“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.”
‘The Mother of Creation’…A voice of Feminine Divine Power
Purple lights—fading into—night dark—and ribbons of—coming and going highways—somewhere between Colorado bound—along I-80 and I-76—and a southwest slant ‘cross—Nebraska nights and into—Denver’s lights. Arrives—those machined boxes—machine-sweet and together—in minds of same or alternates—where we twirl—the whirl and call the laugh—or—two as boxes open and away we—they separate into some things or less or the loneliness of crowd bridges or twin screw moments of those spaces of time without seconds. And! We—search blood and find taste good in mingle – tingle moments—touch-amazing—touch—not those imagine sources of unnecessary wariness and one—becomes another—brief the flashes—together spread the separate into—singularity—no more than once…
Touch now…And! Feel the intimacy of rhythm or rhyme as touch–speak hides deep—inside—the formality of syntax creep and syntax crawl—where ear-here—hears—echoes bury—an idiom—not conveyed by—dictionary’s spaces—between word-speak and why…The share of poet-touch and story-spin—of exile’s faith—of disaster’s private pain—as speech native—fails—creative spirit—often maims—creature-speak and often confuses the never-place-of-everywhere. Still! Sweet Witches-of-Creation—smile—womb-spun life—comes and goes—without road-speak and Interstate shriek…
Our nature to run—with—or—from—the many or the few…See often—through curved ceilings of doorway—when curved light enters—twenty-one windows round—these openings—to escape places and leave regions. Still! More spirit than body proper—until chemicals—those of doubt and satisfaction rule body—self ending—sometime—in time—without reasons to be except—a rhythm to complete. We are the daughters and sons of earth and of the starry heavens. Our history is alive—simple and true—except when suppressed—through layers—distortion—or flashes of fear—tears…We are the eternity of spirits—never having to begin and never ending. Such is the sweetness of life.
Twilight and Dawn departure and gates to swirl through—go-to-spaces—between places—both here or there or again back to another here—to fear—to find—to die or to live again—in places without time-signs in parts—or sums to hold again…Ecliptic twirl and galaxy cross—spaces when composite—forms appear-to-disappear—Serpent speak and Eagle reach—Ophiuchus—holder—or bold—once again— Quetzalcoatl boys and fair Gaia girls—wander star-gates through—and touch-find—found reaches—useless rhythms and trouble—times. Or— Ophiuchus high— stands above sun—rises—feet crossed—Galactic wider and planetary—substance filled from brim-to-rim and back-again…
The circle safely closed—the web building starts—the markers of builders old and builders new. Star Guide—folded into original shape— until it is—again required and opened to read and follow—‘cross sky-bridge….Bang-Bang-Bang and let the game begin—again…‘Tis’ good this Loving Rhyme. So! Follow this Time—this Twine—Re-wind. 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. ‘While I breathe—I Hope…’
And! Beautiful you are…
‘America’ by Simon and Garfunkel