Sing-Song Additions…

And! Is Ethical Capitalism—impossible? And! Is Human ingenuity born out of desperation?

Use your voice without restraint of convention, structure, model, and tone. Sing-Song—and your voice always pleases the ear.

 “Then I’ll be all aroun’ in the dark. I’ll be ever’where – wherever you look. Wherever they’s a fight so people can eat, I’ll be there.” The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck

Inside this blue Globe of hot and cold and the twirl-swirl of gravities’ need at still-hub toward outbound spokes of motion and the greatest of spinning outbound wheel from tiny hub, a stretch of (124) miles away. Great no-wheels spin, unnoticed by centers’ touch and hollow spokes to final wheel twirl.

“We come to inside blue bubble space,” someone said. “Like domed over somewhere high, too high to see,” another voice added. “And after 200 years, we still have someplace to be.”

They were adrift. They were safe. They were never lost. They were-what they had already become. They traveled inside a ship of no origin, no named to identify, and they did travel across a universe of no name, no place known.

“Why ask a man lost to lead you across a universe of’ non-know’ and still expect to leave bread crumbs to follow and find another lost non-way home?” the fourth voice whispered and never heard.

Hey! Do you remember the moon-moons? One red and one blue—hot light and cold light—forgotten when one remembers—that too—forgotten when lighted red moons needs attention and god swirls require worship—painted sky and streaking nights.

“So raise the candles high cause if you
Don’t we could stay black against the night
Oh raise them higher again and if you
Do we could stay dry against the rain”…by Melanie

Is war a lathe created by Civilizations’ own progressive mischief and the magical misery of Life? And! If true, then to all spirits in the wind and in those dust-bone-drifts, we are the Children of many-many-and more than many—meek disasters. So! Give us real voice; to simply speak the story of us—of mischief’s creations—wise folly—and wistful-misty-Life. And! Forgive us the stages we build and the scenes we steal and the notions and motions of strength and fear—both; surprise and comprise—the wretched beauty of sin-win-lose-gain-pleasure-pain—do remain. We often speak with imperfect words. We often cannot commit to ledger numbers squared or circled round or perfectly pointed shapes of tin-gold-or the rhythm of rhyme. We often cannot describe–reasons or—feel-feeling-right-ways—since those ways are no-names or no reasons to feel—anyway. But! That’s OK…

“A place that failed to keep up with history. A place not taken down by a foreign enemy, but by the avarice of our corporate elite and the neglect of our elected leaders”…Adriana Huffington…

Dreams come and sometimes—remind dreamer of memory sweet and twine so brief. He dreams and remembers you. You in form, your face—little  freckles, your lips, your dancing eyes and laughing creases ‘cross cheeks and your no-shape—the whispers, no-reason touch and twin–twined forever second-slights—lonely soul’s search to heartbeat dreams and ever-seems forever long. For short minutes we two–do hide where lovers go–a place–little space—to—smile and touch and whisper and hide forever—together time always—too—brief to be real. And! Dream break—so wake and thinking you have died and visit-touched on your way home to just—whisper—that we are still—

“There’s a road I’d like to tell you about, lives in my home town
Lake Shore Drive the road is called and it’ll take you up or down
From rags on up to riches fifteen minutes you can fly
Pretty blue lights along the way, help you right on by
And the blue lights shining with a heavenly grace, help you right on by

And there ain’t no road just like it
Anywhere I found
Running south on Lake Shore Drive heading into town
Just slippin’ on by on LSD, Friday night trouble bound

And it starts up north from Hollywood, water on the driving side
Concrete mountains rearing up, throwing shadows just about five
Sometimes you can smell the green if your mind is feeling fine
There ain’t no finer place to be, than running Lake Shore Drive
And there’s no peace of mind, or place you see, than riding on Lake Shore Drive

And there ain’t no road just like it
Anywhere I found
Running south on Lake Shore drive heading into town
Just slicking on by on LSD, Friday night trouble bound

And it’s Friday night and you’re looking clean
Too early to start the rounds
A ten minute ride from the Gold Coast back make sure you’re pleasure bound
And it’s four o’clock in the morning and all of the people have gone away
Just you and your mind and Lake Shore Drive, tomorrow is another day
And the sunshine’s fine in the morning time, tomorrow is another day

And there ain’t no road just like it
Anywhere I found
Running south on Lake Shore drive heading into town
Just snaking on by on LSD, Friday night trouble bound”…written by Skip Haynes

And! Beautiful you are…

Swinging Toward Blue Sky…

“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?

‘History’s Wig-Waggle’

“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

 

Borrowing From Well Oil And Rust…

“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” …by Woody Guthrie

Along Martian Ridge—one line—eye stretched far—once was—a stutter of thorn—then throne—then grain—then throne—then 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 etched’—crystal tags—attached—along the top-front—of every throne.’ Round-about—pinpricks and—holes into space—race the flights—of gulls ‘cross sky—where ending—starts—and reason begins…We do—remove those ‘for granted’—blinders’-of-right-sight—and often skyward—search and find—light…Wormholes—cosmic cross—universes—near and far—and still ‘we’ see—the vast—of power blast—possibilities—of relativity’s—loopholes—and just hope-know-now—‘warp drive’ may—span distance ‘cross—space—time wonders—wandering about—wilderness—speak—‘til speed—crease—cease—and earth-lock—unblock—free—‘childhood’s end’—and into space—we—seek-creep and star-child begins—again…

A little Galaxy up line—along ridges circling—the ‘Giants of Milky’ at angles right—to the main disc of stars—containing everything—even a Sun—of our shines—not scattered at random—but—ordered and held together—a swarm—by a cosset halo—of matters-dark—rarely seen—but always present…And! A well-stocked mind—is never bored—donchaknow?

World begins—green light, blue corn stocks—stacked across—giant ridge—five hundred miles and stopping—just because—height stops—and sky—begins. “Tis reach—to stay and say—this place is—climbing high—growing large—from spinning barge—‘cross this—sky bright and—eternal night…Everywhere snow—large flakes and small—swirl ‘round this alley wide—middle dark—to light muffled—both ends—where streets begin—and—alley’s end…Cold away from street lights…And! Silent away—from rider less—paths where—foot high white—bounce—lands and—covers asphalt ways—and concrete walks. Quiet so—Go no shadow pale—wall crawl—or dark creep—light speak—too scattered—to form—round interruptions—of snow motion—descend and bounce.

Trail signs run—up and down south-ridge-side of—hill-high below mountain tall…Tracking the organic beast—disguised to survive—tend to inorganic challenges—and when snow fall—covers everywhere and everything —‘tis mountain tall—the safest refuge…Nothing rusts any longer…Well-oiled and fine—Gleam suits of almost steel—reflects sunlight’s glare—and deflects insults and injuries and wounds-to-destruction…And! When tucked inside Gleam suits—those hidden may be—Organic—Inorganic and both. Either —‘Runners or those Running’ can think—can wit and outwit both sides—equally well—equally fast—equally furious and always deadly—as trail signs appear—and—disappear from light dawn ‘til night. The paradoxical motion—of ‘man-steel form’ and ‘steel-formed man’—are quickly defined—and—impossible to divine…Notions-are motions-of head shakes—as land-side changes—rearranges—hills-to-valleys—and reverse flows streams-to-river glows. Armored trains passed through snow mountains of tree mix—fallen leaves and save rumbled echoes— silence. Where do these trains go? They are armored trains and they go toward battle. Out of sight—out of mind—and unless this war comes our way—this war does not exist.

When in love—distance from the ‘one’s—‘Love’ is just formality…A spirit being “in-love’—takes no notice of Space—Distance—Time…Paley’s watch—keeps ticking—and—Universal continuation—continues. Our world of right now—words—worldwide—so many—too many—too often—are—persecuted—imprisoned—suffer sub-human disadvantages—and are killed—for religious reasons—beliefs political—their race—their sex—their loves—and still—the wisdom of engagement—on behalf of human rights—is not only a moral imperative—but eternally required—everywhere—every moment—‘cross the continuum universal—and still—Paley’s watch—keeps ticking and ‘too often’—occurs—eternally.

“Among the stars
there is a place
to where my heart
always returns.

Alone I look for the way
hoping you are waiting for me
where the hostile world has no say
that is where I always want to be.
Where my rush of thoughts
in oblivion drowns
to forget the evil lot
I will sleep in safe arms.

Among the stars
there is a place
to where my heart
always returns” by Anna Aya Stefanowicz

The gentle touch—of skin—brushed-wind—morning stars—and angel’s dust… And! These precious feet-touch—wings-speak—to start another path—leading little ones—to another—precious shore—sustained hope—and—just wishes for a moment—of ‘good day’…Uncertain in world-scream—uncertainties-wide—grief—bowed head—always—certain in—the certainty—of swift chaos—and—tears…And so—no doubt—be found—from ‘cross this sea—travelers see—candles bright—‘cross this night—a coming home-to-us—delight—light shined—‘Welcome’—from windows’ space—of ‘Safe Harbor’—not race—just place—to stop—and—stay awhile… Real Sea—we’ll see—and another and another—of water-ships and places far away…

This is here and between landings another beach—reach and as quickly discovered then thrown away…Dragging the lines of surf’s fall and rise—as waves dash high—into moonless sky—and crash along miles—of sand and shoreline. Sea inhale and exhale and breathe again—and time marks—nothing—when endless and everlasting.

So! Pixel me a thought today and watch as pictures fade away.

Is Dancing-in-the-dark a safe—practice or ignorance—as blissful—as stopping—to touch flowers—eyes-to-face-to ground and into oblivion? And! The scent of inorganic flowers never compares to the scent of a Rose…

So! Pixel me a thought today and watch as pictures fade away.

And! Beautiful you are…

 

‘Creek Mary’s Blood’…by Nightwish

 

‘Locked Within A Crystal Ball’…by Blackmore’s Night

 

Notions Of Motions Often Move…

“If you must leave,
Leave as though fire burns under your feet
If you must speak,
Speak every word as though it were unique

If you must work,
Work to leave some part of you on this earth
If you must live, darling one, just live”…by Keaton Henson

The time to listen…It arrives when snow begins to fall. Space between snowflakes apart—not far and universes at first wide—-soon collide. What we know often changes—often rearranges—-as trust comes and beliefs go—-are remembered, reevaluated and situated between silence and noise. Tonight, moonshine—-gauze sky and above those trees without leaves—small flocks move—-V-shaped—bottom-less—-angels of purpose—motion—fixed in mind and traveling south for in their sky—there be pathways worn—-since the beginning of their—time.

‘We’—determine—destiny—sometimes? Angry Gods—do not exist. Angry men—matter little—except to scrubs—of scurry selves—beings—just spinning matter—of expressions. Rude—the kings and queens—of foolish speak—when angles fall—toward earthbound trivial…Moment Gods—require no explanations—when fear rules—these angled angels. As flesh—we return—turned peace—to war and gash—slash ‘cross—another spin of earth. Battle— disturbs the strength—of peace and the balance of life. We war—against nothing—save ideas and the—ideals of anti-life. Remove religions and governments and kings and queens!

Better-to-fall-in-love—and not—fall-in-battle—donchathink?

Survival moves existence from space-to-place—from cave-to-cavern and always backward or forward over again and again over—-be whimsy or need—or—combinations of both do or do not and motions never stop—always moving, always coming and forever going—no matter where—for the getting there is—-ingrained—-as a billion minutes of time start and end again. We turn now toward—forked road—ways beyond sighted-righted places—and our stars of guiding trails—twisted—misted—shakes and quakes—push-pull us—toward left trails or right paths…Guiding compass—lodestone—or stars—point the way—only one direction—to go and to return—toward—this direction taken—always pointed—is pointed—toward us…

The extent of inequality is relevant for policy making…Policy making is forever addressing the reasons for inequality but never-ever changing the imbalance of balance…Revolution always; changes motions-of-these-notions for a little while and then imbalance again pushes—-against equilibrium.  And! Sometimes; the distinction between what is politically convenient to believe and the objectives facts no longer exist.

Flying ‘cross a sky without atmosphere is vacuous, too.

Is it a truth—that ‘there be’ people in the USA; each one—- making more in one year than the entire population of the House of Representatives? Wondering about the imbalance—and believing that Wealth rules everything? Wondering if anti-monopoly laws can—-balance-the-power now exerted daily—-by Companies—-called Alphabet—-Amazon—Apple—Microsoft and Facebook? Wondering— H.L. Mencken said, “it is difficult to get a man to understand something when his income depends on his not understanding it.”

Lies often feed hungry stomachs—donchaknow!

We are not means to an end—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—nor sacrifices to gods—come whimsy or rushing wings—gift bearing things—beads—baubles—glitter or flash…We are not born to be wasted or wasted-to-be-born…

Candle light—warms ‘cross tables—rooms—windows-to-windows and sometimes just east-north of darkest—planet spin—where night grin—grim news— ‘cross space wig-waggle and eyes search sky—die—search and die—until star-ship light—lights—night and candle light fosters— hope—before freedom ends—then begins—again. ‘One Thousand Tears’ are longer time—than years of fears—pass star night and moonlight fails. And! You and I are not—ever—born to be wasted—right?

Embrace the shivers that tearing eyes—begin heated wraps of—word twist-to-mist and the weight of knowing these—often are and are not—often understood or—would be—see changes—little known for time—sometimes escapes—this place when hearing precedes—knowing anything at all.

And! Sometimes—we just cry—tears.

He loves her and She loves him. She loves her and she loves Her…He loves him and he loves Him…Love is correct—Love is life—Love is the only power that matters…The matter of Spirit Flesh and Body Spirit—Time and the distance—between heaven spaced and drops of rain…

“Courage is grace under pressure”…from ‘The Old Man and The Sea’ by Ernest Hemingway

 

And! Beautiful you are…

Of Balance—Of Checks…

Near Fort McHenry— began ‘The Battle of Baltimore’ and from a poem “Defence of Fort M’Henry”, Francis Scott Key developed what ultimately—would become “The Star-Spangled Banner.” In 1931, this song would become this Nation’s anthem… Francis watched the battle from a British ship called, the HMS Tonnant. ‘By dawn’s early light’ while still aboard the HMS Tonnant, F.S. Key caught a glimpse of the large and tattered Garrison flag still moving in the gentle wind… Resilience and Triumph; while celebrated through songs and stories, these notions are twin-twined—salted ropes—bondage chains—hunger—fear—gun-powdered air—laws unfair and—always War…

“Defence of Fort M’Henry”

“O say can you see, by the dawn’s early light,

What so proudly we hail’d at the twilight’s last gleaming,

Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight

O’er the ramparts we watch’d were so gallantly streaming?

And the rocket’s red glare, the bomb bursting in air,

Gave proof through the night that

our flag was still there,

O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave

O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

On the shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep

Where the foe’s haughty host in dread silence reposes,

What is that which the breeze, o’er the towering steep,

As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?

Now it catches the gleam of the morning’s first beam,

In full glory reflected now shines in the stream,

‘Tis the star-spangled banner – O long may it wave

O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore,

That the havoc of war and the battle’s confusion

A home and a Country should leave us no more?

Their blood has wash’d out their foul footstep’s pollution.

No refuge could save the hireling and slave

From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave,

And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave

O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

O thus be it ever when freemen shall stand

Between their lov’d home and the war’s desolation!

Blest with vict’ry and peace may the heav’n rescued land

Praise the power that hath made and preserv’d us a nation!

Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,

And this be our motto – “In God is our trust,”

And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave

O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.”—Francis Scott Key

Francis Scott Key used his office as the District Attorney for the City of Washington from 1833 to 1840 to defend slavery, attacking the abolitionist movement in several high-profile cases.” WTF?

We go to war for many-many reasons…And! Not often, but just once-in-a-while—we ‘the people’ almost become free people—but never-ever free of War. One can still love one’s country and hate War…One-can-still-love-one’s-country and Hate the war of ideologies—divisions of colors (‘red and blue and tattoo you’) …We share—we care and Governments must never separate the ‘We the People’ from the ‘US’ of America…And! If the Executive and Legislative and Judicial branches—treetop high—dance without harmony—hopefully—they will always—dance—check the balance and balance the check—donchaknow? Because of this dance—we may—be free for just a-little-bit—longer…

“Sign—sign everywhere a sign—blocking out—the scenery—breaking my mind—Do this don’t do that—can’t you read the sign”… by Les Emmerson

Venezuela: How do positive steps—Socialist reformation, a people’s transformation, a government of wealth redistribution—founded on the peoples’ needs—dreams of better days and hope for a long-term future become a failure? Venezuela has trillions of dollars in petrochemical wealth…It also proof of greed’s ruin and prosperity climax—ruin and end.

Spin this among a million worlds across thousands of sun/stars. Calimesa had once known riches…Crystal rich planet of star-drive fuel for thousands of Star ships…Colonial power cast about one thousand worlds…A rich center—wealth—work for everyone—educated—protected peoples…All good until greed destroyed Calimesa completely in one thousand years…Among the stars Power lives and dies much quicker—than Black Sun twirls—whirls of long-life and death fast—Explode and move on…Crow-man’s old world name, his Calimesian name—is Theodis—Carmelt-Shiamotory…Theodis was born wealthy—was born a beautifully shaped baby—grew into a beautiful being—moved beyond green water and green diamond foam— shaped-to-shift—to other shapes—another heartbeat—heat—bother body to another—space-place-race and graced to forget everything…Not an Earther—still earth-bound—gravity ground—added—pound—adapted to see—to be—to flee and survive another dive—spaced—race—paced—too fast-to-be-so-slow…

“Walls appear—Fear—No! Climb those Walls and Welcome Home.”

And! Beautiful you are…

 

Of Deadlines And Dancing Code…

Missing so—Our Wonderful Creative Spirits and Life’s’—wonderful sharing—of Writing—of Drawing—of Painting—of Thoughts—of Dreamscapes and…

Contracts are work and work is survival—and support. Support is Love and Care and Responsibility—responding to our—day-to-day—too necessary—to—and a (nine-to-five) —becomes a (six-to six) then a…Wowzer and rest begins and ends too quickly to…No complaints—just missing—the touch of Creative Spirits—in mind’s eyes—in eye’s mind—in heart beats—spirit seeks and pleasure…

Dancing with Code—a Creative Spirit—walks into spaces—between—zero and one—and one and zero. And! Those spaces between Yes and No—are too small—too large—to miss and often never noticed. ‘Time flies—when busy’ and the pulls—tug both hearts and minds—diverse and confused—solutions both; simple and complex—lost and found and again lost only to be found—regarded—discarded or—implemented—compiled—and again—Code Balloons fly—‘cross million wires—into simple ‘Yes and No’…’No and Yes’— while surprises—simple—often operate complexities of—surprise and survival.

  • Why use dashes? A little wig-waggle—a stop and a start is simple—fun scratching—the itch—of grammar—the rules of composition—dash-dot—goes Code Balloons—into a sky—filled with ‘Yes and No.’

“Love is the force that binds together and moves everything in the universe—creatures and objects are part of a total motion without top or bottom, gravity or resistance” … Chagall

“But time has no beginnings and history has no bounds
As to this verdant country they came from all around
They sailed upon her waterways and they walked the forests tall
And they built the mines the mills and the factories for the good of us all”…by Gordon Lightfoot

Is it Leadership or just US—requiring change—requiring solidarity—And! Needing Love…What is the ‘Cost of Poverty’ and the Charge for ‘Disappearing the Middle Class?’

The ‘Administrative Government’…According to Philip Hamburger (a constitutional scholar and winner of Manhattan Institute’s Hayek Prize) is Unlawful—“Our government can choose to proceed against (You) in a trial with constitutional processes, or it can use an ‘administrative’ proceeding where (You) don’t have a right to be heard by a real judge or a jury and you don’t have the full due process of Law. Our fundamental procedural freedoms, which once where guarantees, have become mere options.” (taken from the ‘Opinion’ page—A13 of the WSJ—June 10-11, 2017 by John Tierney)

‘Bon Voyage’ diversity into smaller hopes and greater fears. Such is (be) the evil-of-Greed and the exchange of Freedom for Less…and Farewell’ to our Bill of Rights and our ‘Lady of Liberty’s’ tears continue to fall—the strength of Immigrants (now called aliens) arriving—diminished from a hopeful—flood of honest labor and dreams—into Code Balloons of ‘Yes and No’…

The rhythm of Zero and One is not the rhyme of these “Ghosts in the Machines’…Empathy is the only variable machines fail to match—or— Understand…Donchaknow!

And! Beautiful you are…

Love—Life—And Back Again…

London_1073‘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.’

The death of ‘middle warders’ on surfaces—are many and rarely varied. Renewal—of hidden—memories and power—in times of—sorrow—danger—and fear must—prevail. Wealth—again moves—poverty descends—from above—as sunlight firms—and from—this ground—levels of those—dwellers and their children. Life—ends—as—life—begins. Life—also creates-stop-start—inside—thousand world reach—where liquid—spins and evaporates.

Across time—lighted atmosphere—with spaces—absent of everything—save—views above and across the—angled galaxy—war of rearranged-arrangements begin—and—still end—in victorious—losses. Some obtain—more-of-less while some—lose everything to—other dwellers above—these spaces—or below this ground—stretched places—caves and cave-ins—where life hides from death—and—waits the end—of silent-lightning and the reaches-of-teaches—flash.

Once again—against—these skies—spinning whirls—of land and seas—of salt and lakes of salt—less spree—warriors stage—wars of rearranged-arrangements—act and actions—where—wealth distributes—to winner’s joy—and to—losers—sorrow. The dead—discarded beneath soiled blood—inside rocky notions—victories of death and legend. Forgotten—are response to—battle—and the rhymes that end—in hunger and rearranged—arrangements.

For these are—short days of peace—remember pleasant moments—above ground splendor—and days-of-nights and nights-of-days—as knights begin—an—uncertain dance of—daze. Swords-shields—never rust and the lightning—of solar dust—gather in place—of suns—along a galactic twirl of swirling—world—filled brim high—with the salted seas—as—breaking winter waves—on shorelines’ length—a billion lakes—without salt—yet—filled with many lights—of star sparkle and life.

Do the religious—measure by rank and legend—higher than reason and world happiness—also become—the first practitioners of—Totalitarianism?—When—reason is rejected—as faith demands and self-interest becomes self-sacrifice—then—give up reason for—thought control—genocide and starvation—why? An infallible ruler—a declination of life expectancy-life-spans-hopes-dreams—and the elimination of unapproved thought by a church and the inquisition—fancy living—or maybe—be—‘never-‘evers’? ‘Nearer my Gods-to-Z’s.’

These are—days of women—of men—and—of children. Days of—reaffirmation and survival’s rearranged—arrangements and—of offerings. They are—creations of ways—of means—of love-hate—and care—in heart shape—reasons and certainly—uncertainty. The times—of these creations—are tiny—moments before—another war and death songs—are always—gentle moments—just after those last days—battled—when reasons are few—and responses—always necessary. Always! Rearranged—arrangements? Blood feeds form—and those forms cease—flesh without it?

Peace—happening-happens—future-present and learned from past touches—brushes—painted blood—flood of regrets—endless wars—sorrow worship—dead—dying all the time—without rhythm—without rhyme…Still reach-teach—beached and—still. Woman—Man! We stand—equally on this—hilltop rise—same battles to fight—same hungers—same pleading—needs—together…And Warrior—She! —We need—most—because without—we do not exist…Remember?

And! Beautiful you are…

‘London Calling’…by The Clash

Sparks of Starship Angels…

I_151“Over Bridges of Sighs
To rest my eyes in shades of green
Under Dreaming Spires
To Itchycoo Park, that’s where I’ve been

What did you do there? – I got high
What did you feel there? – Well I cried
But why the tears there? – I’ll tell you why – yyyyy
It’s all to beautiful, It’s all to beautiful
It’s all to beautiful, It’s all to beautiful

I feel inclined to blow my mind
Get hung up, feed the ducks with a bun
They all come out to groove about
Be nice and have fun in the sun

I’ll tell you what I’ll do – What will you do?
I’d like to go there now with you
You can miss out school – Won’t that be cool
Why go to learn the words of fools?

What will we do there? – We’ll get high
What will we touch there? – We’ll touch the sky
But why the tears there? I’ll tell you why
It’s all to beautiful, It’s all to beautiful
It’s all to beautiful, It’s all to beautiful

I feel inclined to blow my mind
Get hung up, feed the ducks with a bun
They all come out to groove about
Be nice and have fun in the sun
It’s all to beautiful, It’s all to beautiful
It’s all to beautiful, It’s all to beautiful”’Itchycoo Park’—written by Steve Marriott and Ronnie Lane…

Fred Hoyle—the astronomer—once said; “that the act of assembling the simplest living organism from simple molecular ingredients was as unlikely as a tornado whipping through a junkyard and assembling a jumbo jet. Yet somehow it happened. Was it blind luck? And if it somehow happened here, could it happen somewhere else?”

Stephen Crane wrote…’A man said to the universe:’ “Sir I exist” “However,” replied the universe, “The fact has not created in me a sense of obligation.”

The prodigious size and the age of a universe is eternal-speak…Rage and range and contractual—contracts—of contractions—expansions—as endless as day-night and mind-time—rewind—refine—and that sense of rhythm or rhyme…Planets and Stars and Nebulae and Space are creations of countless moments of being—ceasing and again being—for minutes of seconds—or the ever—being of forever hours in times’—mind. Special is this contract—of life’s contractions—expansions—of being—of ending—and of Life’s—purposed—Life’s—meaning or—Lives of just—Living…Now and then—won’t that be cool?

Angels fly in starship to scout where next to stop-land-wait-end-and begin again-begin. In star-ships the folds of space shortens the distance between star-light and star-bright and the day of night. In starship—galaxy edge and galaxy center matters only to the standing one at waters’ edge on planet-fall. Small is a matter of size and nothing less than sky-lights and heaven’s length. We dance Universe…you and I—hand-to-hand-shoulder-touched-lips-to-eyes and never tears. Eternal Spirits cannot cry and never Universes’ end and we—Spirit—and—Spirits never die. Robot once—then again and again and… Now and then—won’t that be cool?

But Love! Is the spirit of heart and soul—does not require name or title or reason or permission or through the grace of… No! Things called government nor religious-named or senate or congress or court or king or country has right or reason to legislate or forbid the strength of Love between anyone…And! Stop the builders of weapons! Too late? For—sword grow as shield grows—as bomb-to-drone-to—the shrieks of madness—drown-too—silence the gentle swish and swoon of love and touch and care and taste and the sweetness of dove’s morning cry and the living sound of baby cries and gurgles and… Now or then—won’t that be cool?

Plague—begins and ends as folks—end and begin…Robot death or death of substrate or the walkers that carry—Eternal Spirits at—Spirit—pass—a world or ten or a thousand places ‘cross— birthing—universes. Warmed—to the form of you and me—the us and them of this—here and this—now. And! Time is damned—except by those tellers—of time and those singers of timed songs. When futures’ laugh…Moments—span the days of—does not matter minutes and dances twirling into relief… Now or then—won’t that be cool?

Instead—let us again—dance across these universe—as we wish to dance. We—you and I—and spirit-dance—when the flesh of non-interchangeability sheds substances and gains sustenance. Life spark-sparkles forever–then lends light to darkness—knowing this—is good—is sweet. Now or then—won’t that be cool?

“Trust I seek and I find in you
Every day for us something new
Open mind for a different view
And nothing else matters…” from ‘Nothing Else Matters’ by James Hetfield, Lars Ulrich, and Kirk Hammett of Metallica.

We are Children of the same Verses of these Universes—We have the Right-to-be-Everywhere… Now and then—won’t that be cool?

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Itchycoo Park’-–performed by The Small Faces

Lemon Whirls and Gumdrop Twirls…

M_135“We took the blood of the earth
and fell in love with death
with life itself as an excuse
Black is the sunlight shimmering below;
it flows through life and the guilt we share
We’re hiding in chorus as starry eyes close,
and seasons part in farewell;
‘cause we drained her blood, then forgetting her face
to hide from everyone”…from ‘The Last Hour of Ancient Sunlight’ by Draconian

Walked to once war—places—of warrior kill and spill of red along the sandy streams of green spaces—dreamed graces and where man—gun—marches—of rustle and rice mix—water—man—gun—to run—to stay and wait for the standing dream-scenes—plays and dances of red colors and life runes—places in ruins along sandy streams—of greener spaces—dreaming graces—places found and now not remembered—OK…We cannot kill a man’s family and expect forgiveness. Come by drone—by rifle—by bomb—by war or proxy—no one can forgive another for the murder of his own blood…Family by family—street-by-street—village—town—city—region—no matter and absolutely—no forgiveness. ‘And! While I breathe—I Hope…’

Planets of beginning’s end, and flashes within war clouds on high and on lighted skies for a trillion miles across the sky. The Alpha and the Omega—where Titans rule Atlantis—and—men of great—remove or rule places in time—now gone and a history of never was—on both the Earth and in the sky. We are—before Floods and long before parts of Genesis—that sometime happened—on—sometime worlds or other spaces—of other places and other times. Our Garden of Eden—not Sins—and then—tossed off-world? Eden could—have been better than ruining—by—T-Rex or consumed—by stronger uprights. Eden and sin and serpents, oh my! We are the proof of far removed parents—when gods may have ruled and created women and men—in places from Sirius to Mars to Earth and back—again? Our rulers and our ruled and our voices and our religions have rewritten our beginnings—in so many places and in so many—might have been accidents—that—these truths or fictions—have blurred the start of lost and the loss of—start. And! Still—the rest is yet to come—why not? ‘And! While I breathe—I Hope…’

This garden is hilltop high—we come here—almost twice—to plant flowers and remember sometime—with our voices. Tree lined field already picked and plowed of life—crosses—path as—resting—inside good woods as we look down—toward cattle and fence and trees and fields and a creek bed dry—except for trickles of water caught by pools and deposited by rains covering this hill and that valley just last evening. ‘And! While I breathe—I Hope…’

These—everyday—fail to notion-grasp the chance—of peaceful notion—depending on how-where you be—when flash streak—smoke reek—eye burn—tear and fear and the warp of notions—peace cease—little ones die before—killer memories evolve—into sweet substance and light bright smiles. Just bump-bangs away or a simple sail—set-to-wind—rail balance—‘neath ruin— bridges of seven—or on—another land-fall beneath another sky—homes to build—caves to clean—and again for a short while—arrival—life comes home. Better—than missile speak or places too far gone to seek bomb shelter—chance for another—another dance before smoking tears or tomorrow-sorrow—death—peace—good life—ways forgotten—gone. ‘And! While I breathe—I Hope…’

“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…

‘Rebel-Rebel by David Bowie

The Balance of Nations…

P_88In the twirl of the whirl and between the steps of metal warriors, Robots—us begin a step-lock of unison and the hope of…Earth renewal and the premised promises of days to better the inside-outside of motions reached without notions of greed and the failure of ‘too-much-too soon and too often.’

Freedom requires a society to alter a spread of nothing too many and too much to very few. Kingdoms? Governments? Religions—A name of control by a few over everyone? Prophets and Saviors have roamed this sweet earth and gently whispered of social worlds and caring among societies. Were these magic-folk the founders of Socialism? Did magicians of Buddhism or Islam or Hinduism or Christianity conjure the magic of Socialism?

The Religions that quickly chased—followed these Foundation Creators created War Machines and Kingdoms of Profit…Wars—Crusades—Reformation—Alteration—Reputation—Saturation and Infatuation— are ruler words…Bloodletting ensues and what is physical turns to dust in eyes-twinkle and agony…On the back of labor and slaves and wage-slaves…Governments are created—enhanced—and ultimately destroyed. ‘Blood—Sweat—Tears’ are people costs…Rulers advance and decline once they dismiss their origin of originality.

Western Civilization…Equals the commission of crimes against Humanity to further Profit Lust and the Terror of Capitalism. Moments in time, recorded by the people and not by the winners of wars and the concentration of wealthy words and lies; world variances and imbalances are discovered.  Imbalanced nations (currently in the Middle East)?  When people die—the wealthy win…Many people die—the wealthy win. When there are wars—the wealthy win.  Called Religious wars—Sectarian strife—and many other names. The destruction of balance—Yes–Yes—Yeah!

During the 20th century, the USA favored dictators over freedom throughout South America. Cuba is very close—almost ‘Florida close…’ Why is this present day embargo still the reality of an ‘old-white-men’ government? Another terror of Capitalism—Yes! Why is Socialism an enemy of the People? It is not a crime nor is it against the rights of People anywhere…Redistribute the costs of Cold and Hot Wars committed against humanity during the twentieth century and our world—prospers in a Social world. Equality—Yes—Yes—Yeah!

In countries practicing Capitalism (USA, etc.) the means of production are not labor’s property. Very few people own the land and materials required for manufacturing, factories, machines and other instruments of production…Therefore; if you are not wealthy you are a slave—a wage slave. Wages are never fair because the lust-for-profit is more powerful than Truth, Justice, Love and Life.

Corporate ‘cultures’ easily translated mean—profit at all cost and all of the Working Class is an expense…Eliminate every expense to further our profits! La Serrata—Separation? Where are the values we learned from our mothers? Why is greed the prime motive of Industry and its future development? For the standards of friendship and family and our world, Capitalism is the antithesis. It adheres to competition at all costs. It dismisses cooperation, help for fellowman, responsibility to society, the benefits of others and love.

Abusing the rights of the Workers-of-the-World is a Crime against Humanity…Like Genocide and Sociocide, these abuses; destroy life and the freedom of people everywhere on this twirly-whirly planet. Capitalism is not freedom…It is slavery for us all…It is war and a savage waste of precious life…It benefits no one except a few. It destroys Society…It forces revolution and revolution is bloody. Why is Religion also an industry? Why not just…Lust of life—not of Riches?

  • 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.”

So Again:  “Go ahead and hate your neighbor—go ahead and cheat a friend—Do it in the name of heaven— you could justify it in the end—There won’t be any trumpets blowing—come the judgment day—On the bloody morning after—One Tin Soldier rides away.”

by Joni Mitchell

And! Beautiful you are…