Park of Echoes…

133“Well, won’t you lend your lungs to me?
Mine are collapsing
Plant my feet and bitterly breathe
Up the time that’s passing.
Breath I’ll take and breath I’ll give
Pray the day ain’t poison
Stand among the ones that live
In lonely indecision.” from ‘Lungs’… by Townes Van Zandt

We be ‘coming in’—right now and write-right there and here and when and where and… Ok? When alright is ‘right now said’ and done and placed in those put-away places—OK? We are the dreams of everything or more than less…It is not the riddle of life. It is the living of this day. We are not born to die. We are not created by accident or purpose or reason or rhyme. We are life and we rule universal spaces between drops of rain and among flakes of snow. Those coming of fire—of ice be—already here—be we—to stare—dare—be fair—fare together and come in and leave and together again begin and walk legendary ledges—to end….OK?

We spin just right—of whales with horns and the unicorns of ages ago and futures from earth. We spin inside the great shadows of tucked beneath suns-of-light and night and moon silver twirls upon the magnificence of between-times when drenched in golden dreams and diamond wolves of today’s-day-night. Not a middle riddle called Life…We! Middle-folk be—we crawl and walk and run—we swim—we fly-sky-high—we nude—with thumbs—we balanced—twin feet…We four of feet and strength and coated—no thumbs required—feathered—scaled—seas of twirl and swirl from coming in to ‘heading out’ or crawling back again—OK? All—Eternal Spirit—All the Time—Everywhere and Everything—OK? Alright-then-back-again—OK?

We have these Martian trails—Walked…Long before bombs turn soil red and chase air away from ground. We dance piper sounds between green cliffs of magic and the forever of Ever-lands. Gods smile and we; you and I— smile back and with the eternal energies of We—feed the land. We are the blood of substance—just for a little time and begin-again—we—as now and as then—ago.

We determine our own destiny—both as Spirits and as Blood and Spirited Flesh…Angry Gods do not exist. Angry men—matter little except to scrubs of scurry selves—being—just before the spirits of after-self and spinning matters-of-expression. Rude the kings and queens of foolish speak when angles fall toward earthbound- trivial-moments and gods ever-never—eternally require—any—explanation to live–be and ‘never-fear’ rules of angled angels. Fleshy Spirits—need not shepherds—we folk-of-fields-high—everyday graze—without fame—folly—fortune or blame.

‘What’s coming—round right now’…Move to an empty world? And! A place called America will still-kill in the name of Peace? Planet Protector—Is—Earth Destroyer? Religions—Governments—Regions—Flags—Banners—Controls—Causes—And! Pauses—Still; War and Rape is Murder—Grab a gun—A bomb—A tank—A chemical—Come by land or sea or air—No matter ’cause’—War and Rape is Murder…The Middle Home is Place…And! War is just a moneyed ‘slip-trip’…we die with every shot…One body slip-fall—we all slip-fall…Our sweet Middle Home slip-fall and more war—call? The great firing-killing-pointing—machine is again and again—We do hear our Angels sing—’Peace Now.’  Better to Fall In Love—Than to Fall In Battle… OK?

Angry men turn peace to war and gash—slash across another spin-of-earth. Battles disturb the strength of peace and the balance of life. We—as warriors—rattling-nothing. The ideas and ideals of war-speak are ‘Anti-life.’ Remove religions and governments and kings and queens!  Better-to-fall-in-love—not-to-fall-in-battle—OK?

And! Beautiful you are

‘Lungs’ by John Townes Van Zandt


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


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


Analog Voices—Digital Sighs…

SW_95‘Sing-Song the voices now—the lines of chorus-sweet—likely lined in zero-ones—whispering ports—once harmony— single notes—noted often—repeat.’

Village Insis is one hundred and thirty seven miles from Calimesa City—reached by dry road and three forded rivers or one craft stretched across the Wall Hallenid and a flash-splash-paced-space of climb-drop onto Village-Center. Not far to run unless walking inside the sun’s noon-day heat and wanting to race— toward streamed liquid of silver drops and cooler rain. Aeolian Harps— line the wires of  stretches along creased ways eastward and away from town-side to City lights along many sparkles from river’s edges to sea shadows and piers.

Inside winds of charm—crescendos-decrescendos dance frequent harmonics—when night wind tosses  rhythms ‘cross lines—the bridges of viaduct and between the beginning of covered bridges and the ending of light beacons. The strings are both long or short and of many gauges and wind songs dance character—along a flat of land stretch—beyond eye reach—as Aeolus strums his harp. A mechanics of magnificence when the Wind God whispers songs across a thousand wiggles of wire and with a balance of motion and  contraption—night sings along an endless road of nowhere-to-here-and-there and back-again.

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.

Curved rooms and softer edges conspire to selected whispers and little sighs sometimes dance across shortened distances from window wrap to door sill.

‘Hope-Pain-Patience.’ Please—Please protect our women in the Sudan—better—Everywhere… Our women—our Life! Without you Baby—there is no Baby…Always better to fall in love than to fall in battle—donchathink?

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Fire and Rain’—James Taylor

Performed by Kappa Danielson


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…

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…

Racing to Middle Placing…

Precious Syrian LifeOh, a storm is threat’ning
My very life today
If I don’t get some shelter
Oh yeah, I’m gonna fade away

War, children, it’s just a shot away
It’s just a shot away
War, children, it’s just a shot away
It’s just a shot away

Ooh, see the fire is sweepin’
Our very street today
Burns like a red coal carpet
Mad bull lost its way

War, children, it’s just a shot away
It’s just a shot away
War, children, it’s just a shot away
It’s just a shot away

Rape, murder!
It’s just a shot away
It’s just a shot away

Rape, murder!
It’s just a shot away
It’s just a shot away

Rape, murder!
It’s just a shot away
It’s just a shot away

The floods is threat’ning
My very life today
Gimme, gimme shelter
Or I’m gonna fade away

War, children, it’s just a shot away
It’s just a shot away
It’s just a shot away
It’s just a shot away
It’s just a shot away

I tell you love, sister, it’s just a kiss away
It’s just a kiss away
It’s just a kiss away
It’s just a kiss away
It’s just a kiss away
Kiss away, kiss away”by Mick Jagger and Keith Richards

Today! What is happening right now…Move it to an empty world…And a place called America will kill in the name of Peace? Planet Protector? Planet protectors or Earth’s Destroyer? Damn (Give-Us-All-Shelter)…

Names of: Religions—Governments—Regions—Flags—Banners—Control—Causes—Still; War and Rape is Murder—pick a gun—a bomb—a tank—a chemical—come by land or sea or air—War and Rape is Murder…(Give-Us-All-Shelter)…

The Middle Home is Face—The Middle Home is Place…And War is just a….We die with every shot…One body falls—we all fall…Our sweet Middle Home and more war…The great firing-killing machines are again and again—Can you not hear the Angels sing—Peace Now? (Give-Us-All-Shelter)…

‘Love is just a Kiss Away’…Better to Fall In Love—Than to Fall In Battle…Damn (Please-Give-Us-All-Shelter—Right Now)….

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Gimme Shelter’—Rolling Stones with (Lisa Fischer)

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…)