Little Robots become—because—Eternal Spirits re-enter—entry now—then starting—starts of blast off and crash—before burn—The newest giggle-to-wiggle-to-someone’s-sorting and another starting and ending and all alright—OK? Lucky we be—not Holy hollows—Imagine—Imaginations—Beside pushes of strong—Dances baby birthing—and the powerful protection—of—iron Love—nothing stronger—Love or better—than—together—songs– and mixes—of a trillion spirits—strong. Path reaches—‘cross one trillion—leaps-of-space-race—fills— twirling lights and—one-trillion-ground-bound souls.
To hold-To-Touch-Too-much—No! Forever—not long enough… And! Sweet Dance—indeed…together we—and with—no love—there is—no peace. So! Ride waves with me— crashing ‘gainst— shorelines…We are these—Ghost-of-These-Gardens—toward space flying— where home’s—touch ‘n’ go—is just one planet—east of sunlight’s door— and below—ridges-of-long-space—in sky’s silent misty world. Concuana—with—fifty generals—and—the one hundred thirty-nine—gather all—outside the Proper City—a place—placed well below—the ‘Five Hundred Mile High Mountains’. Some villagers outside—the domes of—City fearing—destruction—gather their gatherings—as others seek—to welcome her—a protector -gainst another—Watcher Army. Concuana watches also—gathers—her magic—her coven and shrugs. Placing armor beneath—ground reach and—good—sky-high-silver-search—silent slices motions—well above and race-space—still along sides—high rock-stacked rock—and—stacked rock—until far—out-of-reach and—far- out-of-sight…Proper City and Twisted Gate—domed—crystal and glass—fortification—of weapons—enchanted spectacles—and—doomed to either fall—or gather—their gatherings—while—standing still—fading smoke—into nights of ice and winds of pain—reign—the ring-wings—of golden pods and silent ‘copters.
Fire of Blue light—sorted beginnings—and dances—of yellow streaks—torn coats and journeys. Scream Toward Moons—light—the dark night— and still—Horses run—Martian Ridge. We are— children of—salted Seas—as seaside spirits—unify. Clouds do—look for skies—and house sounds are also—those leaving-kinds-of-sounds…Blue Butterfly and wishes—granted or—made and–those soft wings—of slips and of flits—ride currents of breeze—slight ‘gainst soft skin…Switch often– directions-or-fancy—willed once—or often—through desires-of-fancy or weary-of-time—trips-to-beginnings-ends-of-time—shifted—drifted—-lifted—and forever—gifted-toward-lines of carted—crafts—and— beings-being—for a moment—above-moonlight and just-below-daybreak.
Protection—must not—equal servitude? When—heart knows—humanities’ finest moments…Love—Peace—Touch—and—Trust…No charges or gains or losses—Flashes between—the realities—-of reality—and—those sweet spaces—-an instant before—lips touch—co-mingled breath—warms-a-cold—and—evening air. Rational response—and— rational insanity. A moment—and—no one dares-stares into—space—without—noticing starlight’s—star bright—and—starships passing between—light-speed and arrival—and—silently appear. When everyone—everywhere—in-all-places—between skies—realize—that—what we do not have—does not mean—anything… Feeling color—through both eyes—and—with our fingers. Hearing—a lover’s voice—touch our heart—before—substance-is-words—meanings-or-reasons-or-other—notions. When silence—fills all senses—with thunder and noise—and—music and notes—chaotic—or symphonic—simplicity—as duality ceases—and singularity—melts into universal polarity—and—almost—truth.
Per Pope John II— Centesimus Annus: “Ownership of the means of production, whether in industry or agriculture, is just and legitimate if it serves useful work. It becomes illegitimate, however, when it is not utilized or when it serves to impede the work of others in an effort to gain a profit which is not the result of the overall expansion of work and the wealth of society, but rather is the result of curbing them or of illicit exploitation, speculation or the breaking of solidarity among working people. Ownership of this kind has no justification and represents an abuse in the sight of God and humanity.”
‘La Liberté éclairant le monde’
“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me:
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.”
We are all Universal Children…We have the Right to be Everywhere!
And! Beautiful you are…