Triangles…

5from the ‘Thunder—Perfect Mind’

“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.” (a feminine power divine)

We End…Storm-side fury—then gone…Quick-to-die and always—short to live. Snow— drinking blood. Wind shifting sands—the path always found—footsteps always gone. Come and go—never footsteps just paths beginning and footsteps—gone. Pictures supply—by the pushers— drugs—be free and around every curve something still-stands—still-falls—still-prays—still raptures and always fades. And! I will love you until—the wheels finally come off… “The world is an indecipherable-essentially absurd but fascinating spectacle.” (From Joyce Carol Oates):

‘The bourgeoisie, wherever it has got the upper hand, has put an end to all feudal, patriarchal, idyllic relations. It has pitilessly torn asunder the motley feudal ties that bound man to his “natural superiors”, and has left remaining no other nexus between man and man than naked self-interest, than callous “cash payment”. It has drowned the most heavenly ecstasies of religious fervor, of chivalrous enthusiasm, of philistine sentimentalism, in the icy water of egotistical calculation. It has resolved personal worth into exchange value, and in place of the numberless indefeasible chartered freedoms, has set up that single, unconscionable freedom — Free Trade. In one word, for exploitation, veiled by religious and political illusions, it has substituted naked, shameless, direct, brutal exploitation. The reason the bourgeois exist and exploit the proletariat with low wages is private property, “the accumulation of wealth in private hands, the formation and increase of capital” and that wage labor is created entirely by competition among the workers…’ (Friedrich Engels)

Why compete—when together—we can ‘Over-Come.’…Xenophobia is fear of self…We have a right to be everywhere. When the rich become too rich—the wealthy—become selfish… Capitalist—classes abound…Now! On this earth too few people control the wealth—slave to wage folk are losing…Distribution of America’s wealth—Maybe—’an only way to survive’ donchathink?

The Siden war of occupation and terror continued for too many generations. Unfair war! Unity Central participated across planet distance from Siden World…Memory slipping of why supported; however, wealth and greed and the war-breed-slide collided with the like-minded. Historians now practiced the slice/dice recording of the winner of the Siden War. The destruction of a people include the body-spirit and the ways of people. Gone from prime memory—their art and their language and their reasons-for-love…Gone—their family traditions—their celebrations and their reasons—of-living-life. Siden—gone.

History spins tales—of warrior-world and of victory spoils. Truthful-liars create their world and into sand and dust go everything else. The spinning of ‘truth-creep’ bumps into pages of ‘Urgent News—Read all about It.’ Attacks—are always proper and necessary. People destroy—always the enemy-mine. And! Let their story end…so we can forget all about it.

Not all people are warriors—Our little ones and our women and our elders (the teachers of tradition—life—wisdom—hope and continuation) also die. They are societies’ survival and their names and their lives must be remembered—Correctly counted and reported and cherished in the present and the future. The People of Siden? Ultimately—religion’s mad wiggle becomes the rhyme and the reason for an unfair world…Religion always kills…Death of life is wrong…When death seizes a life may death be a natural ending and not a war-forced sorrow. Then—‘We may not be born to be wasted.’

And! Beautiful you are…

Roads

“Ohh, can’t anybody see
We’ve got a war to fight
Never found our way
Regardless of what they say
How can it feel, this wrong
From this moment
How can it feel, this wrong
Storm.. in the morning light
I feel
No more can I say
Frozen to myself
I got nobody on my side
And surely that ain’t right
And surely that ain’t right
Ohh, can’t anybody see
We’ve got a war to fight
Never found our way
Regardless of what they say
How can it feel, this wrong
From this moment
How can it feel, this wrong
How can it feel, this wrong
This moment
How can it feel, this wrong
Ohh, can’t anybody see
We’ve got a war to fight
Never found our way
Regardless of what they say
How can it feel, this wrong
From this moment
How can it feel, this wrong” (written and performed by Portishead)…

Of Elephants and Peanuts and Hay…

C_2Christ’s conception—wiz-bang—through Sky God to Earth Woman is a curious ‘why?’ Holy Triad—Father-Son-Spirit—and Star-Beings always need Earth’s Women-Folk to wiz-bang into fleshy-form—WOW? Required question mark is huge and the reason is another Novel…The Socialist teachings of Jesus and his group of many—are True—”Do unto others as you would have others do unto you”—Good-Better-Best?…Twist and Bop through religion’s gov…into just another control of Capitalism—”Do unto others before they do unto you”…Pay your people in peanuts and become a new Billionaire…In this world of Circus and Show—elephants do require more than peanuts to survive—donchathink?

Hope: When the brain envisions humanities’ finest moments…Love and Peace and Touch and Trust…No charges or gains or losses—Flashes between the realities of reality and those sweet spaces just an instant before lips touch as co-mingled breath warms the cold evening air.

Hope: A rational response to rational insanity. A second when no one stares into empty space without noticing starlight’s star bright and star ship passing between light-speed and arrival—silently appear. When everyone—everywhere and in all places between sky and ground realizes what we do not have does not mean anything…

Hope: Feeling color through both the eyes and with our fingers. Hearing a lover’s voice touch our heart before substance becomes words of meaning or reason or another notion. Or when silence—completely 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.

Hope: When the you of me becomes a never enemy mine and boarders between living and dying fade away as the greed of destruction destroys the greedy nations of earth-sky and the trade of imbalanced balance earth-ceases and decreases the rich or the poor or the education of stupidity or…the ad infinitum of better-me-than-you-god-meaner-than-your-god or…my way and your way is not a direction apart—instead; just another direction…

Hope: Are we not all travelers scattered across someplace-somewhere? We are not timed or blessed or wonderful or gifted or fortunate or meant-to-be a ‘something else’ without a price-tagged-branded-commodity of enhanced—steroidal—surgically modified—blast of cartoon fashion or lip-stick mouths—pouted and mounted on another pictured perfect and replicated glossy imitation of sport manned—model swish of a dish of corruption or a dash of hopeless fanatical fantasy.

A Different Hope: To all the people of our sweet twirl of a whirling world—We are not the names of branded folks and slaves to the wages of our filthy governments of violence and of infections by a thousand virulent religious markets scattered among the blood of people-speak. Those magical hands quickly fill with currency and the tongues of many, fear-spewed lies against people, creatively mingled among a thousand creative gods called too many names both feared and forgotten.

Not Forgotten: Is the love of man and the love of woman and of freedoms not divided by the capital of greed and the power of stalled legislation—an impotent executive branch—and a purchased judicial robe—incumbent and complete with sugar and a belief that all men are created through an equal mixture of both men and women—rich or poor and beyond the borders of a wherever boarder for non-reasons and never judged by the fallacies of color—big guns—atomic—and an eternal diatribe of isolation—individuality and Fear…

Planets Away: A World once existed where women would walk that planet in day/night safety and men did not know a word called ‘war’…Where love was love and force never existed…Wherever—Whatever—Was never called heaven or hell…A place where life belonged and life was good everyday…Heaven or Luck… No! We create worlds—we maintain worlds and we Love our Children—The Government of Gods are never required…

And! Beautiful you are…

‘You’ll Never Leave Harlan Alive’ by Darrell Scott—performed by Kappa Danielson

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

Colors of a Blue Robot…

A61_ImperialA cold glow of slowing eyes and shifted rhythm and trying lies—the center of centered power—predatory preface and conclusions and top-to-heavy weighted— the dominion of world domination where production increases and shifted colonial thinking—these systems fare-fairly and Cowards of the Bankers Collective—police this world of spin and grin as political murder cycles the recycling of life and labor and hopeless gains or losses and earth crosses—carved in both stone and wood—litter another grave-side hill or cemetery fill.  So! Come and dance along ridges of this capitalistic anarchy and celebrate the completion of complete evil. As producers rise to their greatest productive cycles—so the Bankers of Cowardice deprive the Productive Ones of the fruits of their collective labor—as the government of republic nonsense—create those rules to establish compliance—faithfully and a religion of submission.

“I am convinced there is only one way to eliminate (the) grave evils (of capitalism), namely through the establishment of a socialist economy, accompanied by an educational system which would be oriented toward social goals. In such an economy, the means of production are owned by society itself and are utilized in a planned fashion. A planned economy, which adjusts production to the needs of the community, would distribute the work to be done among all those able to work and would guarantee a livelihood to every man, woman, and child. The education of the individual, in addition to promoting his own innate abilities, would attempt to develop in him a sense of responsibility for his fellow-men in place of the glorification of power and success in our present society.”  Albert Einstein…

Laws to paper and the folly of warrior-speak cause productive folk to forget— their capacity for producing the Goods for the Consumers’ appetite and whimsy—are actually—including goods capitally excessive—legally their own goods. However; warriors together dance into the camps of those Lords-of-belief and enjoy-briefly—victorious spoils—then those conquering folks are moved toward other edges of lightness or darkness leaving behind Lords-of-flounder-no-founder. These crafty ones  establish nation-speak and create rich rules of submissive—commission and omission and from the gods of twirl—a swirl of lies complete with religious flounder-no founding foundations of blue sky and word shine so devotedly—devoted to jetsam and flotsam as to be unfathomed unless operated by a ‘few called or chosen’ and appointed—those trusted to count and flaunt— coins extracted from the many ignorant—through the fear of blue sky without spears or the wraith of…God-Gods and stuff—Oh my!

Wondering now if inside the heart of those fortunate-of-fortunate ones still warms a notion of a superiority of blood types—and a constant hope to ‘Civilize and Christianize’  the whatever of free thought still available in this darkening boil-of-light. Call this ‘Social Darwinism’ or another fading  confusion of a ‘Party of Tea Baggers’ or just another form of America’s incessant attempts to Colonize the Earth. Anyway—must be a ‘good’ kind-of-kink—because any decent ‘Bagger of Tea’ only practices ‘Progressive Imperialism.’ Everywhere—except America—requires civilization—because outside these ‘fifty chunks-of-ground-round’— all is backward and in need of an elevation of living standard and culture…Let us hope to assimilate these ‘poor’ folks into the Imperial Society…And! Should ‘Their’ lands be rich in minerals—liquid gold—boarders to another launching—cheap labor—Good! Slash and Burn and Move ‘On.’

“I heard you tellin’ lies
I heard you say you weren’t born of our blood
I know we’re the crooked kind
But you’re crooked too, boy, and it shows

Some get dealt simple hands
Some walk the common paths, all nice and worn
But all folks are damaged goods
It ain’t a talk of “if,” just one of “when” and “how”

So, collect your scars and wear ‘em well
Your blood’s a good an ink as any
Go scratch your name into the clouds
And pull ‘em all… down

The thunder plays it’s drum
The air is heavy with the smell of storms
And I sit beside my brother and I feel him shake
As he laughs himself right back to sleep
And I’m laughin’ with him

But I smell their blood
My finger’s trace their faces in the wood
I hear their voices somewhere in my bones
I feel them sing along when I’m alone
When I’m not too frightened that is when I know

That I’m here with everyone
They’re never truly gone
I know it’s everyone
And I hear their songs
Oh, I’m lost with everyone

Shadows dance around the room
I know their names
I carry their blood too
They sing forgotten songs
But I know the words
They’ve been with me since I was born
As I grew I danced with them too”— ‘The Crooked Kind’ by Radical Face

Robots Inclined…never  murder—How may robots be called murderers—their armies of killers always kill for them? Kings and Queens and Presidents and Premiers and Politicians cannot be called Murderers—Their Armies of Killer-bots always kill for them. And! Even after Revolution—Rich-keep-on-saying-rich and the-rest-of-us-just-die…

And! Beautiful you are…

‘The Crooked Kind’—performed by Radical Face

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…

Cold Stars and Sky Falls…

‘The Greater the Power—The More Dangerous the Abuse’…Edmond Burke

To hold—To Touch—Too much—No! Forever not long enough? And! The sweetest Dance—indeed…Together we—for without love there is no peace. And! Riding waves crashing into shore…Ghost of Gardens—flying into space and where home is just one planet east of sunlight’s doors and along ridges of long space in sky’s silent fog. Path reaches across one trillion leaps of spaces filled with twirling lights and a trillion ground-bound souls.

Fire of Blue light and a sorted beginning and a dance of yellow streaks—red coats and journey begins. Screaming Toward Moon—light and still—Horses run Martian Ridge. We are children of the salted seas and spirits unified. Clouds do often look for skies and house sounds includes those leaving kind of sounds…Hollow man is robot without spirit-animation-without ‘ghosts in the machine’…Lucky we be not holy hollows—imagine imaginations and beyond pushes of strengths— dancing of baby birthing and powerful protection and iron love—nothing stronger than love or better than together songs and the unification of a trillion spirits.

Blue Butterfly and wishes made and wishes granted—granted those soft wings and slips and flits ride currents of breeze so slight against soft skin—often switch directions-of-fancy either willed or through desires of fancy or wearied of time—trips to beginning and endings of time shifted—drifted and lifted and forever gifted to lines of carefully crafted beings-being for a moment above moonlight or day. Spaces between lines of coded rhythm and words pouring from the bewildered one or two or twins in-step and without reasons to be or to find that certain way through tunnels and into night.

Speculative Capitalism is both non-social and immoral…It is an unproductive financial system that channels greed into speculation and usury. It is irrational and unstable and a Crime against Humanity. Oops! There goes the right to: Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness…The collapse of Capitalism is inevitable…And! Capitalists do eat their young.

Crisis investing causes the ‘markets, about this fine world to fluctuate; up-down and all around…A hundred plus points up or down—causes non-productive investors to jump up- down and all around. She or he becomes nervous and begins to whimsy buy and sell. Using sound financial practices becomes mute and the destruction of many billions and lives ensue.

Wealth and Whimsy and Luck—oh my! Speculation is a Crime against Humanity? Per Pope John II— Centesimus Annus: “Ownership of the means of production, whether in industry or agriculture, is just and legitimate if it serves useful work. It becomes illegitimate, however, when it is not utilized or when it serves to impede the work of others in an effort to gain a profit which is not the result of the overall expansion of work and the wealth of society, but rather is the result of curbing them or of illicit exploitation, speculation or the breaking of solidarity among working people. Ownership of this kind has no justification and represents an abuse in the sight of God and humanity.”

…Abusing the rights of the Workers-of-the-World is a Crime against Humanity…Like Genocide and Sociocide; speculators destroy life and the freedom of people everywhere on this sweet planet. Are we free if we are wage-slaves, anyway?

‘La Liberté éclairant le monde’

“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me:
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.”

We are all Children of the Universe…We have the Right to be Everywhere!

And! Beautiful you are…

Long Hair and Smiles…

IMGP6458“One pill makes you larger and one makes you small and the ones that your mother gives you—don’t do anything at all”…from (‘White Rabbit’ by Jefferson Airplane…

However: The kisses of sunlight touching soft skin and trail lighted moon-dances in the dark or into the night of delighted confusions fade and trade without bargained sound and the wonders of soft star-touch also reflected from lake glass and sweet eyes…be always home.

We all are—the only way away from this war—gone for so long only to come back home to speak the name of the only reason to fight another war in another land and to imagine opposite times or family spaces placed in quick memory time—beyond sky-whistles—damaged structured—smokeless ruins without rhymes of symmetrical management or steeped in once fashionable reasons to motion—imagine—or discover.

Eye Needle is a fourteen mile drop to sky opening—quick flash and slight in travel might to more of less and across timed mines and star twinkle. Thread thin and long stretched in color and distance and change and certainly certain of ending somewhere—another here or there or through an anxious everywhere. Eye of needle is passage toward the expectation of homeland’s differential and finding similar situations requiring sanities gateway to suggestions of home—of space—and place—to body shape and shift and survive.

Along a river of winding places and the secrets of death silenced by winged changes in flight and shoreline distances from blood left behind—discover the spirits of group-touch lost inside the memories of a something struggle to remember forgotten places behind the twining pine of needled trees and the safety beyond the reaches of iron spears and burning tears…

We shift into the object of another day with the accepted expectations of extraordinary moments of original thought and lights of splendidly created—creations through perceptions of flashing preconceived originality and overloaded repeaters across a wondrous land of sugar and cinnamon-spiced tea or coffee or me or you or us or…in the becoming of a notion immortally important and into legacy’s realm—repeated and recalled and repeated…Amen! Ashes-to-ashes and dust-to-dust-new-ways-to-win—we must be us?

The where-in-the-world we appear is no irritation to the matter-of-the-matter. The ‘I’ of us has never survived without the everywhere of everyone in everyplace across the sky and below and above the lights of moon—stars and suns’ dances beyond the imagined realms of universal distance and the figures of figures wrapped around a third planet from here-to-there and again to another planet of wondering folks alive in both spaces and places and time.

The ‘I’ ceased when the ‘we’ once began to sparkle into ‘the us’ of our flawless creations by love and art-life for a whatever reason to join the joining circle of everlasting lasting until an end begins something special or less or more—however; we are the greater sum of the ‘I’…eye-of-the-needle’s fourteen mile leap-jump into another space of places to land or leave a leaf behind and shift-tilt together into another world of sun—snow—long hair and laughing smiles…(Grace Slick—‘We do believe in Magic—We do believe in Dreams.’)

And! Beautiful you are…

(‘White Rabbit’ by Jefferson Airplane…Woodstock-1969…)

Flute of Silver Crafts…

68Do believe and from those windows—across the bay dancers staged and caged beyond the believers of dawn and crossed these watered gates in boated crafts and anchored along the sandy shoreline. In these model times—love pushed swings without colored desires save to be and swing those roped contraptions higher and higher and higher and to fly among white billowed clouds and raindrops—dew-dropped in those spaces along these places.

Grass carpeted floors of high to sky mountain flats and red sand shifted when raining season began the falls of liquid both silver-clear and diamond-splash across the drinking desert of sand and sea and jungle sleep. Once hearted fears did not exist within the laughing times of fearless pursuit and the unrequited necessities of being the beginning of being the life of long summer moments and winter short when snow covered the dreaming spaces of golden sands and purple seas.

There was a city of Calimesa. A place of Crowman day and Crowman night and a place of haunted hunts and battles of no-foe. A timed place when jack-booted terror stood upon the sacred throats of freedom fighters and painted the ruined roadways with blood and mud and mired ditches with filthy ragged cloth and stained once cleaned spaces—being days before political crazy collapsed—died and disappeared.

He was a Crowman…His face known a century before sickness visited his story and around him the crowds of everyone disappeared and the burning witches forced fire to cleanse another place of sickness and sorrow and loss and start and another beginning of the ends of means or peace or reason to be another being. He piped a silver flute and little ones followed him across first—fields of dirt to concrete streets to rutted shapes of broken road to oiled seas and crumpled ceilings under skylights of grays and flashing streaks and thunder.

Behind his place were story lined message and words of substance and nothing and his something taken from places in days before or after the plague of fires and water and wine and hope-slopes where snow boards and sleds slipped along icy waves and his childhood danced against a dream or two or maybe three. These were the story of lives before and beyond the notions of list things done and lists to check off the hours of a day-a month as century years separated into segments of almost failed to realize the moments of living among the stars and beneath the sky fall of living or dying or living again.

As the piper played, children danced into a ragged sorted night and as they danced, the nothing of Goddess flashes or the darkness thunder bothered to disturb those claps of little hands and rings joined songs and laughter only as a child may laugh or sing. He was the Crowman piper of the raggedy sorting day when Coven called and Crowman repeated the role of rolls and the answered ones again danced behind and beside the flute of silver crafts and a simple dancing song. ‘A better day,’ he cried and everyone agreed.

‘Daylight dorri’r noson heddiw — yn ystod y nos yn cymryd yr ofn i ffwrdd — Sing-Song awr ac Sing-Song yna — Gadewch yr amser dechrau cyfrif — A byddwn yn disgyn i ffwrdd-fall-i ffwrdd — i ffwrdd eto.’ (Daylight break the night today—Night time take the fear away—Sing-Song now and Sing-Song then—Let the counting time begin—And we will fall away-fall-away—away again.)

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Omnos’—by Eluveitie

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)

Moon Color Red…

9A quotation repeated…”It is the duty of us all to ensure that our society remain one of which we are proud, not a society wary of immigrants and intent on their expulsion or a society that disputes the welfare state or a society in which the media are controlled by the wealthy. We would oppose such things were we true heirs to the National Council of the Resistance.”— By Stephane Hessel

We are immigrants of this world. Since a flash of mystery or notions or nicks or knacks or reasons or rhymes we move through time and place and home and one-to-another. We are the managers ‘blood of red’ same air and dancers of fictional truths drawn by spirits same and dreams of hope and the hope of dreams. We are the past—the present—and the days of future dances.

We are the art of the Gods!   We are life—all growing and all walking and all crawling and all swimming—We are Life—perfect and unstoppable…Needs fulfilled—Peace? Poverty is not a disease. Greed is disease and the antithesis of Peace. And! Better to fall in love than to fall in battle…

Medicine may assists us…Medicine never creates us…Medicine does not destroy us…Us…Life and the power of Love. Helping any life to heal must never be considered revenue. Must be without reason and to be applied without expectation of compensation…Medical—Life—Cost—Need—Always—Greed…

Ο Όρκος του Ιπποκράτη

“I swear by Apollo Physician and Asclepius and Hygeia and Panaceia and all the gods and goddesses, making them my witnesses, that I will fulfill according to my ability and judgment this oath and this covenant:

To hold him who has taught me this art as equal to my parents and to live my life in partnership with him, and if he is in need of money to give him a share of mine, and to regard his offspring as equal to my brothers in male lineage and to teach them this art—if they desire to learn it—without fee and covenant; to give a share of precepts and oral instruction and all the other learning to my sons and to the sons of him who has instructed me and to pupils who have signed the covenant and have taken an oath according to the medical law, but no one else.

I will apply dietetic measures for the benefit of the sick according to my ability and judgment; I will keep them from harm and injustice.

I will neither give a deadly drug to anybody who asked for it, nor will I make a suggestion to this effect. Similarly I will not give to a woman an abortive remedy. In purity and holiness I will guard my life and my art.

I will not use the knife, not even on sufferers from stone, but will withdraw in favor of such men as are engaged in this work.

Whatever houses I may visit, I will come for the benefit of the sick, remaining free of all intentional injustice, of all mischief and in particular of sexual relations with both female and male persons, be they free or slaves.

What I may see or hear in the course of the treatment or even outside of the treatment in regard to the life of men, which on no account one must spread abroad, I will keep to myself, holding such things shameful to be spoken about.

If I fulfill this oath and do not violate it, may it be granted to me to enjoy life and art, being honored with fame among all men for all time to come; if I transgress it and swear falsely, may the opposite of all this be my lot.”

Words and reasons of and for oaths are altered by translations and by time… ‘Ο Όρκος του Ιπποκράτη‘ is ancient in the time of flesh, however; seconds in the time of Life. Magic words are spoken and promises are broken or changed or forgotten. However; when flesh cries from the pain of sickness or fear or anguish—magic must never be diminished by the filth of money-changers and by the Greed of Destruction…

And! Beautiful you are…