“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