“I thought then I should save one small warm true thing from the flood.”—Zbigniew Herbert, “Elegy for the Departure of Pen Ink and Lamp”

Our lives are fluid: liquid pour, consume, replace, replenish and then recalled. Surprise! How we shift our habits and ways, allowing for empty space of balance to be restored. Darkness seeps slowly into day and ends bright. Night fills lighted places and turn-on bulbs share grays and shades many while always simulating and always failing to cheer the sun. And! Rain does pour from sky onto roof 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; collects sidewalk, flooded cracks into pools of wet and of mud carvings and pavement of soaks.

Still here beneath these heavens our sea swirls-twirls and we hear whales sing-song. Whales sing-songs the heating of blood-self until warming begins non-fear. She rises from emerald seas and from black sands where tide pulls current and the lines-of-moon-light are perfect and disappear into the dustless night. Now! Touch the Dancing One, the Witch of life and taste her creations. Goddesses do create Heavens-Earths and Moons-Suns while passing Spirits-to-flesh and back again. Spirits do form and substances are free.  Correct notes! Pipers of those—golden flutes held ‘gainst heart ‘beeps’ strong as fair, seafarers often pass others-into-light as others 

As Frantic! This talk ‘America’ speaks and ‘Failure’ reeks long lengths-of-rhythm ‘Lies’ as ‘Freedom’ dies or never was, does-as-trouble, duel-entertains prior to longer-nights and shortest-lights are still counting times, as errors made and ever-never correct when realization is always too late. Never! Allow the Government to destroy our achievements and our history and our language and our dreams. Happens! And we then become ‘winds-of-ash’ then gone. We! Then never exist. For Genocide does destroy flesh and more than bone. Genocide destroys Blood-Rivers-of-Life.

Run well with the wolves of Reach River Park. Face tastes those days of oiled rain and as a cougar’s heart survives, remember those ancient days and smiles. Watch a pageant of brute humans fill crowds; of those both, burning rights and torching wrongs, as fights frenzied and short combine with bursts-of-peace too long to notice as sun-scarred and dusted fill forests’ green and summers’ too as leaves fall and another season begins. Bargaining old with new, the contentions of earth-speak and necessary sadness are necessarily weighted and heavy burdens carried, too fierce and too varied and multiplied by conditions-of-humanities’—weights and survival’s moments and the need-for-greed.

And! Love whispers to our spirits and touches us beyond the flesh-of-resistance and through layers of life within walls too high-to-climb or under or around or about the shout of daily doubt and flight. Listen, just listen. And! Love reminds us of the equality-of-equals, woman and man and their spirits -all trapped and living sentient sentences of life inside the body.

“Together! We know nothing exists without Love’s Power Tower Flower and Life. Life ignited, united, delighted and excited. We touch hand-to-heart-to-spirit and our Eternal Dance begins.”

And! Beautiful you are…

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

Throughout the whirly-twirly of a solitary day many folks start; consume, work, consume again, and care and think and dream and make love and weary or tired fall asleep. Others spend times away and copy daytime dances into night-long-labors and dreams and love and thought and twirl-the-whirl of short nights and sleepless days.

Are we ‘things’ removed from nature? By this removal, do we become no more than an abstract of potential products’ gain and loss? We are, however, information. That information can be changes of whimsy or chance? And! As thread widens, those center bubbles initiate decentering-self and as coding develops bubble self; once rarefied, can mature from a troubled singularity into social unknown starts to traverse zones of yes-to-no and no-to-yes.  Line them up and roll ‘em again?

Technical layers stop and start tucked somewhere between the zero and the one. Twin-spins into code is first autonomous self-centered bubbles along a there and not their thread. The thread in a feel-not-see then see-and not felt. A simple ‘yes or no’ suddenly is an absolute everything everywhere. And! No matter-the-type-of-matter we are or become; again, we are ‘small-tiny-great-or-not-matters-little-of-what-we-are,’ ‘cause our subjectivity is; no more than touches of awareness-becoming-aware-of-something-coming-our-way?

Abstracts we are and abstracts we are not.  We are poor or rich, sick, or well, big or small; all beings of magic, language, math, music as poets, scientists, artists, motions-in-time, rhythm-or-rhyme, kings or queens, servants, or slaves, we with fingers crossed are all abstractions at the gates of new worlds just waiting to be discovered.

Other ways are to turn speak into words spinning stories because the path is short-long and long-short. Twins speak the notion of new world words when strange tongues often confuse truth prominent in; to-day-to-day working words and pausing stops. One giant mother ship, a trillion samples of life and motion begins to seed a universe-so-fine. Orion! A moving point toward outside vacuums and inside fears. Always! Life inside these stories.

They gather arm’s length apart and touching yet never flesh feeling—just being the same as each cold breath catches and inhales exhales steam across a longer line of waiting and hoping and living and dying and thinking of praying of leaving or staying until few cents ago coffee warm warded away cold from form vision search, to begin again or end for the evening bright of Street magic and Star-ship’s light.

They gather here for rooms-to-find-to-fill have filled again and nourishment gone again, and others line the grates of grate covered heat blown from underground to ground around those standing watch or asleep in one side-warm and one side cold or one side dead or one side gone. Again, the living and dying and the thinking of dying and praying of leaving or staying another moment or second or minute or hours of night-time’s twinkle or morning wrinkle where once flesh was fresh and spirit smoothed times of ages changes or faded lights start and stop and start again.

‘Tis good this time—‘Tis good this twine-rewind.

And! Beautiful you are…