Sky Towers And Sunshine…

“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

All across the nation
Such a strange vibration
People in motion
There’s a whole generation
With a new explanation
People in motion
People in motion

For those who come to San Francisco
Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair
If you come to San Francisco
Summertime will be a love-in there

If you come to San Francisco
Summertime will be a love-in there”…by John Phillips

A ‘Jet Show’ begins late this morning. A loud display of thunder-death-from-the-sky and the technology brought to us by another Military Industrial Complex. Do not wish to go—so bow head and when eyes close—remember Golden Gate Park and walking; both, Haight and Ashbury streets. Briefly; tears well and dry’ before a trickle path stains the face just below eyes’ blink.

Another jet drops from the sky and out falls imaginary bombs along its path…It is very quick and then nothing; but, quick-fading-engine-sounds and the imagined bah-boom-booms left behind. Nothing changes when ‘War’ is a dollar’s best friend.

This disease is not one; but, a ten-in-one-destroyer. This killer is infinite in variety and of undeniable power. Presently, nothing prevents or breaks its destruction across a country already destroyed by ‘war-stacking on’ and repetitive devastation. What was forest is no more. What was farmland is inhospitable soil. Unlimited infirmaries are absent. Accumulations of ability are vanished. Healers are in short supply. Farmers are few and their tools-to-farm are gone. Machines of commercial quantities now rust from ‘Oil City’ rains and country nothing. Presently, there are scattered boneyards for one billion soldiers. And! Funeral pyres for five billion men-women and children…’Innocence always dies before the fall is final.’

“Well I’ll be damned
Here comes your ghost again
But that’s not unusual
It’s just that the moon is full
And you happened to call
And here I sit
Hand on the telephone
Hearing a voice I’d known
A couple of light years ago
Heading straight for a fall

As I remember your eyes
Were bluer than robin’s eggs
My poetry was lousy you said
Where are you calling from?
A booth in the Midwest
Ten years ago
I bought you some cufflinks
You brought me something
We both know what memories can bring
They bring diamonds and rust

Well you burst on the scene
Already a legend
The unwashed phenomenon
The original vagabond
You strayed into my arms
And there you stayed
Temporarily lost at sea
The Madonna was yours for free
Yes, the girl on the half-shell
Could keep you unharmed

Now I see you standing
With brown leaves falling all around
And snow in your hair
Now you’re smiling out the window
Of that crummy hotel
Over Washington Square
Our breath comes out white clouds
Mingles and hangs in the air
Speaking strictly for me
We both could have died then and there

Now you’re telling me
You’re not nostalgic
Then give me another word for it
You who are so good with words
And at keeping things vague
‘because I need some of that vagueness now
It’s all come back too clearly
Yes I loved you dearly
And if you’re offering me diamonds and rust
I’ve already paid”…by Joan Baez

The Towers-of-Office are large towers. They are packed-to-brim with the Soldiers of Fortune. Towers of clones and Towers of sham. Below these structures industry materializes. Above! There is a whirling of all shares-of-measure to-be-purchased or-peddled without concern for: ‘We the People.” We are the creators of all commodities. We are the originators-of-survival for those clowned-clones-of-mischief. Offices are high and dry and lighted and—still dark. And! Hands are clean hands and labor does not occur.

These towers are buildings without prestige. They are rich structures without form. These places appear a cornucopia of shapes with no rhythm or rhyme. Lines both; hard and simple, reveal and complicate turns and curves. Synchronization of positions and flawless of construct. Elements of precision and of mischief. Often the eyes of Spirits active are miniatures. Often specks and flecks of gold and silver coats. Many are layered but still seen by beholder and beholden. Ice streams descend in slow straight lines—from rooftop slopes to solid sidewalks. Planes and plain models are soon streaks of many colors-colored glass and permit-in transitory twilight. Then, out-of-sight and with this bright-city-light appears an ‘almost-maybe’ night.

Civil layers never die. Tradition slips, and graciousness is forgotten. So are whirling dances and twirling songs. Touch lips and finger 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 reasons spent, some products lost and some reasons to divine.

Do we trust-in-truth? While promoting and demoting forms of deregulated regulations and as speculations-in-ruin penetrate permissive perversions, the invasions of individual-greed-so-powerful completely dismiss all values and ruins the strengths of our Collective struggles. Tangible wages are gone. The powers of Societies’ Unions are gone. And! A Right—Wrong transference in Economics, Politics, Labor’s markets and an enlightened American refinement are now ‘all gone!’ ‘Trickle down’ is a perpetual lie! And! Remember; ‘there are no Blue Color Billionaires.’ Why support Capitalism since it is now; ‘Insatiable and Unequal and Repressed and Tyrannical and an enemy of ‘We the People’ and of ‘Earth’s Twirling Humanity’?

“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-Bah-Boom-Bang-Bang and let the game begin—again… ‘Tis’ good this Loving Rhyme. So! Follow this Time—this Twine—Re-wind. And! While I breathe—I Hope…

Light tumbles and darkness strokes streets and sheltered bricks and flaws and cracks. Impacts collide with those scented secrets and motions flow without sounds. We are the kings and the queens of these streets. This City is our city. World Spins and seven moons; two largest, two larger, one large and three from small to smallest; replicate spins-to-swirls, along expected lines and impossible attractions. All to rotate ’round about a solitary sun of bright light and due to an impressive distance; there emerges, blue forms and purple nightfall. Rafters are those sailors of Green Brinies; Emerald Seas, Surfs’ high curls of fifteen foot crests and set-to-shoreline and way-back—stone homes and shingled stores. Rafters are too, Sky Riders. Surfs’ sky curls are shaped by eternal coasts inside the mists of the forever mind.

On a semi-dry ‘kinda’ gentle cool, when sun dips swiftly and flatters night slips quickly, dimness folds into short -moon and gathering times begin. Alter now; customs and styles and accept hollow space and poise and repair. Darkness slides into day and ends night…Night fills lighted places and switched-on bulbs reveal grays; shadows many, forever produced and forever failing to cheer the sun. Our lives are fluid—liquid pour—consume and replace and replenish and then–recall something else—another time or some other rhyme.

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.

Still here! Beneath this heaven our sea swirl-twirls and we hear whale sing-song our mother into-necessary-sleep. Whale sing-songs 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-moon-light 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! Heavens-Earths and Moons-Suns while passing Spirits-to-flesh and back again. Spirits do form and substance is free.

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.

‘Wishing you days of Gentle winds—Soft curves and Wonder’

And! Beautiful you are…

 

‘Comfortably Numb’—Pink Floyd

 

‘San Francisco’—Scott McKensie

 

“Diamonds and Rust’—Joan Baez

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

 

Lucretius Sings…

431Lucretius—“Before you the winds flee, and at your coming the clouds forsake the sky. For you the ocean levels laugh, the sky is calmed and glows with diffused radiance.” “Do you not see that nature is clamoring for two things only, a body free from pain, a mind released from worry and fear for the enjoyment of pleasurable sensations?” ‘There is a—serene acceptance—of Death’s inevitability. Evil is cancelled and there is nothing to fear.’ For ‘Lucretius’—“Religion is ignorance—Reason is the torch that brings light.”

We are self obsessed—Everything Us—Our gods—Our history—Our philosophy and Our psychology…Still Cave folks we may be—then see—our ignorance—our prejudices—weak sense and shadow selves—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—cornered—pushed and pulled—colliding with one-another—attracting—joining—coupling and uncoupling either by—by-product and always random and often accidentally. And! What happened to Democritus? Why is Aristotle—‘thought speak’ the foundation of Western normalcy? Why monotheism? Why—the ‘anti-pagan’ movement powered by yet—another belief—‘Christianity’—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 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—Gods—Mover Prime ‘Directors’—not in accordance with Christian’s ‘baffling wanders’—but close enough to tolerated—eh? Must be an Ark—Ship of wood—and could—be—maybe—a Starship crossing another Sea-of-sky and those spaces between the—Stars…

Last night was a ‘moving on’ kinda evening…Spirits do leave and head out homeward—another place—another sun—places again where planet twirl does not matter and race-races—racing—starts ‘n’ stops are not existent—no time flavors or must do favors…Not an end—begin again—was always right along—side—’tis maybe that great mystery—we want to know and know anyway…Nothing judges—Eternal Spirits—no reason—no rhymes—not time to forgive—material needs—greed develop and disappear…Great church side—lurch forward—backward—more words of material gain—lost or found—still around—never necessary—always there…

Tired—Tried and Tested—rested and begins a moving away—a time to go—and a quick giggle before—looking back—is last time—a final rhyme—this time—and moving on—it is time to go…She saw that this time was good… Fire—Blue light—‘sorta’—start-stop—dancing—yellow streaks—red coats and journey starts. Screaming—moons toward—light and still—horses run Martian Ridge. We are children of those—salted seas and spirit trees. And! Clouds often look for—skies. …Hollow man—robot without—spirit-animation-without ‘ghosts in the machine’…We be not—holy hollows—we be—imagine—imagination—beyond pushes of strengths—we dance—baby birthing—powerful protection and iron love—nothing stronger than love or better than together songs and the unification of eternal spirits.

“Nothing  behind me, everything ahead of me,

as is ever so on the road.”…Jack Kerouac

“She shared with Gypsy Spirits—She danced with Cosmopolitan Souls—An Anchor—A Burst of Wind and Love…Diane and I are —“Wishing Her Gentle Winds—Soft Curves and Wonder”…

 

And! Beautiful you are…

Heal This Land…by Maire Brennan

Gra De…by Maire Brennan

 

Called Bedlam…

A Syrian refugee looks up as her father holds her and a Canadian flag as they arrive at Pearson Toronto International Airport in Mississauga, Ontario, December 18, 2015. REUTERS/Mark Blinch - RTX1ZBYD

Travel to places—where there is no ‘damnation’—no ‘government’—no ‘king’—no ‘pope’…Nothing save the Workings of Sweet Labor…The sweat of strength—together—as the gifts of Free-women and Free men everywhere—flow rivers like oceans ‘cross land—‘cross seas—both skyward and upon our—sweet Earth Twirl…We are Children of the Universe—And! We have the—Right—to be Everywhere!

They remember the ‘Time of Councils’… Recalling the great debates—the wine and beer—the emotional flow of similar—and—difference and–the strength of unities—both in directions and—in the thrill of —in-directions. Good to be—an idealist—and better to implement—than to watch—struggles decrease and die—without formal intent—or—informal adventures—of simple mind—shriek—speak—peak and—up-down spurts—of People United—and—People Apart…

The Building of Walls—-between Mexico/So.America—and—the United States—is a reason for—What? Empty gestures—Empty reasons to alienate…Be ‘Donnie T.’ just—another ‘Poser’—of a country’s failed unity—and leadership? Global reasons—to exist will end—as war once again begins—to spread hate—ignorance—vacuum nationalism and—abject failure of New realities—as Greed continues its evil—criminal and vile—Legacy… Any attempt—to control thought—is an attempt to—control mind? Constant learning—is another form—of survival’s attempt—to live…Often; we maintain balance—required to afford—physical nourishment (food-clothing-shelter) …What is the cost—of this maintenance—of balance?

Words are both—vascular and alive…Life flows—thru vein—to brain—to ink flow and magic—often flat—smooth and…And! Mind speak—simplicity—and with force combine—to shout future verse—with yesterday’s sweet silence—to listen—so softly pronounced—as to be—choir sing-song’s—harmonious vision. Is a truth found—here and there—in communities ‘cross land and seaside channel—a fact—each community here—finds itself on the verge—of losing every part—and every parcel—of any fortune—or any chance of—regaining any semblance—of harmony and joy? Are we caught—in that consistent struggle—to maintain perpetual—(always) conflict—with one-another—to protect ourselves—from each other? Sad! We accept these—‘all the time’ circumstances—as unalterable—unavoidable and ‘so—it must be true’—way of life’s life…Wow! We are good—at killing ‘the enemy’—so good—that we are unable—to identify an enemy—from a ‘maybe—almost’ same—blood-red being—we need or we—desire to embrace—not race—begin and end—with sometimes or almost—never-ever but—required absolutely—maybe?

Laws demonstrate—control of portions of—people’s needs—desires—hopes and their—fears. While the—Constitution of America—is good—it is an impossible standard—impossible to practice and—changes swiftly—due to changing norms—either normally just—or abnormally unjust…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. Dwight Eisenhower warned—of— ‘the Military Industrial Complex.’ Wondering—if the present motion—of a 2017 era—indicates an end—of any further—chances of righteous—upright—ethical—JUST—Freedom…Freedom’s survival—or America’s Direction—of its democratic nature. Justice be—a damnable notion to—quantify—identify—practice properly—or continue its—fragile and easily corruptible—practice (s).

“A commodity appears, at first sight, a very trivial thing, and easily understood. Its analysis shows that it is, in reality, a very strange thing, abounding in metaphysical subtleties and theological niceties. So far as it is a value in use, there is nothing mysterious about it, whether we consider it from the point of view that by its properties it is capable of satisfying human wants, or from the point that those properties are the product of human labor. “…by Karl Marx

“It started with workers’ evening classes outside the city gates. Her kind blue eyes would sparkle as she told me in a rote, sing-song voice of the importance of awakening the workers’ class consciousness. I was happy for her and realized what a joy it must be to discover some all-consuming goal.” …by Larissa Vasilieva

 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—in dark dancing—with rhythm in—our mind and drumbeats—in our hearts…

 

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Last Train Home’…Pat Metheny

‘Minuano’…Pat Metheny

A Cosseting Halo…

116732A little Galaxy up line—along ridges circling—the ‘Giant of Milky Ways’ always 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?

When in love—distance from the ‘Object of 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.

Does objective truth—deny that government is—the provider of enjoyments—and neo-progressivism—accepts that—enjoyments do become—entitlements and entitlements—eventually become—the right of the people? Standards for human rights—disappear? And! Still elites determine what constitutes—without a real constitution—the rights of humanity? These Elites are—also the ‘Body Politic’—purchased—bought—traded—faded—commanded—demanded until—the ‘rights-of-the-people’ are not products of objective truth—embracing relativism—but are the results of coercion—and brutal power… Political power—is how much gun smoke—issues from barrels—pointed toward the—people? If true! Then how must—political power be—judicially executed—limited once—as smoke evaporates into precious air? Paley’s watch—keeps ticking—and—Universal continuation—continues.

And! While enjoying—enjoyments and—entitled to—entitlements—of the ‘rights-of-the-people—complexities ensue—informal institutions—are formal—non-state-states—markets—organizations—processes are mechanization—relationships—mechanics-of-similar-speak—citizens—rich—poor—inter-governmental—non-governmental—collective interests—duties—taxes—obligations—privileges—equality and inequalities—mediated—not mediated and—WTF…What continues—when Elite Professionals rule—not elected—just collected—inspected—rejected—corrected—enhanced—romanced—only rule—until complex issues align against—the people and another Revolution—smoking guns—and mirrors into—the past…Paley’s watch continues—ticking—matters-dark are—never seen—and when—aligned—properly—another ‘cosset halo’ appears—for another—little while…

“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—the light…Those 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…

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.’ A Spacer—thought these folk—may have belonged—to some—type of ‘Club’…Creative Spirits do—gather—one-time-or-maybe-two—to watch sky—etch forms—dissolve—appear and disappear—while often dancing ‘cross—so many places—to many races—as often they appear—only to disappear—and reappear—again—once-in-a-while—you know…

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Saving Grace’

“One time around the block
Two times around the clock
Three times, don’t cross the little lady

So pretty and, oh, so bold
Got a heart full of gold on a lonely road
She said, ‘I don’t even think that God can save me’

Am I gainin’ ground
Am I losin’ faith
Have I lost and found my saving grace
Thankful for the gift my angels gave me

Born alone, we die alone
‘n’ I’m just sittin’ here by the phone
Waitin’ for the Lord to send my callin’

Street wise from the boulevard
Jesus only knows that she tries too hard
She’s only tryin’ to keep the sky from fallin’

Any man who says it’s Heaven and Hell
Prob’ly got somethin’ useless to sell
You ask me if I’m saved, but what’s it to ya?

Blow a quarter, cop another eight
You’re runnin’ out of high, you’re losin’ your faith
Throw your hands up and scream, “Hallelujah”

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Amen

One time around the sun
Another year older and my work ain’t done
It’s time for me to write the final chapter

Deal the cards and roll the dice
Sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll are my only vice
Tryin’ to figure out just what’s here after…

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Amen”…
by Erik Francis Schrody

‘Saving Grace’…performed by Everlast

Blue Wrinkles of Code Balloons…

57We here—hear—waking sounds—music touch—ear-side before mind-side slides—sweet song—scent-speak and cradle squeak—and we hear—visceral seer—sans reason—also there—with care—memory spaced—raindrop wide—with memory tides and spiritual rides—tis OK—without sometime thoughts—donchaknow. And! Suddenly the regularity of phenomena—no longer measured rigidly—now burst into the probability of theory—though dynamics and universally common—plain-speak and stench—drenched in fractal messages. ‘Pixel me a thought today and watch as pictures fade away.’

Fire—Blue light—‘sorta’—start-stop—dancing—yellow streaks—red coats and journey starts. Screaming—moons toward—light and still—horses run Martian Ridge. We are children of those—salted seas and spirit trees. And! Clouds often look for—skies. …Hollow man—is robot without—spirit-animation-without ‘ghosts in the machine’…We be not—holy hollows—we be—imagine—imagination—beyond pushes of strengths—we dance—baby birthing—powerful protection and iron love—nothing stronger than love or better than together songs and the unification of eternal spirits.

Butterfly—kisses—wish made—wish chant—and grant—soft wings and slips and flits— ride currents of breeze—so slight—against soft skin—often switch directions-of-fancy—will by—choice or wearied of time—trips to beginning and endings of time shifted—drifted and lifted and forever gifted—to lines of—crafted beings—being for  moments—above moonlight and—day—bright. Space between lines—of coded-cold-color—fine word pour—from puzzle—one or two—twins in-step—and reasons to-be—to-see special—twin-twines—through tunnels and into the night.

Launch now—code filled balloons both alpha and numeric—fluid—lines of rows—switch—crosses—across drops-of-lengths—between space and press and touch—and—a distance—between winter’s flakes and snow. While dancing dream’s mind-merge—spirit winds a clock of choices—known by forgotten—dust-swirls—desert winds and salted seas—as foam merges with sandy shores. Rain bounce—by moonlight—against a million miles of asphalt streets—where tiny sprites of weeds—meet—push through—to break the symmetry—of path—life once again—is the birth of nature’s chaos—and nothing is as natural—as creating—-creations. Life’s power is—eternal notions—of—goddesses and gods—witches and warlocks—wizards and shamans—and—the blood-bond of women and men—creatures-features— and the dynamics of Love. Remember! Love is sex-less—without form—without flesh—and—-when shiver—shapes humanity—love—is touch—magic required—as beings require air—mixed—blood red.

As we form—precious life—forms-form—we name—-speak love—hunt-save-spare-care—and as others—find us—avoid us—hunt—devour us—chaos of circles dance ‘round—mystery of times—begin and end—start-stop—while chasing creation—‘cross—apparent universes—known and unknown and the forgotten times—of today’s-yesterdays and tomorrow’s days of future’s—stop and start. Ad infinitum—or maybe ‘cross into Nemo Universes—of never-were—never was—or may still—never be… We are all Children of the Universe…We have the Right to be Everywhere!

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Walking in the Air’ by Howard Blake—performed by Nightwish

Wishing for Butterfly Town…

14aCity sounds like ‘Sity’ and that is a child’s word for big places of big buildings and wide streets and shops and stores and things and stuff and shine and glitter and people-folks and fun and fear. In the October Sity; stuff and things and stores and people-folks are not so many and the anymore of anything is less or more depending on the perspective of child eyes and hopes and the knowing of future’s day-long past.

From the oily rain to the fires of Coven’s lights, morning dances across concrete’s jumbled scattering around LoGrean Park where ‘Sity’ lanterns once caused shadows to dance and the dawns of many days went and came from then- now and back again ‘til records stopped spinning and paper-to-digital-history-news— tired of writers and found page-edges empty save tattered wear and the waning lights of evening.

This is ‘Sity’ in the telling of tales and of laughing tears and fears and sing-songs’ wiggle into spaces between rock and sand and the hiding places of sound between silence and about to be vibrated from inside minds’ reach through lips across teeth and into spaces among oil of rain and spatter and fiction-truth and into ears that hear nothing except silenced sound and giggle.

This is the hiding door that takes us to Column Room. Tessie likes the purple scarves and dotted cloth. Jackson likes the hiding places-on and other rooms just off big column and down the great-distant hall. No one comes here anymore; save Crowman and younger ones they call the Hurts. And! Not so many of them around since the last rains.

Crowman never worries about the timing of this because he is not time-for-time.

‘I have seen this thing before, to no one but the Hurts and they listen to him always, since the beginning of things, of days or nights or evenings or mornings, or when things were and were not. I know this place like the farm, the river when fish were fish and would swim right by the bait.’

‘This is the road. A hoppity-skippity-small little road not needing a reason, rhyme or paving covers over sidewalk – cracks that if “you step on a crack or break, something that rhymes with nothing by a word that names the place where sidewalk ends then starts again.’

He stands on eternal legs and begins down the hoppity-skippity road. He stops and the Hurts join him. He skips toward them and they skip toward him. He turns and a little light flicks just skips in front of him. A little flitting light of sparkle and nothing else.

Little Tessie through a small hole between her front teeth whispers,

 ‘Butterfly…’ No question, not statement, not fact not…

‘Almost a Crowman,’ he almost answered,

‘I know this…We Know! ‘I have known this Sparkle!’ ‘Know Spark.’

Then Butterfly whispers to sounds of the love of whispered love and patient-patience and times of ‘Sity’ pieces and rhyme:

‘This is this line! I have waited and watched and wanted and needed and loved you since Day ends and starts-again. It is- it is- it is a little hoppity-skippity prayer of a little road that begins.’

The Hurts laugh and so often laughter hurts. Not this time of day and not this time of evening’s sprawl and night’s length before we life sparkle live-life-again.

‘Angel? Nope…Gone…Nope…With Us?…Nope…Then Gone OK? Why?—No…Then?’

Almost—Butterfly touches angel and angel touches angel and angel and angel…

Light touches light and Crowman almost knows nothing or something that does not matter the matter or irritate the matter. Light smiles and ‘yes’—Tessie, ‘Angels do smile’. Time  in this fair-land where Mother Nature’s Golden Ones discover another place where Peace may—maybe exist.

And! Beautiful you are…

From…’Sity Songs’ by Philip M. Edwards

Rain Whistles-Mist Sings…

55Just above cloud-fall she dropped to Earth without trumpets or warriors or cries or the wailing of terrified folks. No swished angel wings or the usual thunder just after lightning bolts from sky-to-ground or back again. When angels fly-sound may become the music of both rapture and fear.

Why do arriving angels come in lots of two?  Why either soft or hard? Why arriving as a girl or a boy? Or are angels of any physical realm saved or seen by the nonsense of non- angels? Why do angels arrive here from somewhere other than here on planet-side of heaven? And! How do they cross heaven’s length from where-to-wear and back to where-ever they begin? It is magic, wizard, dragon, fire, storm, calm, wind, rain and war.

Heaven’s gate is hard to find and many have perished-the-thought and died attempting to pass from star-gate to star-fall of the planet-slide of hell or paradise.

This angel was alone–both hard and soft and ready to purpose the reason of her travel and the respected message she brought to the mysterious magic folk and the very quick or the dead.

Angel she called herself and she imagined her image as double self and triple purposed with a silent drum of butterfly wings and the knowledge of both living and dying before the end of twin-planet sins times fourteen.

Power at the end of wit and the beginning of the rhyme of substance’s cessation. She was both good and evil and her reason was either a knowing or a complete confusion to those able to see or hear or know or imagine her path from sky to planet-side. She saved a few and she lost a few and those lasting through her visit–survived.

No! Angel was the good witch of spectacular whimsy and crafted stories told by magic men and the disciples of both the Gods and of men. Once upon a moment, Angel did visited Earth-land and found it was missing a reason for being the place of promise or ruin. She existed and…She calls to us sometimes and sometimes through no sounds we understand.

And! Beautiful you are…