Your Face—Our Time…

784Reach River—reached by fording gentle series of streams scattered ‘cross Shorten Valley and the hills above and just below Viaduct—crumble-tumble and the ruins of Park Edge. Night falls— and forest of silver trees—twisted branches—bare ground—neon streaks of color and bump-lumps of silver and pearl—black—sky—stones—patch-socket-pocket-light—against sapphire twinkles in the starless night—ground beyond—forest—twin ice ponds as seen—as be—before the roar and dream.

Seven Bridges—call today’s name—and bridges gone are bridges—still—short gap ‘tween birth-death—and simple series—killer memories—events found-lost-cost-change—and—arrange—as bright flash streak and ground strike bounce—endure—rebuild—recharge—destroy and kill—will. Home gone—fall down—downed twists of metal and motor and spirit free—too suddenly—gone-to-be-to-see—too real and fording a gentle series of streams—others do-start-and-stop-again.

These—everyday fail to notion-grasp the chance of peaceful motion—depends on how-where you be—when flash streak—smoke reek—eye burn—tear and fear and the warp of notions peace cease—little ones die before—killer memories evolve—into sweet substance and light bright smiles. Just bump-bangs away or a simple sail—set-to-wind—rail balance—‘neath ruin— bridges of seven—or on—another land-fall beneath another sky—homes to build—caves to clean—and again for a short while—arrival—life comes home. Better—than missile speak or places too far gone to seek—bomb shelter—chance for other—another dance before smoking tears or tomorrow-sorrow—death—peace—good life—ways forgotten—gone.

Roll-rocks-‘sweet-child-of-mine’ own whirling-twirling worlds where over many stones—gather children sun-lighted-secrets of time and tales and stories fine—waiting just outside a door-to-open again—to friend—to bend—flower touch—at rainbow bridge-ridge above valley—or beneath sapphire inked sky and twin moon high…Rather sail—another land—beneath other sky—to—dance ring ’round rouses—rock-roll—small hand touch— to-place-to-enjoy—warm summer night breezes—hair dancing ‘cross small faces— hiding eye just before hair is brushed away—to better see—life-to-be.

Please cease—‘Rockets-red-glare-or-bomb-bursts-in-air’…Rubble crawls are not familiar fare…Homes built should never-ever-be destroyed—Life builds—Always builds. Hồ Chí Minh -[ho̞˧˩ t͡ɕi˧˥ mɪŋ˧]–His name a synonym for the ‘Bringer of Light’…Born Nguyễn Sinh Côn—and wishing his country free of the Imperial tyranny of France—while in an idealistic—dream— sent letters to Woodrow Wilson and Harry Truman (presidents of another Imperialistic Nation—called the world’s greatest Democracy’—to champion Vietnam’s struggle for independence from France—He received no answers…

Garden—hilltop high and we arrive twice—to plant flowers and remember—sometimes with our voice. Tree lined field already picked and plowed of life…Inside woods—look down to cattle and fences and trees and fields—a creek now dry—except for trickles of water caught by pools—a deposit of rain cover along this hill and into valley—just last evening. Had we met on planets not keep-steep in folly-farce—and—hurried as our meeting—we could have—or just maybe—penetrated our uncertainties and our greed…We do not meet—we silence peace—we sail on to another land beneath another sky. ‘Rocket’s red glare and bombs bursting in air’—wiz-bangs everywhere and certainly never-peace-everywhere—ever—good-enough-to-matter-to-the-matter—anywhere and We Cry

And! Beautiful you are…

‘On Every Street’—written by Mark Knopfler—performed by Dire Straits

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)…

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…

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)…

 

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…