“And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said “The words of the prophets
Are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls
And whispered in the sounds of silence”…By Paul Simon
Riches flow about the words of sound—tongues known and tasted—treasured—accepted and often heard in other spaces-places seen—felled or yelled against gloom—gathers where sunlight is wishing—spaces scattered among stars of reaches—stretches across skies of night and spaces between word sound—and light. Sand and leaves—together speak—rustle—whisper—murmur and moan of death—not found—of life—not known. And! Still—notions of her away sounds and her silence. Feathers and Leaves and Sand and Ashes and Seas—quiet see—and thunder— ‘cross sky and wave splash onto shoreline—and skylines—and time. 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.
On swings—would push you again—higher than sky and into the blue of day…Before the walls about and around us reach sky high and we grow layers wide as our legs lengthen and our tears change size and know other reasons to fall from inside lid closed—to ground. Would hear our laughter and see our happy smiles without notions of future days—again reminding us to quickly run fields of spring grass and clown-speak and dreams of mint candy and ice cones of summer’s sweetness.
The People should never be afraid of their government…Their government should always be afraid of The People …Bombs to feed our Children—WTF? ‘Swords to Plowshares’—How Simple and How Sweet…Worlds without Rape and Murder—Absolutely! And!’ Sleeping in Safe Arms’ Wonderfully—Wonderful…donchathink?
“June 1950! B29 bombers bombed North Korean targets. These bombers left Andersen Air Force Base in Guam—just days after Kim’s grandfather dispatched his armies into South Korea. North Korea was devastated by the US Air Force campaign. The head of the Strategic Air Command (SAC), General Curtis LeMay, claimed that; “the B29s’ bombs killed (20 percent) of the North Korea’s non-combatant population and left not a single village unscathed. On August 29th, 1952 the North’s capital Pyongyang endured over (1,400) sorties in one night alone.”
Sea winds against faces as we wrap arms and sail our little ship ‘cross Calimesa Bay. We—the you of me and the ‘us’ of them—caress life of never-ending times—imagined images of worlds before and behind us as together we gather the stones and posies and roses and rising winds and soft raindrops. ‘Tis beauty of life—lifetimes ago and here and near and dear and forgotten to be remembered on another world—or planet—or place—or pace’s running away or traveling again to backward spaces and smiles.
The Walker—a silhouette tuck—tucked low—beneath Grand Moon rising—careful-to-carve—a cross-dark-sky—too close to be real—and—too real to be—proximity’s cost—close—to-shapes-to-shift-shapes—and closer—to buildings tossed— ‘cross landfall—to sea-line-to-skyline. Tide shifts—in evening time—and—changes along season’s—mix-or-match—same as sunrises—as sunsets—and—shadows do play—twin moon seasons—with splashes—textured cloud colors—and—star twinkles—too-far-to-see—or—too close to be—and—not to catch eye—noticed-in- brain—with spirit touch—time same.
The Created-creations—lost an ‘Eden’ place—when the ‘She’ and ‘He’ of the ‘It’—either happens—by an accidental-accident—or fall from—or is pushed out of—the wonder of— ‘Immaculate Contraptions’—and through construction—‘divinely discovers’ the—‘other than’ robotic being—and joins the ‘Spirits of Twirl’—while discovering choice is better—than and more difficult than—the straight-in-line-crawl—toward golden lights—cave dwellings and scrawling—dots or dashes against walls—without reasons or rhymes or the ‘Rhythm of Love.’
The commune of Paimpont—is near the city of Rennes…Is Paimpont Forest—Brocéliande? Magical—mysteries of planet space—a place—where the Lady of the Lake—Merlin’s capture—a tree where imprisoned—he may still remain? Or! Mystery rich—Merlin’s tomb—the Val sans Retour—enchanted land—where ‘Morgan le Fay’ casts spells—to—imprison—her loves? And! Remember—that once Rennes—was Condate—tiny village—of wonder spells—twisted whirls of twirling—tells—story rich—and tame.
The Walker—glides ‘cross jumble-tumbles—stone dust purple—made by rain—visible—as digs—once moved dirt—above rock face—and dragged—these weighted ones—from place-to- special-place—buildings built—or—structures moved—restructured—replaced or destroyed. Needed things—as times required—when places—were homes—and buildings ruled—seaside—land-side…And! Little death—be only—notions of—Lizard Kingdoms—where the motions—of ‘we-be-pills’—available—or needed—from car trunk glory to—never matters—what gates—we fall through—matters not—what star burns us…Matters—that gates open—matters—that stars are hot.
We do not summon gentle love…It whispers to our spirits—and touches us beyond the flesh of resistance and routes of layers and lives inside walls too high to be climbed or under or around or about the shouts of daily doubts and flight. Love heart touches and reaches—into body frail and those impossible attempts to hide among—thrones of thorns and weary costs—already paid and already spent. Listen—just listen. And! Love reminds us of the equality of equals—woman and man and the spirits of all trapped and—living sentient—sentences of life inside body—minding body.
Listen and hear—the many-edged sounds of laughter and the salted taste of tears. And! Once books printed—did exist and often read—about the firelight of thousand Candles Street and in scattered places beneath orange colored sky towers—dirt streets along—Bridge Ridge and Liberty Park…The Martian outreach—was a hard travel for Noah and his family…They had reached out to him—the Builders of Star Ships—the ready ships of Earth Spins and moonlighted paths along new waterways—of places to begin—other fleshy forms—a place without the Red worlds. These were the Making Forms—the places of rocks’ motions and creature speaks and the songs of the Glass-Beaker Folk…
We begin before the stars—And together we melt into the mist…Fire and shadows ‘cross a sky—Color moon of blood and gold—Simple songs and thudding drum—Stars light up another home—We move by wind across this place—In sunlight waves and dancing twists—Of silver rain and stretching space—Ship’s gentle streaks in skies of grace—With muted voice and silent rooms of—Blood touched throat and emptied tombs—Bridge walked toward and skylight’s scream—By taking flight and falling dream—Warming suns of days ago—With salted mist and taste of tongue—Lights of passion—times of rain—Wolf cries shout of sands and home—Across this universal stretch—Window shine in candle’s light—And let us touch another peace—Of safety sleep and lover’s reach.
And! Beautiful you are…
‘The Sound of Silence’…Performed by Disturbed