Flights Recall—Remembered…

“All men recognize the right of revolution; that is, the right to refuse allegiance to, and to resist, the -government, when its tyranny or its inefficiency are great and unendurable. All machines have their friction; and possibly this does enough good to counterbalance evil.  At any rate, it is a great evil to make a stir about it.  But when the friction comes to have its machine, and oppression and robbery are organized, I say, let us not have such a machine any longer… from ‘On the Duty of Civil Disobedience’…by Henry David Thoreau

Ages do past and often we become; sponges, gifted, gregarious and often bent with insight. We are anchors of both worlds; one frightful and one enchanted and filled-to-edge, truthful with wisdom. This truth is both; scary and fearful, as wisdom sometimes becomes you as aged body bends and frees spirit twirl. And! From twins of two a power of life sparks and alone-never again places begin, and mends ends. When ‘surfs-up’ and high waves reclaim shore-reaches and land, would rather dwell in the Villages of Fisher-folk than where Mid-bots dwell, without spirit machines and without reasons-to-produce and stand with us as wave-crash claims our everyone. Together, we have already finished everything.

And! Magically birds transform the air they breathe into surprisingly sweet songs.

Beneath surface and faraway from a heating Sun, (7.9) billion people inhabit, function, endure and stop whilst perpetrating both permanent love, and incessant hate. Nights of starlight turn and returned. With forgotten reasons remembered, mind switches between laminated illumination and as blind stir slides, between neon’s shine and this semi-sweet chocolate named darkness. Light saturated in creamy grays and night, is thick swirls of vanilla and warmth blended with shadow shakes; machine wonder often guides the processes of robot arms and legs while watching through robot eyes and listening through robot ears. Often they weep robot tears and die ‘never-ever-even’ when a book or ten books call living ‘sins of flesh’ when spirit robots must live and die and forever venture along dusted star-streams and dance among a trillion light twinkles sketched across the evening’s sky.

Correct notes! Pipers of those silver flutes held ‘gainst heart beeps’ strong as fair seafarers often pass others into light as others ‘cross star-streams-to-suns above sea and beyond sky. Civil layers never die. Tradition slips, and graciousness forgets. So are whirling dances and twirling songs. Touch lips and fingers. Kiss your lips to mine, then time space while moments’ race. And! Silence, then carefully watch tonight. Sails do catch sparks-of-wind and high tides to run-to-sea-you’ll-see, won’t we? Struggle is perfect for the winner. The impartial distribution of resources never legitimately occurs. Productivity costs: over time with all intentions of some loss and some motives to divine.

The soft swishes of breeze gently shift pine needles ‘cross autumn’s forest base. If impulse is response, then decision is evolution? In 1610 Johannes Kepler chanced a walk across the great Charles Bridge in Prague, Czech Republic. As snow began to catch on his woolen coat, he brushed away the six-sided flakes from the cloth covering his arms. Catching more of these flakes he realized they were all six-sided. And! Johannes marveled concerning the convenience of this find and the very perspicacious brain and the extraordinary curiosity of the human mind quantified within the quality of spiritual being.

The lonely mountains o’re—And the resounding shore—A voice of weeping heard and loud lament; From haunted spring and dale—Edg’d with poplar pale—The parting Genius is with sighing sent—With flowre-inwov’n tresses torn—The Nimphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.” by John Milton

Still here! Beneath this heaven our sea swirl-twirls and we hear whale singsong our mother into a necessary-sleep. Whale singsongs the heating of blood-self until warming is good. She rises from emerald seas and from black sands where tide pulls current and lines of moonlight are perfect and disappear into the dustless night. Now! Touch the Dancing One. Now! Touch the Witch-of-life and taste her sweet creations. Goddesses do create ‘cross Heavens-Earths and Moons-Suns while passing Spirits-to-flesh and back again. Spirits do form and substance is free.

And! Rain does pour from sky onto roof and through spirals; both, short or long gutters or just eaves from leaves’ soak or arcs ‘golden-tricks-of-night-light’ inside as outside water splashes ground and collects on sidewalk’s flooded cracks into pools of wet and of mud carvings and pavement soaks. Night fills lighted places and switched-on bulbs reveal grays; shadows many, forever produced and forever not cheering the sun. Our lives are fluid; liquid pour, consuming, replacing, replenishing, and then recalling another choice in another time or with another rhyme.

The circles safely close. Web building starts. Markers of builders old and builders new. Star Guides are folded as intended. Original shapes until these creations are again needed and opened to read and follow across another Sky-Bridge. Sail this sea and let the games begin, again. ‘Tis good this Loving Rhyme. So! Follow this Time this Twine Re-wind. 

And! Beautiful you are…

 

‘Call Of The Mountains’…Eluveitie

 

‘Home’…Unsun

 

Walker Places—Walker Spaces…

Light Fall and Darkness touches street and covered brick-crack and moonless crackles. Colloid collisions to scented secrets and motions without notions. We are the Queens and Kings of these streets. This ‘Sity’ is our City.

              The Walker is a silhouette pushed low beneath Grand Moon rising and carved carefully ‘cross sky too close to be real and too real to be proximity’s cost, close to-shapes-to-shift-shape and nearer to buildings tossed across landfall along sea-line to skyline. Tide comes in, evening time and changes along season’s alteration same as sunrises and sunsets and shadows play beneath twin moon season with splashes of textured cloud color or star twinkles too distant to notice or too close not to catch eye when noticed in brain as spirit touches at the same time.

The Walker glides across a jumble-tumble of brushed footholds fashioned by rainwater visible; as digging, once moved dirt above rock faces and dragged these weighted ones from place to necessary place for buildings built or buildings removed-restructured-replaced or obliterated. Needed things at needed times where locations were homes and buildings-controlled landside. And! Little killer medications be, only notions of Lizard Kingdoms where the notions of you ‘peel’ums’ accessible and needed from the glory of car-trunks.

She is a Walker Warrior and claims the Bridge above the ruins of ‘City.’ Below the places of spaces, once a great tangle of yards and rails carried the price of commerce commercially to and away and beyond her bridge and dirty sea ships sailed toward one another. They bounced the line; black shadows, slowly creeping beneath an injured sky. No wind! Masts no sails. Crude! Not fueled cold furnaces and boilers empty drums with warm air. She now adjusts eyes and turns and follows silent ships passing one another. They ride the line with no wake. They do not disturb the oiled sea or change silt-less shoals beyond an invisible channel. She watches and waits for their return.

She forgets to breathe. Fog horns moan and moan again just within cones of hearing an evening rare without fog or mist. Held inside, air rushes into throat and through her nose and mouth. Sea odor and her eyes tear. Bridge time is fine and darkness safe. She searches sea. She swears the line has moved closer to shore. And! Those ships are gone.

            We shift into objects of alternative daylights with the accepted expectations of extraordinary flashes of original thought and lights of magnificently creative creations through perceptions of flashing preconceived originality and congested repeaters across a wondrous land of sugar and cinnamon-spiced tea-or-coffee-or me-or-you-or-us or…In the becoming of an impression immortally important and into legacy’s realm repeated and recalled and retweeted we ‘amen’ to both; the previously consummated and the just about to transpire!

Ghost clouds block moonlight as they race clouds across the early morning sky tucked somewhere between dawn and night. And! What is the color of souls? In these dreams there be gods in this place where now only spaces remain. So! Come to Cloud early in transition time and seek flash-ride to spiral and skip into framing time.

These Memorial Gardens are filled and overflowing and encompass many miles. Commons frame these gardens. Statues cover these parks. Here are sacred places and areas and spaces and graces where families gather and depart.

Ashes-to-ashes and dust-to-dust-new-ways-to-win—we must be us!

And! Beautiful you are….

 

‘Can’t Find My Way Home’ by Steve Winwood Performed by — Rachael Price & Chris Thille

 

‘The Other Side’ by Ruelle (Margaret Eckford)

Frail and Almost Maybe…

This time of days of times ago and present time; the old man vision touched, those other ones and whispered, “Not this time—Not this time—our children will not go to war.” Others knew that this time of times would not be the time for dead children and metal touch-to-flesh-madness. And! For these moments warriors are unnecessary and ‘Honor’ is a simple way of Life.

     We do not summon gentle love. It whispers to our spirits and touches us beyond the flesh of resistance. Gentle love moves ‘cross routes of layers to find many lives inside walls;  too high to climb, or too low or too wide or just about the shouts of daily doubts and flight. Love; heart touches and reaches, into body frail and into those impossible attempts to hide among thrones of thorns and weary costs already paid and already spent. Listen! Please listen. And! Love will reminds us of the equality of equals of women and of men and the spirits of all; trapped and living, sentient sentences of life inside the body and forever minding body.

     “In the current phase of intellectual corruption, it must be stressed that, like democracy and human rights, the economic doctrines preached by the rulers are instruments of power, intended for others, so that they can be more efficiently robbed and exploited. No wealthy society accepts these conditions for itself, unless they happen to confer temporary advantage; and their history reveals that sharp departure from these doctrines was a large factor in development.”—Noam Chomsky

     We are not a means to an end that others may wish to accomplish. We are not tools to be used. We are not servants of need-greed-to-be-freed or bandages for other wounds. We are not  sacrifices to gods come whimsy or rushing wings or gift bearing things; beads, baubles, glitter or flash. We androids do dance into Electric nights. Love does lead shifting-shapes through darkest  frights and into sweetest lights. Shadow-touches ‘cross secret ceilings of moon dust and hidden space. Time sans race are inside moments like these and Life is an Almost maybe.

     This dot-dash in time is not America’s ‘darkest hour.’ This is not darkness; just a candle no- spark, no-match-to-wick. Just quick—foolish words—entertainment—more criminal than ‘ever clean.’ A fox in a ‘house-of-hens’— is honorable…This dot-dash in time is just loss unity—without integrity. “A cloud of cicada on acid. A thrumming high-pitched squeal of acoustic irritation.”.

‘Deportation Forever Continues This Illegal and Wicked—Course of Global Separation and Global Apartheid’…We are all Children of this Universe and We all have the Right-to-be—Everywhere…

     Pay attention to Life—call it a modern Life—and all this modernity—simply wears a body. Wondering if this justice is rendered with and without sunlight? Still a visible universe is visible without sight-to-see? Why not? Love reminds us of the equality of equals—women and men and the spirits of all trapped and—living sentient sentences of life inside the body—minding body.

Touch me in Sing-Song poems. Forget the world and touch me with voice. We two; too need, those requiring words of hope and verse of love’s together forever. We are two; in dark dancing, with rhythm in our minds and drum beats in our hearts…And! Magically—birds transform the air they breathe—into surprisingly sweet songs…

And! Beautiful you are…

 

Dancing Between Zero And One…

     

     Working Labor and dancing  between 0’s and 1’s. Between a No or Yes is a decision unsullied by dark white and light gray and maybe this and almost that and start with knowing or stop with forgotten disk swirls and the silence of saving Clouds and the grace of faraway recall. Deadlines are quickly met and quickly become those overnight successes when packages land upright on porch steps or tucked inside boxes of steel or plastic large or small with little red flags that signal pickup with those deliveries anticipated or tossed away.

Eastbound on I-84 while driving across and above the Hudson River; a head turn right to see where water meets ground, as it must. Machines are interesting only while spinning code-speak as it must and when it fails this spin-read, knowing compilation will eventually solve issues of jumps or right/left side swings-that-brings solution or balance.

 America brings wars-to-shores as travelers deplane, re-plane, arrive or land, embark-remark-recover-discover-take-remake-destroy and with another sign, begin this all again. Forever warriors create forever wars and die to fight again.

America dreams freedom’s dreams and almost seems to follow the Code of a simple Yes or No until the non-codes of dark white and light gray confuses-refuses-muddles-befuddles the true machine and delivers; instead, Enigma. America dreams of Peace-on-Earth and Good-will-to-Men. ‘Never happens’ However; it is still a good dream—A dream of Peace and the Simplicity of Truth-speak.

Why are narratives of Mythology; if ‘Abrahamic’ in religions, called a province of theology? Yes or No or Maybe or Might be justified-verified and just once-in-this-beyond-a-shadow-of-a-doubt, just maybe the right light or the incorrect shadows of lighter shades of gray.

Code speak is eternal speak until machine fails to understand the processes needed-to be-to-see and the reason to follow this Code-to-Loop-to-Continue-or to-End.

“Let peace begin with me

Let this be the moment now.

With every step I take

Let this be my solemn vow.

To take each moment

And live each moment

With peace eternally.

Let there be peace on earth

And let it begin with me”…by Jill Jackson-Miller and Sy Miller

 

Inhale-Exhale—Inspire-Expire…

 

 

“Just for a minute
The silver forked sky
Lit you up like a star
That I will follow

Now it’s found us
Like I have found you
I don’t want to run
Just overwhelm me

I want to see you
As you are now
Every single day
That I am living

Painted in flames
All peeling thunder
Be the lightning in me
That strikes relentless

What if this storm ends?
And I don’t see you
As you are now
Ever again” …

The Lightning Strike (What If This Storm Ends?)
Written by: Gary Lightbody, Jonathan Quinn, Nathan Connolly, Paul Wilson, Tom Simpson

Time begins a whatever sound of music never ending through the never ending starts of measures measured and notes sent bouncing across a five lined staff of tremble and rhythm, of rock and rolling as those tremulous ends of beginning starts and ending stops. An octave away and sound still rocks an ear or two toward silence; not to hear yet, still vibrating life and crossing spaces between sound and whispering wind without pine forests or desert sands.

And ‘coke-blow’ away the white lined wind and never ends the needles’ spin an unreal reality. Faded, the body walks and talks among those shimmers of blackness and along the edges of storms—blinks the kitten eyes and escapes to rooftop stars and window shines. There are no sounds of screams in silence. Music in mind sized levels are only inside mind sized ears to once be seen in scales of notes added to working-words-to-form-verses of sound mix and chorus touch. An often dream; or is this, a poem of poet-speak? And! Not knowing may sometimes create choirs in four-part harmony…

We are beings in this place of stress and salty tears.  We are the used-to-be folks and other things-in-place; where laws are enforced by us without ‘dress-up’ and notions of ‘bodily harm’ or the invasions of street-to-street spaces with threats of harm by ‘other eyes’  conditioned to see our neighborhoods and us (‘We the People’) as the Enemy…People-Person-You and I—We are these beings in this place of stress and salty tears.

‘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.” 

Are we not all travelers-in-time? We are scattered across a someplace time at a somewhere place. We are not timed or blessed or wonderful or gifted or fortunate or meant-to-be a ‘something else; without, a price-tagged-branded-commodity of enhanced steroidal surgically modified blast of cartoon fashion or lip-stick mouths pouted and mounted on another pictured perfect and replicated glossy imitation of sport manned—model swished—corruption dished with a splash dash of hopeless and fanatic fantasy. And! Does protection always equal servitude? When brain understands humanities’ wonder, the wisdom-brain holds to Love-to-Peace-to-Touch and to-Trust…No charges-no gains-no loss-no rust. Then flash among the realities of reality and touch sweet spaces, an instant before lip touch and as co-mingled breath warms the cold evening air. Then discover a rational response to rational insanity.

Along Martian Ridge along one line, eye stretched far there once was a stutter of thorn then throne then thorn then throne. This repeated until distance failed seeing and sight disappeared when ridge merged sky and matter dropped from surfaced rust. And! On these staggered thrones writers’ names were etched, crystal tags attached along the top-front of each and every throne.

We measure all things known and all things unknown by quantities of lengths, of short and tall and of large and small. We sing-long-song-tales of beings and of being above and below and within and without and still we are the singers of verses loud and soft and often true and often false because; we are, Spirits of Creations—Creative Critters—one-and-all.

Sparks are in this world! Without a spark of ‘Sparkle’ — ‘Life’ couldn’t or wouldn’t evolve; as it has, during this moment of time or this place-in-this-space. The spark is special and often starts by touch or begins through an ‘Unknowable Kingdom’ of muse, of enlightenment, of genius, of anger, of thrill, of joy, of wonder, of magic or by accident. Watch from inside the shadows of bridge and steel. Watch as wooden shapes pass beneath the towers of man; created, when young species roamed earth-bound and the constructions of shapes and water passages filled their worlds before the tearing days and summer’s songs died. A night bird cries and another winged one settles, protected within thick tree grasses inside the shadows of the moon.

“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

 

And! Beautiful you are…

‘The Lightning Strike’ (What If This Storm Ends?)..Snow Patrol

 

 

 

 

Miss Lizbeth…


“Life is a Dream—Realize It” by Mother Teresa

Abstracts we are and Abstracts we are not. Even when we are rich or poor, sick or well, big or small; and beings of, magic and language and math and music and poetry and art and motions-in-time and rhythm or rhyme or; kings and queens, or servants or slaves—we; with fingers crossed, are all abstractions at the gates of New Worlds just waiting to be discovered.

Are we really ‘things’ removed from nature? By this removal do we become, aggravating abstracts of potential products of loss and of gain? However; we are, information that is and maybe changed thru whimsy and by chance. So! Line them up and roll those dice again.

Morning is sweet and time is early. Lizbeth and I move along these sidewalks toward trees placed; so long ago and, spaced above lawns now green and wonderfully mowed…Lizbeth is a fine friend; complete with four feet, with beautiful fur and great purpose. Stop and listen; short paces, move again then stop and listen and watch many motions and notions of early morning birds and small beasts with four legs and fur and purpose. “Tis good this time—“Tis good this twine-rewind.

“May you hear every song in the forest…And! If ever you lose your own way…Hear my voice like a breeze whisper soft through the leaves, may you stay in the arms of the Angels… from Lullaby for a Soldier by Dillion O’Brian…

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Time of the Season’ by Rod Argent/performed by Haley Reinhart

Of Earth Twirls and Swirls…

“Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road.”Jack Kerouac

Earth twirlsswirls and fluctuations ensue; either heating or chilling, either simple or killing, and humanities’ whimsy can assist or resist or incline or decline to touch-the-hand-to-hand-to handle-to hearts in memory shifts. Shifts horrific or to include the wonders of new, of differences, of simple similarity of Peace, of Teach, of Reach, and to embrace the race of sweet life, of sweet love and Humanities’ Purest—Practices!

Difference same—same difference and always “Arms open are most excellent.”

In a couple of thousand years, the ‘Travelers’ again will spread wings-to-fly and cross space from a slender beginning to a Mother ship called Earth. With each arrival; many sorts, will term them Gods and Goddesses and Wizards and Angels and Men. The Travelers will unite and divide and arrange and re-arrange and construct and de-construct to originate and annihilate. Ones to worship and ones to fear. Too fearful to despise and each time, their comings and goings are recorded by written word, then word re-written and replaced. Always wars—always. Ever advanced to Earthlings and why these worshiped ones—do not know peace? And! If true; these, creatures of woe, are not true and are not life. No one wonders—why Earthlings are always at war…

Expansions and shifting reds to perceive a Star Path’s motions absent; while Suns’ rubicund color implies, ‘out-bounders’ while ‘in-bounders’ are not ‘red’ shifters. ’Bench markers’ nova enhanced only hinge on the invariability of moment, a ‘tick-tock’ throughout the Universal Split. If Time is ‘downshifting’ than our impressions of solitary tempo is on slow-bump-grind into a dimension of New Space? “Twinkle-Twinkle-Little Star”—how we marvel at what you are? And! Even ancient stars; by Earth-spin-twirl perspective, does seem to still be accelerating.

Just disappeared into a tidal pull of ‘no reason’— ‘To no doubt about It’

We imagine constant lights, with you there and here and almost everywhere. Viewpoints; angled or dangled or jangled or maybe still same ‘donchaknow’? What occurs when appearance shifts, to only deceive? ‘Shifters’ time lies and space-place and people-in-charge appearing to-be-in-charge are people being studied by people appearing to be ‘not-in-charge.’ So! Let another Dance-without-sound—begin!

We are children of those salted seas and spirit trees. And! Clouds do search for skies. Hollow man; robot be and sans spirit animation without ‘ghosts in machines. We be not holy hollows; we be imagined imaginations beyond pushes of strengths and we dance baby birthing and through powerful protection and iron love, we survive.

Nothing is deeper than love or better than together songs and the unification of interminable spirits. Tired and tried and tested! Rested and begin moving away, a time to go and a quick giggle before looking back. Is this a last time or final rhyme, this time against another line, and moving on? And! Is it finally time to go? Fire of blue light a ‘sorta’ start-stop, dancing right, then yellow streaks, red coats and journey starts. Screaming moons toward light and still; horses run Martian Ridges.

We are self-obsessed; everything us, our gods, our history, our philosophy and our psychology. Still! Cavern folks we may be; then see our ignorance, our prejudices, maybe weak sense and shadow selves and trying to learn to set us free; above ground, round where sunlight and shadows both, confuse and naturally mix. We are grains of elementary realities divided and cornered and pushed and pulled and colliding with one-another. We attract, we join, we couple and uncouple either; byby-product and always random and often accidentally. And! What happened to Democritus? Why is Aristotle’s ‘thought speak’ the foundation of Western normalcy? Why monotheism? Why the ‘anti-pagan’ movement powered by yet another belief ‘Christianity’? Why destroy all written proof not in accordance with ‘Christian Ideas’? Emperor Theodosius made Christianity ‘the only and obligatory religion’ of a once open-minded Empire and Ancient Schools in both—Athens and Alexandria. These schools were closed, and Democritus’ texts of ‘Naturalism’ destroyed. Why? Aristotle and Plato were both ‘Pagans’. They believed in the immortality of the Spirit and the possible existence of God and Gods, Prime ‘Directors’ and not in accordance with Christian’s baffling wanders, but close enough to be tolerated. Must be an Ark! Ships of wood could fool and could be; maybe, a Starship crossing another Sea-of-sky and those spaces between the Stars.

Always wondering doncha know!

Do Spirits depart and travel homeward; to other places, to other suns and spaces where planet twirl does not matter and race-races, racing and starts ‘n’ stops do not exist. No time flavors or must do favors. Not an end! Just a simple begin again and is always right along our side; ’tis maybe, that great mystery we want to know we know anyway. Nothing judges eternal Spirits. There are no reasons or rhymes, nor times to forgive, no material needs or greed. Nothing to develop or disappear. Great church sides lurch forward and backward and more words of material gains and losses and found always around and never necessary and always there.

Beware of any move toward ‘Martial Law’ for those moves will be motions toward another lean toward dictatorship in America; ‘Home of the Wealthy and of the Afraid. Violent sputters and freedoms’ totters, as attacks—re-acts, recalls the falls of heart-mists-tears-the-fears or the ‘WTF’ of thought sense or is the word ‘Nationalist’ another word for ‘Ignorant Hate’?

America’s women-folk learning to defend against—the violence of America’s menfolk…And! When in ‘thoughts reasonable’ does mankind have a single right—to rule-over—womankind? ‘WTF’—again—ad infinitum. Domination is abomination! Be very aware of ‘Executive Branches.’ The laws of the land—must be our freedom-from-serfdom—donchathink?

Just disappeared into a tidal pull of ‘no reason’— ‘To no doubt about It’

‘Brush to lids—of my own eyes—with sweet—your lips—touch deep—my heart—with spirit dance—your strength as—my own—often fails. We—you and I—do spin wheels—together—and—taste soft wine—in starlight bright—and—setting moon—so large that—reflected eyes— lock these—mind spaces—in—forever memories—of life. Tis—good this dream…Tis—sweet this Night…Shining candles—harbor flash—from sea-today-and-follow-tide…Come to harbor—sirens call…Shining candles—harbor flash… From sea-to-safety-side—tonight.’

And! Beautiful you are…

‘We Didn’t Start the Fire’...Billy Joel

 

‘Candy’…Iggy Pop w/Kate Pierson

Tick-Tock And Time…

Finally detected! A subway into this wig-waggle-universe and accessible for everyone. Again, migration into and on top of unfamiliar places and different spaces and additional races; forever, to be the first to enter and the last to exit. Is Humanity comparable to merchandise crammed on shelves in an eternity sized store (FIFO), inventory acquired and audits certified? Are we the solitary ‘first-in-first-out’ genus in an aged and precocious whirly-twirl?

“Let us be lovers
We’ll marry our fortunes together
I’ve got some real estate here in my bag
So we bought a pack of cigarettes
And Mrs. Wagner’s pies
And walked off to look for America”Simon and Garfunkel

Tick-the-tock! Tock-the-tick! Timed! Counters flash red; this descending time, without reason and without rhyme. Closed! Too touched to feel, to die-to-live, to-live-to-die, not to try and not to fly. Only to tick-the-tock and tock-the-tick and cry. Meetings and Children die. Meetings and Spirits fly. Migrants’ horror—a—News Reporter… And! Cry then Die. And! Sigh and still spirits fly.

“Echoes and silence, patience and grace
All of these moments I’ll never replace
No fear of my heart, absence of faith
And all I want is to be home”Dave Grohl

Seas of Immigration—just stall? Just wait outside a bit longer and ‘they’ will all go away? Meet and stall and forget them all? Because people always die? Casualties are always expected? ‘Better-Them-than-Us’… WTF? And! We all were once Immigrants, leaving a someplace home at a someplace hole-in-bottled-time. We are all once moving and hoping for a better place sometime in another time.

“When the sun came shining, and I was strolling,
And the wheat fields waving and the dust clouds rolling,
As the fog was lifting a voice was chanting:
This land was made for you and me.

As I went walking I saw a sign there
And on the sign it said “No Trespassing.”
But on the other side it didn’t say nothing,
That side was made for you and me.

In the shadow of the steeple I saw my people,
By the relief office I seen my people;
As they stood there hungry, I stood there asking
Is this land made for you and me?

Nobody living can ever stop me,
As I go walking that freedom highway;
Nobody living can ever make me turn back
This land was made for you and me”Woody Guthrie

Too many families are terrified! They are our sisters and our brothers. Twisted governments remove children from their mothers. In American—‘Free-land of Liberty’—WTF? Too many decent families are departing their hometowns, too often, too many—to die and their children are the children of this world—They are our children…One death, one tear, too many! And! Due to twisting religions’ or twisted governments’ why and—WTF? Remember! The only reason ‘we-be’ is for our Children…And! ‘Nothing else matters.’

‘What’s done in the dark soon comes into the light’Author unknown

Thomas Hobbes once wrote in his book Leviathan:[in nature] there is no place for industry, because the fruit thereof is uncertain: and consequently no culture of the earth; no navigation, nor use of the commodities that may be imported by sea; no commodious building; no instruments of moving and removing such things as require much force; no knowledge of the face of the earth; no account of time; no arts; no letters; no society; and which is worst of all, continual fear, and danger of violent death; and the life of man, solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.”

And! ‘Let there appear (A Market Free), government not required? Without government—‘A Free Market—cannot exist.’ It cannot exist without a civilization. ’True competition’ is a wild ‘dance of survival’ and only the largest and the strongest win—donchaknow? Oops! Civilization is defined by rules. Rules create markets and ‘Oh-No’! Governments’ are the ‘Rules Generator.’

Please! Do not believe; when your paycheck is too small to survive without (2)+ jobs, you really deserve this ‘governmental oops’! And! When a small percentage of ‘personae’ receive billions-of-dollars for your labor with no (blood, sweet and tears) required—they deserve this? No way! Rules have been altered and all governmental ‘oops’ are calculated—forever and for one and for all.  Systems are skewed and our American administration is our liability. Meanwhile; this error, is the ‘Government of the People and For the People’ and have ‘we’ the People been dis-remembered?  It must not intrude—on a ‘Free Market’—since it must—create that—‘Free Market’? Oops and Wowzer! The American Government creates all ‘free market rules thru Our Legislatures, enforces these rules by using our Administrative Agencies and rules may often be tested by our Courts. An unholy trinity—donchaknow!

A ‘Free Market and Civilization’ in harmonious simplicity? Until this is re-calculated—-‘Nothing else matters’.

“There are two modes of invading private property; the first, by which the poor plunder the rich…sudden and violent; the second, by which the rich plunder the poor, slow and legal.”Author unknown

Wondering now, if Preachers-of-Fear and Creatures-of-Hate and a Collection of Hope Frauds and Reality-Show-Freaks and Presidential ‘Wanna—Maybes’ are nothing more-or-less than distractions and entertainment-to-lure-both-you-and-me away from Legislature failure?

Everyone knows—(Love Is or ‘Nothing else matters.’)

“If you’re going to San Francisco
Be sure to wear
Some flowers in your hair
If you’re going to San Francisco
You’re gonna meet
Some gentle people there

For those who come
To San Francisco
Summertime
Will be a love-in there
In the streets of San Francisco
Gentle people
With flowers in their hair”Scott McKenzie

 

And! Beautiful you are…

 

‘The Last Hope In A World Of Hopes’Temperance

 

‘Human Touch’Bruce Springsteen

 

 

Thunder Spirits Sky Touch…

Thunder spirit sky touches and turns spaced pink air into sanguine fuel and Ark flashes from rusty red to a twirling orb of green and blue and white and home again around rising Sirius sun and past the ringing gauze of Saturn’s winds. Eyes close and veil light and nap and ‘cross the space-time of child dream and memory wash, slips of fantasy kiss and touch and eyelash stir thru those restorative merges of Life. We are not world flags. We are the folks of a spinning circle in a galaxy called Milky Way, at this moment of time and space and place and race across somewhere. And! Where happening things are alive until the tilting of another world; spins and again, calls us to flesh the blood of spirit’s chance-dance and laughter.

When Ark stops and day begins we are the pristine pleasures of challenged beginnings. We are the indigent of life; pause and listen and as crawling infants, we find our children of the parents of this new day peering into the light of darkness. Now! Speeding to this place; to some new thing, to some new tear or scent or sight, to a new blue sea or an isle of emerald green, we appear. We touch; hand-to-hand and heart-to-heart, and jump through space and complete time’s sweet rifts and swifts.

We launch code filled balloons; both, alpha and numeric and fluid and lined in rows of switched crosses ‘cross a bit of space tucked amid press and touch and just above the distance joining winter’s flakes of snow. While dancing dream’s mind-merge; spirit winds a clock of choices, known by forgotten dust-swirls and desert wind and salted sea when sea foam merges with sandy shores.

Earth forms as we form; as precious life, forms-form and we name and speak and love or hunt and save or devour or spare or care as those others find us or avoid us or hunt or devour us in a chaos of circles dancing around a mystery of times beginning and ending and starting and stopping and chasing creation across an apparent universe of the known and the forgotten times of today’s yesterdays and tomorrow’s days of future’s stop/start. Ad infinitum or perchance into the Nemo of universes or never—where or except…

Beyond slicks of rain bounce visible by moonlight, against a trillion miles of asphalt roads where tiny sprites of weed push through and break the symmetry of path, life is once again the birthing of nature’s chaos and nothing is as natural as the creating of creation. Life’s power is the eternal notions of goddesses and gods and witches and warlocks and wizards and shamans-created by the sanguinity of woman and man and the dynamics of Love.

And remember! Love is sexless and without form and without flesh and when shaped by humanity; is magic and required, as carbon based beings require air and blood.

We are the goddesses, gods, witches, warlocks, wizards, magicians and creation’s creators. We are the spirit wind in the valley and the desert and across plains of grass and mountains both under the sea and rising into space. We of many names or descriptions are; both feared and loved. We are Life. We are the forever Art of this forever Universe.

And! Beautiful we are…

 

‘Lay Your Hands on Me’…Thompson Twins

 

‘Ask The Mountains’…Vangelis

Witches Form the Twirling-Whirl…

These Idols are shams of illusory pain, unknown over spans of turmoil and wars of courses, ’til days without war are times wasted and blood not tasted. They fall to earth in conveyances not yet realized and always fighting over splits, of DNA and genes spliced to design to slave and swiftly die. And! We imagine these creations are creators, to shadow—to covet and too; to emulate, ‘til death parts our ways and past deaths still correctly resolves from among the graves? Oh, hell no? This ring around never follows unless correct premise concludes that the correct choice is but; a wig-waggle away from, conclusive logic and “still love me some logic-eh.”

Witches formed the twirling-whirl. Enchantresses will revisit and revive their designs. So! Return now. Perhaps, this is a suitable time? Beware the twirl of haunted paramours. Each motion is a dance with unreal realities. They delight in the child’s discovery; of life, without opaque details and sans those sundry levels; unknown, behind crafted shells and the ruined confines of age. This substitute; when discovered, is grief for a reduced lover while crying sugar tears and fire-sweetness and the recollections of chance? Appearing in cloud early, we perish within a jumble-muddle of dusted rain and rust. In transition and pursuing the flash-ride; to spiral and skip, we frame time and often miss but never-ever fall.

“There is no death it said
on one side and the other side of the paper
the voices are the same the thunder
is the same roaring in our ears for
on one side and the other of the paper it said
there is no death
There is death though in the paper where
the muffled pencil moved
Only in the paper only in the shrouding paper”… Annie Besant

Arrange now! Inside the ruin-runes of this roadhouse of crumble stone and moss and rubble and ruined wooden benches and tables twisting into ground. Life begins and life ends as inhalation starts and exhalation stops. Not a cloud fall missed, but a spark’s charging headlong into channels of paradise and kiss-loves before the night ends and life trashes to light. We are robots of life scattering and of live jamming ‘cross one thousand worlds; set to twirl the galaxy, all lost and found and discovered and discarded. A million mines of unique ones whirling just inside zero drops of rain and trillion-acre seas of salt and water and giant crashes of life’s sparking rattles and battles in the birth of baby eyes and infant sighs.

We are the ‘off-grid-gridders’ of neoteric plug-ins; unedited and banned and far away from the standards of whisper’s folly and inside a net of lost souls and flounder bodies. All totaled must dwell within this symmetry of stop and starts and the ones and the zeros of reasons and verses and songs. However; we are unfamiliar automata, powerless to locate or spare chaotic notions beginning or ending without result.  We are never noted by previous androids! We are simple chips within other chips and notions beyond the loops that loop, ad infinitum. We are the celebrations of the mourning after and spawned in the backseats of an auto or two and occasionally former and eternally imminent, when taverns crumble and bridges fall.

“The modality of novelistic enunciation is inferential: it is a process within which the subject of the novelistic utterance affirms a sequence, as conclusion to the inference, based on other sequences (referential – hence narrative, or textual – hence citational), which are the premises of the inference and, as such, considered to be true.” JULIA KRISTEVA–‘Desire in Language’

By the fire bright of these dwindling tribes, children marvel at; both, the dancing flames and the warmth of these lights ‘gainst the nights and outside shadows beneath their eyes. They listen as stories tell the beginning of things now gone and of those grand places not started but imagined and seen in minds’ own spaces and in their most desired regions of just before a dream and just after ‘wishing this was true.’ We eternally return and find another home. This is where monsters cannot reside, aside from the secret of childhood sing-songs and glee. We return to spaces where bombs cannot splinter thoughts or disturb the determination of freedom, its folly and its lies. This is our place without borders.  Only the religions of kings attempt to divide and conquer spirit wings and fiddlers speak. Everlasting is this spirit and life begins and ends as the fiddlers play.

And! Beautiful you are…

‘The Call of the Mountains’…Eluveitie

‘Smooth Operator’… Sade