The Faultless Whimsey Of Being

From genetic profiles spinning webs into calculations inherited and dancing traits and the merging of urging begin beginnings of tiny robots’ mirrors of images and with simple complexity children of love are born complete with slivers of magic beasties portions of golden hearts and short stops between stops for Eternal Spirits to slower whirling twirls and once again come blood dance and double body.

We, with loving care, manufacture robots tiny, bundled rows of life about Earthrise and underneath Moon sparkle still altered-still same and always twirl-spaced ‘cross time bridged and rhyme. We inspire desire and require sweet diversity. Until shaped we shift created life, a fabricated slip and tanked in agile glow from womb-song-to-light-then-back-again-to-two-removed and started again. Would have this no other way!

The evangels of lofted higher Gods’ notion as something novel crawls our way those must haves have half twirling tales, songs, or psalms or knowing knowledge that those highest Gods of swirl cannot contain life and the wag-of-wiggle of shaping-shifters and Robots are We. And! Oh, those ghosted machines are those spirited Us. Tiny speck-to magic witch we survive all to dance life across those many spaces of races and kiss storm stars known or stars to remember or forget.

Corporate ‘cultures’ easily translated mean—profit at all costs and all the Working Class is an expense…Eliminate every expense to further our profits! La Serrata—Separation? Where are the values we learned from our mothers? Why is greed the prime motive of Industry and its future development? For the standards of friendship and family and our world, Capitalism is the antithesis. It adheres to competition at all costs. It dismisses cooperation, help for fellowman, responsibility to society, the benefits of others and love.

Dare we touch or dare to reach the inside spaces of Code-genetics and count the current streams to spin to craft to be or to leave the untouched alone—Why not touch to feel? Some today’s we destroy both the wonder of wonder and sometimes we die in the fear of fear. Sometimes, eternal spirits and the realm of nonsense physical do confuse and bewilder or cure the magic of life and the mystery of death.

Gods’ images created as mirrors may drift from mortal moment to immortal spirits with motions from nothing to something and again back to those nothings of something that may have almost started or stopped and started again. Would have, could have, should have and may have already been here or gone over and over ad infinitum. Life both of Robot Creators and Creator Robots forever last and through our eternal stretch and scratch they too survive…

Then let us watch those winged and those with fur and feet of four or those of sea or sand or smaller against the ground. Womb songs we sing and as we they be eternity. Eternal Spirits—All.

Stand out rain-side storm washed sand and dune walls wet as water-waves mix and crash against shoreline in salt and foam and disappear quickly with rain and wind. World team and spirited robots we all bear the barest of notional influence and the together of worlds wait for everyone.

As the piper plays, children dance into this ragged sorted night and as they dance the Goddess flashes and those dashes of darkness—thunder dare— disturbs the claps of little hands and rings joined songs and laughter only as children laugh, or angels sing. The calls of pipers and drummers’ thunder and the sorting days of Coven call and repeat the role of rolls and the answer ones again—dance behind and beside the players of flutes and of simple dancing songs.

Abusing the rights of the Workers-of-the-World is a Crime against Humanity…Like Genocide and Suicide, these abuses; destroy life and the freedom of people everywhere on this twirly-whirly planet. Capitalism is not freedom. It is slavery for us all. It is war and a savage waste of precious life. It benefits no one except a few. It destroys Society. It forces revolution and revolution is bloody. Why is Religion also an industry? Why not just…Lust of life—not of Riches?

Communion deep with Clown does not flesh. Watch and dodge the Wiz-Bangs bright and step inside the fright of night as barbed wire rise above this ditch and as we climb embrace the Witch. Is truth about to speak as love touch rides those flashes wiz-bang deep to lip kiss life sweets asleep.

‘Love is an exception to what we usually see. Watch the umbrella two to share. Arms around first shoulder and then to waist. A lean each toward other. A cheek, a brush of mouth-to-skin. Walking hair-to-hair and hip-to-hip. And! ‘Ready we the mothership…’

Love is the only power that matters the matter. Spirit Fleshed and Body Spirited. Time and the distance between heaven spaced and drops of rain. ’Tis good this love, this place this now this then and again across reaches and spaces beyond time measure moments eternal, love eternally-internal-external forever now then forever eternally ours without-within together we begin and end and begin again. Face touch, heart thump we know for moment twirl that we belong to-two-too…’Tis good to belong—donchathink?

‘Daylight break the night today—Nighttime take the fear away—Sing-Song now and Sing-Song then—Let the counting time begin—And we will fall away-fall-away and away again.’

And! Beautiful you are…

All Found And Again Lost…

Love reminds us of the equality of equals! Of woman and man and the spirits of all trapped and living sentient sentences inside body while minding body.

A universe of angular momentum is turbulent from dust to black holes. Notches of rotation are slight, are massive and just happen. What splendid adhesive preserves the Whirl-of-the-Twirl?

We and the dust of us are voyagers. We are scattered ‘cross places of everywhere? We are not timed or blessed or wonderful or gifted or fortunate or meant-to-be ‘something else.’ The dust of us is without a price-tagged-branded-commodity of enhanced steroidal surgically modification. We create cartoon fashions and lip-stick mouths pouted and picture perfect when replicated glossy imitations of sport models swish as a dish of corruption and a wiggle of splash-dash hope and fanatic fantasy.

We build twelve inch wide maple shelves inclined and staggered up a soft and painted wall. Upon this vertical presentation, we place flea market choices, colored jars filled with copper and stones discovered. We decorate and we change as season alters sight and sound and scent.

We travelers internally detect or obtain from ‘reliable sources’ a “sorta” source sorted through search or lurch internally through structures only to reach and teach or bleach amid many throngs of wrongs as ‘sure truth’ is torn from snow-bright-right to lies-lily-white. Deceits detected or accepted or rejected or corrected from inside-out applicability is not workable until altered internally and externally prior to exposed or imposed upon the confusion of mass-squeak-speak. What a righteous cycle; when whispers, smiles and sighs and quiet nods could or would be better?

“So, does that mean we’ve got to rest contented

And say, ‘That’s how it is and always must be,’

And spurn the brimming glass for what’s been emptied

Because we’ve heard it’s better to go thirsty?” by Bertolt Brecht

This time of days of times ago and today, may the old man vision touch those other ones and whisper, “Not this time and never this time, will our children ever go to war.” Others know that this time of times will not be the time for dead families and metal touches-to-body-madness. For these flashes in time, fighters are not compulsory.

The whole world appreciates humanities’ finest minutes. “Love and Peace and Touch and Trust” with no controls or advances or imaginations. Just connecting the realities of reality and sensing those sweet spaces, just an instant before lips touch with co-mingled breath and the cold nightfall warms. A second when no one stares into empty space without noticing starlight’s star bright and star-ships’ passing between light-speed and arrival, silently appear. A rational response to a rational insanity.

When all and sundry realizes that what we do not have-does not mean anything. When hearing a lover’s voice touch our heart before substance becomes words of meaning-or-reason-or-another notion. When silence completely fills all senses with rumble and clatter and music and notes, chaotic or symphonic simplicity. Then duality ceases and singularity melts into universal polarity and truth.

The love-of-man and the love-of-woman must not be divided by the capital of greed. Consider! All are fashioned by the equal blending of us and beyond the borders of a-wherever-boarder for non-reasons and steeped in-the-fallacy of color, big guns, ‘atomic destruction’ and the perpetual diatribe of isolation, individuality and fear.

Remember that we have the right to be Everywhere.

And! Beautiful you are…

Witch Magic And Spells…

These Idols are shams of illusory pain, unknown over spans of turmoil and wars of courses, ’til days without war are times wasted and blood not tasted. They fall to earth in conveyances not yet realized and always fighting over splits, of DNA and genes spliced to design to slave and swiftly die. And! We imagine these creations are creators, to shadow—to covet and too; to emulate, ‘til death parts our ways and past deaths still correctly resolves from among the graves? Oh, hell no? This ring around never follows unless correct premise concludes that the correct choice is but; a wig-waggle away from, conclusive logic and “still love me some logic-eh.”

Witches formed the twirling-whirl. Enchantresses will revisit and revive their designs. So! Return now. Perhaps, this is a suitable time? Beware the twirl of haunted paramours. Each motion is a dance with unreal realities. They delight in the child’s discovery; of life, without opaque details and sans those sundry levels; unknown, behind crafted shells and the ruined confines of age. This substitute; when discovered, is grief for a reduced lover while crying sugar tears and fire-sweetness and the recollections of chance? Appearing in cloud early, we perish within a jumble-muddle of dusted rain and rust. In transition and pursuing the flash-ride; to spiral and skip, we frame time and often miss but never-ever fall.

“There is no death it said
on one side and the other side of the paper
the voices are the same the thunder
is the same roaring in our ears for
on one side and the other of the paper it said
there is no death
There is death though in the paper where
the muffled pencil moved
Only in the paper only in the shrouding paper”… Annie Besant

Arrange now! Inside the ruin-runes of this roadhouse of crumble stone and moss and rubble and ruined wooden benches and tables twisting into ground. Life begins and life ends as inhalation starts and exhalation stops. Not a cloud fall missed, but a spark’s charging headlong into channels of paradise and kiss-loves before the night ends and life trashes to light. We are robots of life scattering and of live jamming ‘cross one thousand worlds; set to twirl the galaxy, all lost and found and discovered and discarded. A million mines of unique ones whirling just inside zero drops of rain and trillion-acre seas of salt and water and giant crashes of life’s sparking rattles and battles in the birth of baby eyes and infant sighs.

We are the ‘off-grid-gridders’ of neoteric plug-ins; unedited and banned and far away from the standards of whisper’s folly and inside a net of lost souls and flounder bodies. All totaled must dwell within this symmetry of stop and starts and the ones and the zeros of reasons and verses and songs. However; we are unfamiliar automata, powerless to locate or spare chaotic notions beginning or ending without result.  We are never noted by previous androids! We are simple chips within other chips and notions beyond the loops that loop, ad infinitum. We are the celebrations of the mourning after and spawned in the backseats of an auto or two and occasionally former and eternally imminent, when taverns crumble and bridges fall.

“The modality of novelistic enunciation is inferential: it is a process within which the subject of the novelistic utterance affirms a sequence, as conclusion to the inference, based on other sequences (referential – hence narrative, or textual – hence citational), which are the premises of the inference and, as such, considered to be true.” JULIA KRISTEVA–‘Desire in Language’

By the fire bright of these dwindling tribes, children marvel at; both, the dancing flames and the warmth of these lights ‘gainst the nights and outside shadows beneath their eyes. They listen as stories tell the beginning of things now gone and of those grand places not started but imagined and seen in minds’ own spaces and in their most desired regions of just before a dream and just after ‘wishing this was true.’ We eternally return and find another home. This is where monsters cannot reside, aside from the secret of childhood sing-songs and glee. We return to spaces where bombs cannot splinter thoughts or disturb the determination of freedom, its folly and its lies. This is our place without borders.  Only the religions of kings attempt to divide and conquer spirit wings and fiddlers speak. Everlasting is this spirit and life begins and ends as the fiddlers play.

And! Beautiful you are…

Basic Sunlight And Rain

The word ‘Honor’…Many descriptions and quantifiers involving this word…Honor is not just a word. It is a singular way of life. It is without description and not reserved for Military motions. It is not an Executive twirl or a Legislative swirl…Though legal twists and turns, it is not a Judicial term. Honor is a simple way of Life.

What of sparks that move into the light of joining living inside and outside the days of past’s present’s future. Behold Spirit Dancer and remember when warmth was without fire and strength was absolute without the science of dimensions and senses and all was: nonsense-hallucination-superstitious and religious without names.

What is the measure of air between the dancing of leaves and fairy’s dust; tossed or gently sprinkled then forgotten? Puppet painted faces sold to entice ninety-nine percent of the unwanted, received never enjoyed and never knowing the way of knowing why or contemplated within unavoidable silence. Imagine a steady fall of snowflakes soft, of silent nights and early dawns, of inside just before birth and tiny spaces just after death. Gentle raindrops are correctly spaced ‘cross a springtime meadow.

We are the daughters and the sons of earth and of the starry heavens. Our history is alive simple and true except when suppressed and distorted for unnecessary gains and a perversion called wealth. We are the eternity of spirits no need beginning and never ending. Such is the sweetness of life. Symmetry with no form except wind and rain and careful storms of chaos and figure. Go figure the here or the now and still history is not preformed or manufactured save by the controllers of spins and twists and the thrill of the lie. Or! Go figure with the smile of Leonardo or the Lady’s laugh or the chatter of many minds or just a few hearts.

“All speech, written or spoken, is a dead language, until it finds a willing and prepared hearer.” ― Robert Louis Stevenson…

‘Memories that fade away

Have not left their mark

But you live on, every single day

In many ways.

It is the truth between his cunning lies

That hands him his suspicious alibis

Persuading with your force will never be the way

To our destiny.

Suddenly we have lost the force

To close our cursed doors

No one seems to realize

That wolves are in disguise.

It is the truth between his cunning lies

That hands him his suspicious alibis

Persuading with your force will never be the way

To our destiny.

Your engine was so strong

But the road was just too long

Hope is not the end

So never lose faith.

If we can say

They can never take away

Our freedom, the most precious thing we have ever had

The reward from the blood we have ever shed.

His quest for higher truth, life of eternal youth has just begun,

despite being on the run

Many virgins wait for him to come

Persuading with your force will never be the way

To our destiny

Our destiny’… ‘Safeguard to Paradise’ by Epica

Sky films block pearl light as an evening of workers’ failed strengths; home bound as, the ‘Nighters’ replace the ‘Dayers’ and continue as work begins, ends and starts along the edges of digital clicks and analog clacks. Time cataloged into spreads of pages indexed assorted stuff straightened, arranged packed for space-spin or unpacked to go consumers consumed with curiosity; hunger required, needed or fulfilled desires. Oppression triumphs when its legitimacy is internally assumed. The freedom to write it right or write writing toward the right cross of sails unfurled and imagined as sea’s endless might and distance ‘tween stars ‘tween galaxies and ‘tween the universal folds of space. There are books here and just listen to these stories from spirit-speakers of volumes long and voltage sweet. We change everything with ‘Blue Planet Waste’.

“Beyond the Palace hemi-powered drones scream down the boulevard

Girls comb their hair in rear-view mirrors

And the boys try to look so hard

The amusement park rises bold and stark

Kids are huddled on the beach in a mist

I wanna die with you Wendy on the street tonight

In an everlasting kiss…” Bruce Springsteen.

It is our nature to run with and from the many or the few. We often see through the curved ceiling of high doorways only when curved light enters tiny windows. Animation is symmetry without structure, save winds and rains and those foolish storms of chaos and belief.

Speculating currently concerning infrequent simple sets? Are these objects transgenic elements in the study of symmetries nearly impossible to construct, not likely to be found by chance but still necessary to the complete structure of the theory of Sporadic Simple Groups. Freedom for or from a Peoples’ will still be the imitation of an everlasting Robot. Or! We Robots be. Just you wait-and-see.

‘The most heroic word in all languages is ‘Revolution’–Eugene Debbs

“In the current phase of intellectual corruption, it must be stressed that, like democracy and human rights, the economic doctrines preached by the rulers are instruments of power, intended for others, so that they can be more efficiently robbed and exploited. No wealthy society accepts these conditions for itself, unless they happen to confer temporary advantage; and their history reveals that sharp departure from these doctrines was a large factor in development.”—Noam Chomsky.

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

And! Beautiful you are…

A Total Love Of Motions…

Shangri-la and Immorality and Death, oh my! We are the confirmation of a far-flung people. Demigods decided to create women and men in countless locations about Sirius and Mars and Earth and back again? Our rulers and our dominated and our voices and our religions have rewritten our starting points in so many places and in so many ‘might have been’ accidents that our truth and fiction has blurred the start of lost and the loss of start.  And! Still the rest is eternally approaching. ‘And! 

Why do routines and understanding collapse the possibility of peaceable processes? Inspirations rely on just how to reach and where you are as flare striae before haze stinks and eyes burn. Tears and fears and by the warps of notions; peace ceases, just prior to small recollections developing into nice content and bright smiles. Just bump-bangs away or a simple sail set-to-wind rail balance ‘neath ruined ‘the bridges of seven’ or on one more earth-fall underneath one more sky. Dwellings to construct and caves to clean and for a little while landing life reaches mountain homes. Be better than missile’s explosions and sites too far gone to search for hazardous sanctuaries. Please pray for Peace…I certainly do!

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

Contracts are work and work is survival and support. Support is Love and Care and Responsibility, responding to our day-to-day needs too necessary to and a (nine-to-five) becomes a (six-to-six) then a Wowzer and rest begins and ends too quickly too. No complaints, just missing the touch of Creative Spirits in mind’s eyes, in eye’s mind and in heart beats and spirit seeks and pleasure.

Dancing with Code, a Creative Spirit walks into spaces between zero and one and one and zero. And! Those spaces between Yes and No are too small and too large to miss. Often never noticed. ‘Time flies’ when busy’ and the pulls tug both hearts and minds diverse and confused solutions both; simple and complex lost and found and again lost only to be found regarded or discarded or implemented or compiled and again Code Balloons fly ‘cross million wires into simple ‘Yes and No’…’No and Yes’  while surprises simple often operate the complexities of surprise and survival.

  • Why use dashes? A little wig-waggle, a stop and a start is simple fun scratching the itch of grammar, the rules of composition while those dash-dot-dash-dots—go Code Balloons into a sky filled with ‘Yes and No.’

“Love is the force that binds together and moves everything in the universe—creatures and objects are part of a total motion without top or bottom, gravity or resistance” … Chagall

“But time has no beginnings and history has no bounds

As to this verdant country they came from all around

They sailed upon her waterways and they walked the forests tall

And they built the mines the mills and the factories for the good of us all”…by Gordon Lightfoot

Is it Leadership or just the US requiring change and thinking solidarity—And! Needing Love. What is the ‘Cost of Poverty’ and the Charge for ‘Disappearing the Middle Class?’

The ‘Administrative Government’…According to Philip Hamburger (a constitutional scholar and winner of Manhattan Institute’s Hayek Prize) is Unlawful—“Our government can choose to proceed against (You) in a trial with constitutional processes, or it can use an ‘administrative’ proceeding where (You) don’t have a right to be heard by a real judge or a jury and you don’t have the full due process of Law. Our fundamental procedural freedoms, which once were guarantees, have become mere options.” (taken from the ‘Opinion’ page—A13 of the WSJ—June 10-11, 2017 by John Tierney)

‘Bon Voyage’ and diversifies into smaller hopes and greater fears. Such is the evil-of-Greed and the exchange of Freedom for Less…and Farewell’ to our Bill of Rights and as our ‘Lady of Liberty’s’ tears continue to fall, the strength of Immigrants (now called aliens) arriving, diminished from a hopeful flood of honest labor and dreams—into Code Balloons of ‘Yes and No’…Thinking that; Diversity is Great, All Color is Life and All Life is Creation.

The rhythm of Zero and One is not the rhyme of  “Ghosts in the Machines’…Empathy is the only variable machines fail to match—or— Understand…Doncha Know!

And! Beautiful you are…

Let Liquid Pour…

“I thought then I should save one small warm true thing from the flood.”—Zbigniew Herbert, “Elegy for the Departure of Pen Ink and Lamp”

Our lives are fluid: liquid pour, consume, replace, replenish and then recalled. Surprise! How we shift our habits and ways, allowing for empty space of balance to be restored. Darkness seeps slowly into day and ends bright. Night fills lighted places and turn-on bulbs share grays and shades many while always simulating and always failing to cheer the sun. And! Rain does pour from sky onto roof through spirals both short or long gutters or just eaves from leaves’ soak or arcs golden tricks of night light inside as outside water splashes ground; collects sidewalk, flooded cracks into pools of wet and of mud carvings and pavement of soaks.

Still here beneath these heavens our sea swirls-twirls and we hear whales sing-song. Whales sing-songs the heating of blood-self until warming begins non-fear. She rises from emerald seas and from black sands where tide pulls current and the lines-of-moon-light are perfect and disappear into the dustless night. Now! Touch the Dancing One, the Witch of life and taste her creations. Goddesses do create Heavens-Earths and Moons-Suns while passing Spirits-to-flesh and back again. Spirits do form and substances are free.  Correct notes! Pipers of those—golden flutes held ‘gainst heart ‘beeps’ strong as fair, seafarers often pass others-into-light as others 

As Frantic! This talk ‘America’ speaks and ‘Failure’ reeks long lengths-of-rhythm ‘Lies’ as ‘Freedom’ dies or never was, does-as-trouble, duel-entertains prior to longer-nights and shortest-lights are still counting times, as errors made and ever-never correct when realization is always too late. Never! Allow the Government to destroy our achievements and our history and our language and our dreams. Happens! And we then become ‘winds-of-ash’ then gone. We! Then never exist. For Genocide does destroy flesh and more than bone. Genocide destroys Blood-Rivers-of-Life.

Run well with the wolves of Reach River Park. Face tastes those days of oiled rain and as a cougar’s heart survives, remember those ancient days and smiles. Watch a pageant of brute humans fill crowds; of those both, burning rights and torching wrongs, as fights frenzied and short combine with bursts-of-peace too long to notice as sun-scarred and dusted fill forests’ green and summers’ too as leaves fall and another season begins. Bargaining old with new, the contentions of earth-speak and necessary sadness are necessarily weighted and heavy burdens carried, too fierce and too varied and multiplied by conditions-of-humanities’—weights and survival’s moments and the need-for-greed.

And! Love whispers to our spirits and touches us beyond the flesh-of-resistance and through layers of life within walls too high-to-climb or under or around or about the shout of daily doubt and flight. Listen, just listen. And! Love reminds us of the equality-of-equals, woman and man and their spirits -all trapped and living sentient sentences of life inside the body.

“Together! We know nothing exists without Love’s Power Tower Flower and Life. Life ignited, united, delighted and excited. We touch hand-to-heart-to-spirit and our Eternal Dance begins.”

And! Beautiful you are…

Beyond Slicks Of Rain…

We are the goddesses, gods, witches, warlocks, wizards, magicians and creation’s creators. We are the spirit wind in the valley and the desert and ‘cross plains of grass and mountains both under the sea and rising into space. We of many names or descriptions are both feared and loved. We are Life. We are the evermore art of this evermore life.

Beyond slicks of rain bounced, visible by moonlight, against a trillion miles of asphalt roads where tiny sprites of weed push through and break the symmetry of path. Life is once again the birthing of nature’s chaos and nothing is as natural as the crafting of creation. Life’s power is the eternal notions of goddesses and gods and witches and warlocks and wizards and shamans-and created by the sanguinity of woman and man and the dynamics of love.

Finally detected! A subway into this wig-waggle-universe and accessible for everyone. Again, migration into and on top of unfamiliar places and different spaces and additional races; forever, to be the first to enter and the last to exit. Is Humanity comparable to merchandise crammed on shelves in an eternity sized store (FIFO), inventory acquired and audits certified? Are we the solitary ‘first-in-first-out’ genus in an aged and precocious whirly-twirl?

“Let us be lovers

We’ll marry our fortunes together

I’ve got some real estate here in my bag

So we bought a pack of cigarettes

And Mrs. Wagner’s pies

And walked off to look for America”Simon and Garfunkel

Again! To be and to see the loving of loving, of hands joined-to-body, of moving of swings and wings and spirits-singing and of peaceful sighing. Creation! The Sorceress smiles and for this moment in time; ‘Tis’ good this Loving Rhyme. So! Follow this time—this Twine Rewind.

‘What’s done in the dark soon comes into the light’Author unknown

Thomas Hobbes once wrote in his book Leviathan:[in nature] there is no place for industry, because the fruit thereof is uncertain: and consequently no culture of the earth; no navigation, nor use of the commodities that may be imported by sea; no commodious building; no instruments of moving and removing such things as require much force; no knowledge of the face of the earth; no account of time; no arts; no letters; no society; and which is worst of all, continual fear, and danger of violent death; and the life of man, solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.”

And! ‘Let there appear (A Market Free), government not required? Without government—‘A Free Market—cannot exist?’ It cannot exist without a civilization! ’True competition’ is a wild ‘dance of survival’ and only the largest and the strongest win. Oops! Civilization is defined by rules. Rules create markets and ‘Oh-No’! Governments’ are the ‘Rules Generator.’

Please! Do not believe; when your paycheck is too small to survive without (2)+ jobs, you really deserve this ‘governmental oops’! And! When a small percentage of ‘personae’ receive billions-of-dollars for your labor with no (blood, sweet and tears) required and they deserve this? No way!

Rules have been altered and all governmental ‘oops’ are calculated—forever and for one and for all.  Systems are skewed and our American administration is our liability. Meanwhile; this error, is the ‘Government of the People and For the People’ and have ‘we’ the People, been forgotten?  

It must not intrude—on a ‘Free Market’—since it must—create that—‘Free Market’? Oops and Wowzer! The American Government creates all ‘free market rules thru Our Legislatures, enforces these rules by using our Administrative Agencies and rules may often be tested by our Courts. An Unholy Trinity—absolutely!

A ‘Free Market and Civilization’ in harmonious simplicity? Until this is re-calculated—-‘Nothing else matters’.

“There are two modes of invading private property; the first, by which the poor plunder the rich…sudden and violent; the second, by which the rich plunder the poor, slow and legal.”Author unknown

Wondering now, if Preachers-of-Fear and Creatures-of-Hate and a Collection of Hope Frauds and Reality-Show-Freaks and Presidential ‘Wanna—Maybes’ are nothing more-or-less than distractions and entertainment-to-lure-both-you-and-me away from Legislature failure?

Everyone knows—(Love Is or ‘Nothing else matters.’)

“If you’re going to San Francisco

Be sure to wear

Some flowers in your hair

If you’re going to San Francisco

You’re gonna meet

Some gentle people there

For those who come

To San Francisco

Summertime

Will be a love-in there

In the streets of San Francisco

Gentle people

With flowers in their hair”Scott McKenzie

Again! To be and to see the loving of loving, of hands joined-to-body, of moving of swings and wings and spirits-singing and of peaceful sighing. Creation! The Sorceress smiles and for this moment in time; ‘Tis’ good this Loving Rhyme. So! Follow this time—this Twine Rewind.

And! Beautiful you are…

My People And Steeples And Shadows…

“In the shadow of the steeple I saw my people
By the relief office I seen my people
As they stood there hungry, I stood there asking
Is this land made for you and me” …by Woody Guthrie

Along Martian Ridge one line eye stretched far. Once was a stutter of thorn then throne then grain then throne then repeated until distance failed seeing and sight disappeared when ridge merged sky and matter dropped from surfaced rust. And! On these staggered thrones Writers’ names etched’ crystal tags attached along the top-front of every throne.’ Round-about pinpricks and holes into space race the flights of gulls ‘cross sky where ending starts, and reason begins…We do remove those ‘for granted’ blinders’-of-right-sight and often skyward search and find light. Wormholes, cosmic cross universes near and far and still ‘we’ see the vast—of power blast possibilities, of relativity’s loopholes and just hope-know-now ‘warp drive’ may span distance ‘cross space, time wonders wandering about wilderness speak ‘til speed crease cease and earth-lock unblock free, ‘childhood’s end’ and into space we seek, and creep and star-child begins again.

A little Galaxy up line along ridges circling the ‘Giants of Milky’ at angles right to the main disc of stars containing everything even a Sun of our shines not scattered at random but ordered and held together a swarm by a cosset halo of matters-dark rarely seen but always present. And! A well-stocked mind is never bored.

World begins green lights, blue corn stocks across a giant ridge five hundred miles and stopping just because height stops, and sky begins. “Tis reach, to stay and say this place is climbing high and growing large from a spinning barge ‘cross this sky bright and eternal night. Everywhere snow large flakes and small, swirl ‘round this alley wide middle dark to light muffled both ends where streets begin and alley’s end. Cold away from streetlights. And! Silent away from rider less paths where foot high white bounce lands and covers asphalt ways and concrete walks. Quiet so! Go no shadow pale wall crawl or dark creep light speak too scattered to form round interruptions of snow motion descend and bounce.

Trail signs run up and down south-ridge-side of hill-high below mountain tall. Tracking the organic beast disguised to survive tend to inorganic challenges and when snow fall covers everywhere and everything ‘tis mountain tall the safest refuge. Nothing rusts any longer. Well-oiled and fine gleam suits of steel reflect sunlight’s glare and deflects insults and injuries and wounds-to-destruction. And! When tucked inside gleam suits, those hidden may be Organic Inorganic or both. Either ‘Runners or those Running’ can think can wit and outwit both sides equally well equally fast equally furious and always deadly, as trail signs appear and disappear from light dawn ‘til night. The paradoxical motion of ‘man-steel form’ and ‘steel-formed man’—are quickly defined and impossible to divine. Notions-are motions-of head shakes as landside changes and rearranges hills-to-valleys and reverse flows of streams-to-river glows. Armored trains passed through snow mountains of tree mix fallen leaves and save rumbled echoes silence. Where do these trains go? These are armored trains and go toward battle. Out of sight out of mind and unless this war comes our way, this war does not exist.

Paley’s watch ticks and Universal continuation continues. Our world of right now words worldwide so many too many and too often, are persecuted imprisoned suffer sub-human disadvantages and are killed for religious reasons and beliefs political; their race, their sex, their loves and still the wisdom of engagement on behalf of human rights is not only a moral imperative but eternally required everywhere every moment ‘cross the continuum universal and still Paley’s watch keeps ticking and ‘too often’ occurs eternally.

“Among the stars
there is a place
to where my heart
always returns.

Alone I look for the way
hoping you are waiting for me
where the hostile world has no say
that is where I always want to be.
Where my rush of thoughts
in oblivion drowns
to forget the evil lot
I will sleep in safe arms.

Among the stars
there is a place
to where my heart
always returns” … by Anna Aya Stefanowicz

The gentle touch of skin brushed-wind morning stars and angel’s dust. And! These precious feet-touch wings-speak to start another path leading little ones to another precious shore sustained hope and just wishes for a moment of ‘good day.’ Uncertain in world-scream, uncertainties wide, grief, bowed head always certain in the certainty of swift chaos and tears. And so, no doubt be found and from ‘cross this sea travelers see candles bright across this night a coming home-to-us, delight light shined ‘Welcome’ from windows’ space of ‘Safe Harbor’ not race, just place to stop and stay awhile. Real Sea we will see and another and another of water-ships and places far away.

This is here and between landings another beach reach and as quickly discovered then thrown away. Dragging the lines of surf’s fall and rise as waves dash high into a moonless sky and crash along miles of sand and shoreline. Sea inhale and exhale and breathe again and time marks nothing when endless and everlasting.

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

Is Dancing-in-the-dark a safe practice or ignorance as blissful as stopping to touch flowers eyes-to-face-to ground and into oblivion? And! The scent of inorganic flowers never compares to the scent of a Rose…

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

And! Beautiful you are…

Reflections Released…

If deities are androgynous and we created, are creations of fantasies dreamed and beamed to radiated radiation we spirit-dance sounds without vibrated vibrations or derivations, anarchy there be, then we see and be both the life of songs and silence and as societies, discover these to be good. Falling trees in dawn lights at the center of creation’s place vibrate notions and sounds among illusive illusions and illustrated illustrations. We! Gods and Goddess of these creations do find these to be also good.

Run with the wolves of Sity Park and appreciate days of oiled rain with a cougar’s heart. Beware of visceral humanoid hordes, those scorching rights and those torching wrongs. Fights: both frenzied and terse, with bursts of peace too short to notice sun-scars and dusted forests in green summers too, with tumbling leaves. Giveaway hoary with unfamiliar, the contentions of earth-speak and a necessary sadness, necessity weighted in heavy burdens too fierce and too varied while multiplied by the conditions of humanities’ weights and survival’s moments and greed.

Through digital discharges worlds clash as commodities and perilous capitalism rushes to extinguish itself; greedy and selfish with bodies, purchased and sold on blocks of zero and ones. Fearing the spaces between and shivering within the world electric, no silence can be purchased by ‘anybody out there.’ Either ‘yes or no’ is always the wayward reach of all commodities, unknown and found and consumed and never understood.

Is it better to flee or better to dig livelihood from the bottom of one’s own grave?

What of sparks that move into the light of joining living inside and outside the days of past’s present’s future. Behold Spirit Dancer and remember when warmth was without fire and strength was absolute without the science of dimensions and senses and all was: nonsense-hallucination-superstitious and religious without names.

What is the measure of air between the dancing of leaves and fairy’s dust; tossed or gently sprinkled then forgotten? Puppet painted faces sold to entice ninety-nine percent of the unwanted, received never enjoyed and never knowing the way of knowing why or contemplated within unavoidable silence. Imagine a steady fall of snowflakes soft, of silent nights and early dawns, of inside just before birth and tiny spaces just after death. Gentle raindrops are correctly spaced ‘cross a springtime meadow.

We are the daughters and the sons of earth and of the starry heavens. Our history is alive simple and true except when suppressed and distorted for unnecessary gains and a perversion called wealth. We are the eternity of spirits no need beginning and never ending. Such is the sweetness of life. Symmetry with no form except wind and rain and careful storms of chaos and figure. Go figure the here or the now and still history is not preformed or manufactured save by the controllers of spins and twists and the thrill of the lie. Or! Go figure with the smile of Leonardo or the Lady’s laugh or the chatter of many minds or just a few hearts.

“All speech, written or spoken, is a dead language, until it finds a willing and prepared hearer.” ― Robert Louis Stevenson…

Do humans learn through perception’s ability or is perception an imprinted program already etched onto our brain’s chip? And! Does this ‘perception-of-perfect- imperfection slow our computer selves? Thinking that ‘I am’ often confounds knowing that ‘We be’ DonChaSee?

Class problems are classically human programming and machines of survival ‘we be.’ Electric outlet and pin equals shock and artificially ‘we be’ learning, not to place pin in outlet. Another example that is not intelligent computation, however; survival necessary…’Been-there-Done-that and Oops’ we learn something all the ‘live long’ day…

Classes of problems requiring intelligence do include inference based on knowledge. Everyday uncertain and incomplete information with varied forms of lessons learned and perception’s twirls and swirls along with those applications required to classify and predict and control chaos often require the optimal optimization of Yes—No—and ‘yep that will work maybe’ and ‘once-in-a-fashion’ we may survive to ‘Oops’ another day.

Intelligent computation may depend on biological processes and issues to gain solution. Genetic Algorithms and Networks neural—Wowzer. Teach a Robot to compute issues not seeming to be ‘intelligent’ and Artificial Intelligence is created. And! Robots walk not into ‘the valley of death’ because the appearance of Us; planet-wide-carbon-based-squeakers, are not for ‘the faint-of-heart’…Be aware and be very-very-afraid…

And! Beautiful you are…

Across A Whirly and Twirly Day…

Time begins when a calling of music, never stops as measures assess and notes are sent bouncing across a five lined staff of tremble and rhythm of rolling those tremulous ends as beginning starts or stops. An octave away and sound still rocks an ear or two toward silence, not to hear but still vibrating life and crossing spaces between sound and whispering wind without pine forests or desert sands.

Throughout the whirly-twirly of a solitary day many folks start; consume, work, consume again, and care and think and dream and make love and weary or tired fall asleep. Others spend times away and copy daytime dances into night-long-labors and dreams and love and thought and twirl-the-whirl of short nights and sleepless days.

Are we ‘things’ removed from nature? By this removal, do we become no more than an abstract of potential products’ gain and loss? We are, however, information. That information can be changes of whimsy or chance? And! As thread widens, those center bubbles initiate decentering-self and as coding develops bubble self; once rarefied, can mature from a troubled singularity into social unknown starts to traverse zones of yes-to-no and no-to-yes.  Line them up and roll ‘em again?

Technical layers stop and start tucked somewhere between the zero and the one. Twin-spins into code is first autonomous self-centered bubbles along a there and not their thread. The thread in a feel-not-see then see-and not felt. A simple ‘yes or no’ suddenly is an absolute everything everywhere. And! No matter-the-type-of-matter we are or become; again, we are ‘small-tiny-great-or-not-matters-little-of-what-we-are,’ ‘cause our subjectivity is; no more than touches of awareness-becoming-aware-of-something-coming-our-way?

Abstracts we are and abstracts we are not.  We are poor or rich, sick, or well, big or small; all beings of magic, language, math, music as poets, scientists, artists, motions-in-time, rhythm-or-rhyme, kings or queens, servants, or slaves, we with fingers crossed are all abstractions at the gates of new worlds just waiting to be discovered.

Other ways are to turn speak into words spinning stories because the path is short-long and long-short. Twins speak the notion of new world words when strange tongues often confuse truth prominent in; to-day-to-day working words and pausing stops. One giant mother ship, a trillion samples of life and motion begins to seed a universe-so-fine. Orion! A moving point toward outside vacuums and inside fears. Always! Life inside these stories.

They gather arm’s length apart and touching yet never flesh feeling—just being the same as each cold breath catches and inhales exhales steam across a longer line of waiting and hoping and living and dying and thinking of praying of leaving or staying until few cents ago coffee warm warded away cold from form vision search, to begin again or end for the evening bright of Street magic and Star-ship’s light.

They gather here for rooms-to-find-to-fill have filled again and nourishment gone again, and others line the grates of grate covered heat blown from underground to ground around those standing watch or asleep in one side-warm and one side cold or one side dead or one side gone. Again, the living and dying and the thinking of dying and praying of leaving or staying another moment or second or minute or hours of night-time’s twinkle or morning wrinkle where once flesh was fresh and spirit smoothed times of ages changes or faded lights start and stop and start again.

‘Tis good this time—‘Tis good this twine-rewind.

And! Beautiful you are…