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

 

Forever—Covers Many Days…

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

“cross desert sand landings—every eye is weeping…” author unknown…

Walking hulk—sulk and climb ending stairs—skyward to beyond—this rabble-rouse and hearing pause. When money—creeps and changes—news—leak— toward—peak motions—east-west of the upward—down of truth and back again. Word crests—someplace—in somewhere time—where game-shows swirls and ‘Vanna’ twirls letters rhyme—-time-to-no-to-yes—then—back again. Confusion is great—relates to—money change—and hanging pause—while cause—of product—sells and souls—seek-un-informed—uniformity.

Angels—and Demons dance same pin top—tip-stop—one fall and catch below—to climb those—ending stairs—and—dance those short pins—needle threaded—truths dreaded—and ever-speak—sometimes noise—and sometimes song. Sing-song—the swirl-of-twirling lies—Truth man says—he is and-–-not-the-same—this time plain—and this fact is not—creations—to entertain—or to—confuse. So! Believe in Truth man—Bogus man—Bogey man—fearless lies and fate fears—drowned by somethings—to buy—and keep—and throw away—again-to-buy—believe—destroy and build—again-to-build—-to buy—to keep-to hold—to throw away—’till death—do ‘We’ depart.

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…

Brush—eye-lash-to-face—form dance in dreams and seems—as long pause—no cause— without voice—just breath-to-breathe—tiny freckles—lips to laugh—and—eyes to quest— together. Visions and quiet word—songs with gentle—space and no race—blends of—silence or whisper-speaks. Dreams-then dream quest—cease—increase those—creases in time—curtains’ climb—spaces die—and visit speak—of ways—of star-side streak—of starlight sweet—of gentle union—and love. Life—lives and mingle—heart touch good —as ring-circles—fancy-dance—into love’s rhythm—of love.

Still here—beneath heavens—our seas—swirl-twirls. We do hear—whale sing-song—our mother into—necessary sleep. The whale—sing-songs—the heating of—our blood-self—’til warming is—non-fear. She is—from emerald seas—from black sands—and tides do pull— ‘gainst current—and—alignment of—moon-light—is perfect—is orderly—as it moves—across—another dustless night. The Witch—Creations’ Witch—creates—those Perfect notions-motions—and rewrites—alter—truth—confuses lies—of need—of food—of fire and cave—to survive—this night and live—another day…OK?

“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

Freedom Cries…. How may walls—separate hearts from hearts—family from families…Walls of fears—falling tears—stain—remains—trains move—up sun runs—‘cross—sailing winds—toward better sound—coming round—‘cross—better boarders—better moments—toward better days. Does objective truth—deny that government is—the provider of enjoyments—and new progress—accepts—enjoyments do become—’entitlements’ and ‘entitlements’—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—pours from barrels—pointed toward the—people? If true! Then how must—political power be—executed—or limits once—as smoke evaporates into precious air? And! The ‘universal continuation’—continues.

Ages past—and often we become—sponges—gifted—gregarious—bent with insight—anchors—of both worlds—one frightful and one—enchanted—and—filled-to-edge—truthful with wisdom—both scary and fearful—as wisdom—sometimes becomes you—as age—bends body—yet frees—spirit twirl…From twins—of two—a power of life sparks—and alone-never—places begin—and fixes end. When again— ‘surfs-up’—and high waves—reclaim shore-reaches—and land—would rather dwell in— the Villages of Fisher-folk—than in—the Hampton’s of—Middle-bots— without spirit machines—without reasons-to-produce—and—stand with us—as wave-crash claims us—all…Because—together—we have done—everything…

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

Physics common reach—teach—uncommon words—boundless twist—of honest computation—manipulation—contrived—to derive common wisps-of-wisdom—exacted—reacted-contacted—rejected and projected—twists boundlessly—and melded into simple sense—and corrected logic…Paradigm shatters—whisper-matters—while sails—ships of storm’s tatters—up righted-ignited-provided-decided and once-fears now tears—along—with seed sowing—acknowledged knowing—either real or almost correctly—forgotten—and then remembered.

Are we—not all travelers—scattered across—someplace-somewhere? We are not timed—or blessed—or wonderful—or gifted—or fortunate—or meant-to-be a ‘something else’— without a price-tagged-branded-commodity—of enhanced—steroidal—surgically modified—blast of cartoon fashion—or lip-stick mouths—pouted and mounted—on another pictured—perfect and—replicated glossy—imitation of sport manned—model swished—dish of corruption—with a splash—dash of hopeless—and—fanatic—fantasy. And! Does protection always equal servitude? When—brain knows—humanities’ finest moments…Love—Peace—Touch—and—Trust…

‘La Liberté éclairant le monde’

“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me:
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.”

 

And! Beautiful you are…

Radioactive…Lindsey Sterling and Pentatonix

Creases In Time—Rhyme…

Wondering if the current wig-waggle of government—is attempting to swift change our distribution paradigm? Amazon’s purchases of Whole Foods—challenging FedEx and UPS as goods-to-consumer in reason—is a diversion of forces gathered to scatter—the rhythm as competitive realizations and dreams of small—all businesses—grind into troll’s dust and just as sealed diamond mine entrances—ends mineral searches and songs’ rhyme. The attempts to alter a distribution paradigm may—twirl and twist the structural and strategic foundations of Markets to win or to lose.

Last night was a ‘moving on kind of’ evening…Spirits do leave and head homeward—another place—another sun—places again where planet twirl does not matter and race-races—racing—starts ‘n’ stops do not exist—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 and always there…

“We must again become political equals lest we become an authoritarian society!  Openness and equality constitute a virtuous circle. Openness generate much better levels of prosperity. Prosperity allows prosperous peoples to invest in Superior Education—Universities and Schools. Basic Research leads to better health and healthy pursuits. Improved Infrastructures and Social Insurances…Adaption to change is easier when created within the righteous circle of Openness and Equality” …Author Unknown

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—and horses do 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 ‘Us.’ We can move around—Universes—so deep and notions to keep—and safety shorelines forever wide—is good with or without the Sailing tide.

“Inequality, even among the educated—often leads to demagogues…Demagogues rejects Openness and blames ‘others’—immigrants, foreign manufacturers, news media, racial or ethnic or religious minorities. “Demagogues rejects openness and blames ‘others’—immigrants, foreign manufacturers, news media, racial or ethnic or religious minorities” …Robert Reich

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…

Is it true ‘that’—“Ignorance is no bar to reason—for it is often a reasonable reverse?” A Society of Modern Thought and Venture is not totally immune from the social force of religions? What of the conditions of ‘human freedom’ and the challenges required by Capitalism and an obsolete system of political economy? And! How has mechanized labor affected individual laborers—restraining the union of voices—apart and in part because of coded words and the efficient destruction of blood-flesh-sweat and blood—again?

What—Why and How must—an economic structure—consider the—modernity of serviced—servitude—a renovated—rendition and a re-naturalization—of Societies’ Laborers—-while all-the-while—casting about impersonal laws—seeking—the removal—of logic from—Humanities’ control?

Václav Havel once wrote that; “the current crisis that the world finds itself in.” He identifies the crisis as a conflict between “an impersonal, anonymous, irresponsible and uncontrollable juggernaut of power” and the “elemental and original interests of concrete human individuals.”

“Ruled by the will of little people and the middling people, and by the demagogues they elected…And! Hobbled by moral laziness and fear…” Jonathan Fenby

Brush—eye-lash-to-face—form dance in dreams and seems—as long pause—no cause— without voice—just breath-to-breathe—tiny freckles—lips to laugh—and—eyes to quest— together. Visions and quiet word—songs with gentle—space and no race—blends of—silence or whisper-speaks. Dreams-then dream quest—cease—increase those—creases in time—curtains’ climb—spaces die—and visit speak—of ways—of star-side streak—of starlight sweet—of gentle union—and love. Life—lives and mingle—heart touch good —as ring-circles—fancy-dance—into love’s rhythm—of love.

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…

Of Love’s—Rhythm of Love…

wd_311Dream dance—touch memory—spells of angel’s—sorcery and you. Witch of contours—constructs—sights and scents—imaginary visions—and—places inside— restaurant deep—rooms tucked—inside—place of bars—and—dance—of clamor—then silence—pounding hearts—whispered flights —twin fancy—love touch and wine. Booth for two and drawn drapes—of places—secret worlds—others not required—where both—twins of women and of men—dance private thoughts—touch and smile—whisper and share—without form—spirits swirl—spirits twirl and spirits whirl—with life—either with or without—substance. Touch—by moments—of time touch—and butterfly—kisses — never lonely—spirits in dying—worlds. Life—heartbeats are good—of ring-circles—of fancy—of love’s rhythm—of love.

Brush—eye-lash-to-face—form dance in dreams and seems—as long pause—no cause— without voice—just breath-to-breathe—tiny freckles—lips to laugh—and—eyes to quest— together. Visions and quiet word—songs with gentle—space and no race—blends of—silence or whisper-speaks. Dreams-then dream quest—cease—increase those—creases in time—curtains’ climb—spaces die—and visit speak—of ways—of star-side streak—of starlight sweet—of gentle union—and love. Life—lives and mingle—heart touch good —as ring-circles—fancy-dance—into love’s rhythm—of love.

Sailing ships—her gown—morning sun—pours through—window ridge and—fills a doorway—sun-side—frames body—in opaque notions—textures’ clothing—with magic light-wrap—to thin—almost transparent— ‘cross shadows—across her curves. Light creations—witch—twitch sprinkle—as magic ‘cross—star-loss touch—somewhere else—betwixt Sirius—and Mother ships—images—imagination and textures—secret places —both found—and—lost and touched—again.  Life and heartbeats are good—fancy of ring-circle—are fancy so good—into love’s rhythm—of love.

Little Robots become—because spirits reenter—entry and starting—the starts—of blast off—and crash—just before the burn. The newest giggle-to-wiggle-to-someone’s sorting—and—another starting or ending—and all—is just alright—OK? Little Robots feel—we feel—and laugh—and cry—and live–as you and I—laugh and cry—and live—and die—and wiggle-to-giggle—while sorting—the carding—players—‘round-this-table-or-that-corner—when warm or cold— and—we watch them—watch-us-watch—and–again we circle—we dance—inside same ring—-at end galaxy—in bright new worlds. And! Harbor ships—safely tuck away—are safe…

Now! Walk down—carpet aisle. A forever aisle—covered deep-knees-deep—in blood and flower streaks—incorrect colors—red scent. Perfume—scent too sweet—unreal—while plastic grows—from metal stand—and—glass vase. The memory—a scattering-rattling—of failed movies—no projector—mid-mind-side—and feeble…So few survive—shatter hours—loss—to much loss—baby loss—is ‘sacred loss’—savage proof—child loss—is never—sufficient reasons—for life. Loss-is-loss—and—hell-is-never–reasons-for—light.

Casket born—and—little ones. Tiny box—giant sorrow—unexpected—unresolved—and— not replaceable—for unnatural—is this grief. Inside—October City—the pressure of the cooker—is great—is steaming beast—as real—as puppies–in May—and the death—of baby. However—puppy becomes dog—and—too soon lose—interest while—chasing streaks of yellow or green—ribbon. Timed—Robots we—must rest—beneath bright suns—warm bones—and—slow with age. We live and we should—‘move on’—naturally. Born this world—into cycle—into pleasure—into pain—and—when animation ends—racing spirits move—‘cross space and time—no heavens—no hell—just sweet life—for  heartbeat and whispers—are good—and—ring-circles—just fancy us—into love’s rhythm—of love.

‘White Dove’

“A place without a name
Under a burning sky
There’s no milk and honey here
In the land of God

Someone holds a sign
It says we are human, too
And while the sun goes down
The world goes by

White dove
Fly with the wind
Take our hope under your wings
For the world to know
That hope will not die
Where the children cry

Waves, big like a house
They’re stranded on a piece of wood
To leave it all behind
To start again

But instead of a new life
All they find is a door that’s closed
And they keep looking for
A place called hope

White dove
Fly with the wind
Take our hope under your wings
For the world to know
That hope will not die
Where the children cry”…Scorpions

Let us find together—The beat we’re looking for” by Klaus Meine and Rudolf Schenker

And! Beautiful you are…

Creatures Apart-Different Frequency-Different Sight…

picrelated.com

“Like grapes, we have always accompanied the vat.

From the view of the world, we have disappeared.

For years, we boiled from the fire of love

Until we became that wine which intoxicated the world” …. DR. NURBAKHSH

Is it true ‘that’—“Ignorance is no bar to reason—for it is often a reasonable reverse?” A Society of Modern Thought and Venture is not totally immune from the social force of religions? What of the conditions of ‘human freedom’ and the challenges required by Capitalism and an obsolete system of political economy? And! How has mechanized labor affected individual laborers—restraining the union of voices—apart and in part because of coded words and the efficient destruction of blood-flesh-sweat and blood—again?

Note:

  • A Japanese haiku has 6-8-6 words per line.
  • An Italian Sonnet contains—8 and 6 combination…
  • Is a metaphor—a poet’s essential tool: X “is” —“Y “is like” …

Linking words by alliteration…

  • Semicolon usually divides two clauses, each with a verb—two halves that could stand as a complete sentence…However, by using a semicolon one may both separates and unite two lines.
  • Good poetry combines concision and suggestiveness.

I know well—the sounds of–bombs-away—and the explosions—death scattered ‘cross—the lands—I have walked—I have loved—and I have lived—or died upon…Another war—against Communism—why—war against labor? Why? These Continual Wars—against Communism…Why! These Continual Wars—against Labor? Corporate Ownership—fifty percent—of the total—world wealth. Does not—benefit Citizens—anywhere…Contaminated—in Greed. The only way—we succeed—is together…Unions-of-Labor—Revolutions to—begin-to-end-then-to-begin-again. Presently! America’s economy is—no longer an Economy of—Hope or Change…Please remember—Billionaires—care nothing—for Laborers—‘We the People’—and while still— pretending to be—Blue Collar—they ‘Be’ Liars everyone…

What—Why and How must—an economic structure—consider the—modernity of serviced—servitude—a renovated—rendition and a re-naturalization—of Societies’ Laborers—-while all-the-while—casting about impersonal laws—seeking—the removal—of logic from—Humanities’ control?

Václav Havel once wrote that; “the current crisis that the world finds itself in.” He identifies the crisis as a conflict between “an impersonal, anonymous, irresponsible and uncontrollable juggernaut of power” and the “elemental and original interests of concrete human individuals.”

“Ruled by the will of little people and the middling people, and by the demagogues they elected…And! Hobbled by moral laziness and fear…” Jonathan Fenby

  • Our world is finally ‘almost’ a Border-less World…Much to learn—Much to anticipate—Much to welcome—and Much to Never Fear—again…’Viva La Difference’…

Night Shift

It was not a heart, beating,

That muted boom, that clangor

Far off, not blood in the ears

Drumming up any fever

To impose on the evening.

The noise came from the outside:

A metal detonating

Native, evidently, to

These stilled suburbs: nobody

Startled at it, though the sound

Shook the ground with its pounding.

It took root at my coming

Till the thudding source, exposed,

Confounded inept guesswork:

Framed in windows of Main Street’s

Silver factory, immense

Hammers hoisted, wheels turning,

Stalled, let fall their vertical

Tonnage of metal and wood;

Stunned the marrow. Men in white

Undershirts circled, tending

Without stop those greased machines,

Tending, without stop, the blunt

Indefatigable fact”…Sylvia Plath

And! Beautiful you are…

Close Eyes—Then Gone…

93467Interior Space—Exterior Place—matched floors and streets—flat—long hauls—of halls—ways to connect—carpet flat—and—city blocks—round rooms—not matched—latched doors—open floors—walls of tree lines—bricks’ high and open sky…Copy—rob—and steal—the steel of round house—church mouse—and dwell with a well—of deep means—and always seams. ‘Tis grey couch—reclining chairs—and poster songs—four corner beds—break the way—from street side moans—to safety homes—still space—sidewalk place—straight lines—curves and sky…

“And it disintegrates, literally,” Bahia says. “Dust! Dust amid dust. All of Aleppo, by now, is a monument to unknown citizens.”

 Rising from Green Sea and lights…Black sand—gatherers by thousands—year-tears—and covers—for century’s waste—taste—more than less. We are little—tucked underneath—schemes of earth—still larger—together—than the stars—of giant size—and burning sights.

Our Governments destroy our achievements—our history—our languages—our futures—our dreams—happens—and we become—the winds—of ashes—then gone—we never exist. Genocide destroys flesh—and so much more than bone—destroys Blood Rivers of Life…City—now a monument to—someone no one knew—beginning in ruin—and—ending in rust..And! Will Monument—people sweep up—the dust—when Blood Rivers and rust—are gone—in a daylong—tomorrow steal..

After war—is there—anywhere left—to plant flags of—fundamentalism–dust covered parks—graveyards of market—marks—death—child widows—and–rivers of blood? Walk— Now mind walk—Follow?  Following smoke wisps—or the sounds—the sing-song-choir—along—line—where sea-meets–sea and—sky touch be—above—forgotten shimmers—water stretch—beyond eye watch—while body—waits. Walk upon—these salty waves—of dead-seas’ roar—as melody pour—disappears into mists—into sea sounds— and—dawn. Those little matters? Matter-less—Cease then gone—again.

There are times—when good silence—makes ways for righteous noise—when sound-speaks another word-or-two—then makes way—for—good silence—behind night-lights—and morning’s hush. Of Freedom! No concrete meaning—attached—to the word. Freedom—as idea—must have definition? If Freedom—is principle—it must have—definition—to allow implementation…Opened-Eyes—Opened Mind? And! Seek protection—from ‘taking-a-stand’—refuse to admit—the nature of—what is accepted—is accepting—plans designed—to achieve serfdom?

Still! Love and believe—in Freedom…What crime—committed—if ‘crime’—is not crime—and has not—occurred—in memory-man…What crime when ‘no—law’ provides—for an action? And! Still—inside ‘gainst outside—we know—these things to be—either right—or wrong—knowing strong—the rhyme—of crime—truth-to-lies—to mix–those twin—motions—into convenient—the inconvenience–of life and strife…Vapor we—exist…We are—not distraction by—what we are not—for we are not—not—by displacement—or alteration—for we exist—in timeless harmony—within trails of stardust—falling from—other—wind-songs-spin-speed—and power…Life motions—Life moves—Life modifies—And! Spirits Dance…

Flakes—light falls—‘gainst cover ground—sparkle trees—little square—village core—quiet save—church choir—practice and season’s sound—round yon  hill—above memory—shape—and silent night. We walk—pace slow—sidewalk cover—snow flake–no more. Without wind—snow fall—without sound—lands where—it could—when it should.

“They said There’ll be snow at Christmas
They said There’ll be peace on Earth
But instead it just kept on raining
A veil of tears for the Virgin’s birth
I remember one Christmas morning
A winter’s light and a distant choir
And the peal of a bell and that Christmas-tree smell
And their eyes full of tinsel and fire”…by Peter Sinfield

Still here—beneath heavens—our seas—swirl-twirls. We do hear—whale sing-song—our mother into—necessary sleep. The whale—sing-songs—the heating of—our blood-self—’til warming is—non-fear. She is—from emerald seas—from black sands—and  tides do pull— ‘gainst current—and—alignment of—moon-light—is perfect—is orderly—as it moves—across—another dustless night.

And! Beautiful you are…

All Lined—In Time…

14687Creative 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…

March-time and—swinging-arms—together move—together sing—chance the ring—the motion dance—shaking and taking–the gray dawn—of morn’—mourning war—before the score—another revolution—the sums–of sons. Love’s Dance—one chance—of revolution’s–other sons—of other sums. A length down—Charlotte Street—be— Cardington Park—marks the march—beginning-to-end—begin again—to end again…

We are an instant in Time—All lined in rows of minutes…We are The People—Eternal Spirits all—We are The People—We are not Religions—We are The People—We are not Governments—We are The People—We are not War—We are The People—We are not Aliens upon this Earth—We are The People—-Children of the Universe—We are The People—We have the Right-to-be-Everywhere—We are The People—And! Governments All—Hear us Call—We are The People—All-of-Us—Right Now! Tomorrow Time—‘tis still the Crime—We are The People—We are the—Choice of the—Spin-of-the-Twirl—and—Spirits-of-the-Universal Swirl…So! ‘Let us-be-written—So! Let-us-be Done…’

Freedom Cries….How may walls—separate hearts from hearts—family from families…Walls of fears—falling tears—stain—remains—trains move—up sun runs—‘cross—sailing winds—toward better sound—coming round—‘cross—better boarders—better moments—toward better days. Does objective truth—deny that government is—the provider of enjoyments—and new progress—accepts—enjoyments do become—’entitlements’ and ‘entitlements’—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—pours from barrels—pointed toward the—people? If true! Then how must—political power be—executed—or limits once—as smoke evaporates into precious air? And! The ‘universal continuation’—continues.

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

Ages past—and often we become—sponges—gifted—gregarious—bent with insight—anchors—of both worlds—one frightful and one—enchanted—and—filled-to-edge—truthful with wisdom—both scary and fearful—as wisdom—sometimes becomes you—as age—bends body—yet frees—spirit twirl…From twins—of two—a power of life sparks—and alone-never—places begin—and fixes end. When again—‘surfs-up’—and high waves—reclaim shore-reaches—and land—would rather dwell in— the Villages of Fisher-folk—than in—the Hampton’s of—Middle-bots— without spirit machines—without reasons-to-produce—and—stand with us—as wave-crash claims us—all…Because—together—we have done—everything…

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

Physics common reach—teach—uncommon words—boundless twist—of honest computation—manipulation—contrived—to derive common wisps-of-wisdom—exacted—reacted-contacted—rejected and projected—twists boundlessly—and melded into simple sense—and corrected logic…Paradigm shatters—whisper-matters—while sails—ships of storm’s tatters—up righted-ignited-provided-decided and once-fears now tears—along—with seed sowing—acknowledged knowing—either real or almost correctly—forgotten—and then remembered. 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’…

‘La Liberté éclairant le monde’

“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me:
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.”

Are we—not all travelers—scattered across—someplace-somewhere? We are not timed—or blessed—or wonderful—or gifted—or fortunate—or meant-to-be a ‘something else’— without a price-tagged-branded-commodity—of enhanced—steroidal—surgically modified—blast of cartoon fashion—or lip-stick mouths—pouted and mounted—on another pictured—perfect and—replicated glossy—imitation of sport manned—model swished—dish of corruption—with a splash—dash of hopeless—and—fanatic—fantasy. And! Does protection always equal servitude? When—brain knows—humanities’ finest moments…Love—Peace—Touch—and—Trust…No charges or gains or losses—Flashes between the realities—of reality—and those sweet spaces—just an instant prior—then lips touch—co-mingled breath—warms the cold—evening air. A rational—response—to rational—insanity. A second—when no one stares into empty space—without—noticing starlight’s—star bright—and—starships passing between—light-speed and arrival—silently appear. When everyone—everywhere—and—in-all-places— between skies—ground—realize—what we do not have—does not mean—anything… Feeling color—through both eyes—and—with our fingers. Hearing—a lover’s voice—touch our heart— before—substance becomes words—of meaning-or-reason-or-another—notion. When silence—so—completely fills all senses—with thunder and noise—and—music and notes—chaotic—or symphonic—simplicity—as duality ceases—and singularity—melts into universal polarity—and— truth.

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 shine—‘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—thrown away…Dragging–lines of— surf’s fall—surf’s rise—as waves dash high—into moonless sky—and—crash—along miles—of sandy shoreline. Sea inhale—exhale and breathe again—and time marks—nothing—when endless and everlasting.

We measure—all things known—unknown—quantities—lengths—of short—of tall—tales—of —beings—both big—and small—‘cause—we are—Spirits of Creation—Creative Critters—one-and-all.

And! Beautiful you are…

Proper Park To Cardington Square…

737Angle streets—-rectangle distance—square miles—and—city blocks properly sized—or off—a few feet or increased—from corner bar-to-corner bar…Diagonally! Distance is—decreased and while walking—less-to-cover—a start-to-an-ending—still—Proper Park-to-Cardington Square— requires quick steps—and—around forty-six minutes of—arm swings and strong breaths—to cover—to arrive or reverse—back to Proper Park and—those colors—of twirling night lights.

Cardington Square—is not real—not square. It is another park. Hills and valley—a deep trench of dirt—dirtied by oil seep—six thousand empty dumpsters—colors of—village green metal and city blue steel…Too much—too many warriors gone—forgotten war—a knowing-knowledge-store—corrected core—of coded broken crocks—lies—crooked—twirls and swirls as—crashes and caches—of not knowing—nor memory flash—matters-the-matter and still; whimsy dies—and—by sin’s survival—and—survival’s sin—grounds below sky fall—building tall—crawling now from—rock shelters and sun—short minutes—in lights of shade—made—when long shadows—ground cover—before drone—hover—disturbs our skies.

Calimesa City is fortress–built above valley keep—to seashore edge—ridges above—green streaks—lawns now—ground gone—no season change—just alter—slaughter—nature’s never sigh—not weak—never die-just-change. Sails now—not crystal power—great ships of never-steel—never real—never fill—the nevermore of skies above—and seas below—Iron Rider Ridge—‘cross Carver Bridge—stop and—ruin halfway house—and halfway ‘cross—broken- heart-or-shatter-dream—of color triple cast—all cost—all lost. Where space—spins—begins—just touch—by—small sun drops—three swirls and a twirl from heat dead—to life’s purpose of accidental motion—material—ethereal—creations-to-worship-to-like-to-love—and—to move along—again? Dancing lights—heating waves—vibrating life chance—romance—-of-starts and— beginning—the start-of-ends—exploded variations of—home—conducive to blood-fleshed creatures and—creature-selves. Created or made—from sea sludge—swamp mud—creator’s whimsy—who cares—‘we be’—we see and in-mass—we-be-just-moving-along.

Did—Nomad Gods drag life’s sweet creations—to Mars-to-Earth to others—beyond—in hinged fringes—and—in the bright light—of golden ships—of purple sails and—silent engines? Improve—or less—accidentally ordain—by the joint endeavors’ of sweet sin—rocking survival—we are alive—must be ‘Life’…We are filled-to-brim with living mischief—and the odd whimsy of god-speak  and legend—lurching forward—toward features to reverse—continue—or—destroy…Are Titans real—we feel—and create—creations-of-presences—creations-of-history—and creations-of-current-news? And! Since wars among Titans—rage—heaven’s high and length—’tis simple—why creatures create—-in images—or by—production of accidents’—industrial strengths and robotic ‘s—renovation—determines less—more than—continue—strife and strike and stupidity and suffering through little success—successfully—executed and lost…

“Behind a—‘way-out’— rear door—another ‘secret’ hatch— taking us to—the Column Room. Tessie loves— the purple scarves—and the— dotted cloth. Joana loves—the hiding places-on—and other rooms— just off the big column—and—down ‘Darker’ hall. No one comes here—anymore—except Crowman and those ones—call the ‘Hurts’. And! Not  many—of them around—since the last—oil rains. Crowman never worries—about the timing of this–because he has—never known the— timing-of-that.

‘I have seen this thing before— since the beginning of things—of days or nights—of—evenings or mornings—or when things—were—were not. I know this place like the farm—the river—when fish were fish—and—could swim right by the bait.’

‘This is the road—a hoppity-skippity-small little road—not needing a reason—a 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 up—eternal legs and starts along—the hoppity-skippity road. He stops—and the Hurts—join him. He skips—toward them—and they skip—toward him. He turns and little lights dance— just skips— in front of him. A little dance of—light—of sparkle—and little else.

From spirit mind—he said a few—words—a short sighing—a melody and—nothing much more, “Raspberry Beret—when it was—warm — nothing much mmmmor.”

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

‘Butterfly…’ No question—not statement–not fact not…just…

‘Almost Crowman,’ he almost answers,

‘I know this!

‘We Know!’

‘I have known this Sparkle!’

‘Know Spark.’

Butterfly whispers— ‘This is—this line. I—wait—and watch—and want—and need and love– you since the–End-of-Days. It is–it is—it is–a little hoppity-skippity–prayer of a little road—where ‘must begin’— begins.‘

The Hurts–laugh and so often—laughter hurts. Not this time of day and not this time.

Then Angel touches—the angel—and the—angel touches—the angel….

Light—always—touches light—Crowman almost knows—nothing just—something—does not matter-the-matter—or irritate-the-matter. Lights enable—seeing smiles and—yes—Tessie—Angels do smile. There is a time-in- time—when—Mother Nature’s golden ones do—discover other places—-where Peace almost exists.”

And! Beautiful you are…