The Strut Walkers…

1171

‘Winter Trees’ by Sylvia Plath

“The wet dawn inks are doing their blue dissolve.
On their blotter of fog the trees
Seem a botanical drawing –
Memories growing, ring on ring,
A series of weddings.
Knowing neither abortions nor bitchery,
Truer than women,
They seed so effortlessly!
Tasting the winds, that are footless,
Waist-deep in history –
Full of wings, other worldliness.
In this, they are Ledas.
O mother of leaves and sweetness
Who are these pietàs?
The shadows of ringdoves chanting, but chasing nothing.”  

Run well—along with the wolves of Sity Park and face days of oiled rain—with cougar’s heart. Watch pageants of brute—human crowds—those both burning rights and torching wrongs—fights both frenzied and short with bursts of peace too short noticed—sun-scarred and dusted with forests’ green summer too—fallen leaves. Bargain old with new—the contentions of earth-speak and necessary sadness—necessity weighted—heavy burdens—too fierce—too varied and multiplied by the conditions of humanities’ weights and survival’s moments and greed.

Through digital secretions—worlds clash—commodities and perilous Capitalism rushes to extinguish itself—greedy—selfish—with bodies purchased and sold on blocks of zero and ones. Fearing the spaces between and shivering within the world electric—less—silence—cannot be purchased economically—by anybody out—there. Either ‘yes or no’ always be the wayward reach of all commodity—unknown—found—consumed and never understood. Doll—painted faces—sold to entice—ninety-nine percent unwanted—received—enjoyed and never knowing the why of knowing why—or—contemplated—inside—unavoidable silence. Spirit speak—imagined twixt a steady fall of snowflakes soft—of silent nights and early dawns—of inside just before birth and spacings just after death…Fall twixt the gentle rain spaced exactly ‘cross this meadow—or the measure of air twixt the dancing—of leaves and fairy’s dust—tossed—sprinkled and forgotten…

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 except through 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—of many hearts. Is it better to flee or better to dig livelihood from the bottom of one’s own grave?

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. 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’.

‘I will love you until—the wheels finally come off. So! Let us—Ride this train till line ends and then just Jump…OK?’

And! Beautiful you are…

‘I wanna live
with a cinnamon girl
I could be happy
the rest of my life
With a cinnamon girl.

A dreamer of pictures
I run in the night
You see us together,
chasing the moonlight,’
My cinnamon girl…Cinnamon Girl’ written by Neil Young
……………………………Performed by Type O Negative…

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