Beyond Slicks Of Rain…

We are the goddesses, gods, witches, warlocks, wizards, magicians and creation’s creators. We are the spirit wind in the valley and the desert and ‘cross plains of grass and mountains both under the sea and rising into space. We of many names or descriptions are both feared and loved. We are Life. We are the evermore art of this evermore life.

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

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

“Let us be lovers

We’ll marry our fortunes together

I’ve got some real estate here in my bag

So we bought a pack of cigarettes

And Mrs. Wagner’s pies

And walked off to look for America”Simon and Garfunkel

Again! To be and to see the loving of loving, of hands joined-to-body, of moving of swings and wings and spirits-singing and of peaceful sighing. Creation! The Sorceress smiles and for this moment in time; ‘Tis’ good this Loving Rhyme. So! Follow this time—this Twine Rewind.

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

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

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

Please! Do not believe; when your paycheck is too small to survive without (2)+ jobs, you really deserve this ‘governmental oops’! And! When a small percentage of ‘personae’ receive billions-of-dollars for your labor with no (blood, sweet and tears) required and they deserve this? No way!

Rules have been altered and all governmental ‘oops’ are calculated—forever and for one and for all.  Systems are skewed and our American administration is our liability. Meanwhile; this error, is the ‘Government of the People and For the People’ and have ‘we’ the People, been forgotten?  

It must not intrude—on a ‘Free Market’—since it must—create that—‘Free Market’? Oops and Wowzer! The American Government creates all ‘free market rules thru Our Legislatures, enforces these rules by using our Administrative Agencies and rules may often be tested by our Courts. An Unholy Trinity—absolutely!

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

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

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

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

“If you’re going to San Francisco

Be sure to wear

Some flowers in your hair

If you’re going to San Francisco

You’re gonna meet

Some gentle people there

For those who come

To San Francisco

Summertime

Will be a love-in there

In the streets of San Francisco

Gentle people

With flowers in their hair”Scott McKenzie

Again! To be and to see the loving of loving, of hands joined-to-body, of moving of swings and wings and spirits-singing and of peaceful sighing. Creation! The Sorceress smiles and for this moment in time; ‘Tis’ good this Loving Rhyme. So! Follow this time—this Twine Rewind.

And! Beautiful you are…

My People And Steeples And Shadows…

“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, and 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.

World begins green lights, blue corn stocks across a 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 and growing large from a 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 streetlights. 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 steel reflect sunlight’s glare and deflects insults and injuries and wounds-to-destruction. And! When tucked inside gleam suits, those hidden may be Organic Inorganic or 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 landside changes and rearranges hills-to-valleys and reverse flows of 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? These are armored trains and go toward battle. Out of sight out of mind and unless this war comes our way, this war does not exist.

Paley’s watch ticks and Universal continuation continues. Our world of right now words worldwide so many too many and too often, are persecuted imprisoned suffer sub-human disadvantages and are killed for religious reasons and 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 and from ‘cross this sea travelers see candles bright across 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 will 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 a 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…

Cymbals To Symbols Return…

Stand outside the rain-side storm. Watch washed sands and dune walls wet as water-waves mix and crash against shoreline in salt and foam and disappear quickly within the rain and wind. World team and spirited robots, we all bear the barest of notional influence and the together of worlds await everyone.

As the piper plays, children dance into this ragged sorted night and as they dance the Goddess flashes and those dashes of darkness and thunder disturb the claps of little hands and rings joined songs and laughter only as children laugh or angels sing. The calls of pipers and of drummers’ thunder and the sorting days of Coven calls and repeat the roll of rolls and the answered ones again dance; behind and beside, the players of flutes and of the simple dancing songs.

Deep Communion with the Clown. Watch and dodge ‘Wiz-Bangs’ bright and step inside the fright of night. Barbed-wire reach beyond this ditch and as we climb, embrace the Witch. The truth is about speaking as love touch rides those flashes. Wiz-bang deep to lip kiss life sweets, asleep. ‘Love is an exception to what we usually see. Watch the umbrella two-to-share. Arms around first shoulder and then to waist. Lean each toward each other. A cheek and a brush of mouth-to-skin. Walking! Hair-to-hair and hip-to-hip. And! Ready we, the mother-ship…

Love is the only power that matters-the-matter. Spirit Fleshed and Body Spirited in Time and the distance between heaven spaced and drops of rain. ‘Tis good love, this place, this now, this then and again across reaches and spaces beyond time measure. Moments eternal. Love eternally an internal an external and forever now then forever eternally ours. Without-within as together we begin and end and begin again. Face touch and heart thump and we know for a moment the twirl we belong to-two-too…’And! ‘Tis good to again belong.

‘Daylight breaks the night today. Night time takes the fear away. Sing-Song now and Sing-Song then. Let the counting time begin. As we fall away and fall away and begin these songs again.’

And! Beautiful you are…

Beneath Many Moons Tonight…

We, with adoring attention, create robots small, bundled rows of life about Earthrise and beneath Moon sparkle still altered-still same and always twirl-spaced ‘cross time bridged and rhyme. We inspire desire and require sweet diversity. Until shaped we shift created life, a fabricated slip and tanked in agile spark from womb-song-to-light-then-back-again-to-two-removed and started again.

We would have this no other way!

Genetic profiles whirling webs from calculations inherited and dancing traits and the merging of urging, originate the beginnings of tiny automata and mirrors of images and with simple complexity, children of love are born complete with slivers of magic beasties, portions of golden hearts and short stops between Eternal Spirits’ crossings. Blood dancers and double bodies and whirling twirls with once slower motions now come constant as light races day bright into night.

We would have this no other way!

The evangels of lofted Deities’ notions as something unusual crawls our way. Those haves may have half twirling tales or songs or other psalms of other notions that those highest Gods of swirl cannot contain life and the wag-of-wiggle of shaping-shifters and Robots are We. And! Those ghosted machines may also be those spirited Us. Tiny speck-to-magic-witch and we survive all to dance life across those many spaces of races and kiss storm stars known or stars to remember and costars to forget.

We would have this no other way!

Dare we trace or dare-we-risk a reach inside spaces of Code-genetics and count the current streams to spin or craft to be or to leave the untouched alone. Why not touch to feel? Some today’s we destroy both the of wonder of wonder and sometimes we die in the fearing of fear. Sometimes, eternal spirits and the realm of nonsense physical do confuse and bewilder or cure the magic of life and the mystery of death.

We would have this no other way!

Images create as mirrors drift from mortal moment to immortal spirit with motions from nothing to something and again back to those nothings of something that may have almost started or stopped and started all over again. Would have and could have and should have may have already been here or gone over and over, ad infinitum. The life, both of, Robot Creators and Creator Robots forever last and through our eternal stretch and scratch will survive…

We would have this no other way!

And! Beautiful you are…

Wishing You Gentle Winds and Freedom…

This is the world of living things—where a lamb does sleep within the safe touch of lion strength and length and the roar of peace is the call of timeless harmony and another rhythm of another rock as stones roll toward valley deep and…Where no kills are justified and justice crosses no blind alley or fear or tear touches courted reasons to ‘shoot-not-shoot’—but to speak in the words of flesh same and blood red and compete completely through both understanding and care.

These are rich structures without form. These towers are buildings without prestige. 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.

“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

Touch lips and finger kiss your lips to mine then time space while moments’ race. Civil layers never die. Tradition slips, and graciousness is forgotten. So are whirling dances and twirling songs. And! In Silence 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.

“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

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’? 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.’

We are not creations of memorial mistakes and made markers by ‘bombs early light’ and gun flashes as bullets night-fly to shatter dreams and hopes and pride as life start/stops too soon and family through sorrow also flies away to something just beyond reaches and the notions of together days of tomorrow’s futures and memories of yesterday’s today. Our children and we—as child-speak and drink and think and dancing songs and rhythm beats of drum and spirit and smile; do search the identity of identity search as flesh survives despite the spirit’s knowing of the knowledge of a universe of time and space. We crawl toward accepting the acceptance of fate and the together strength in our cave homes. We also run toward the individual hope of ourselves without shells and reasons to become other than the self of us and me and you and I and justice time…

“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. 

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

And! Beautiful you are…

Celestial Circles…

We are all Children of this Universe and We have the Right to be Everywhere!

‘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.”

There are stellar smoking rings of nothing in a cosmos of anything. There are gateways into portal slips and distance trips when stars come together and never collide. We tell of the sometimes vast separation quickly traversed between quick inhales and slow exhales. We appear through open doors tucked behind grey colored clouds and blue skies. Now! Where are we in this most distant place away from Earth-ship and home? 

Shangri-la and immorality and vipers, oh my! We are the confirmation of far-flung people. Demigods could have decided to create women and men in countless locations about Sirius and Mars and Earth and back again? Our rulers and our dominated and our voices and our religions have rewritten our starting points in so many places and in so many ‘might have been’ accidents that our truth and fiction has blurred the start of lost and the loss of start.  And! Still the rest is eternally approaching. ‘And! 

Why do routines and understanding collapse the possibility of peaceable processes? Inspirations rely on just how to reach and where you are as flare striae before haze stinks and eyes burn. Tears and fears and by the warps of notions, peace ceases just prior to small recollections developing into nice content and bright smiles. Just bump-bangs away or a simple sail set-to-wind rail balance ‘neath ruined ‘the bridges of seven’ or on one more earth-fall underneath one more sky. Dwellings to construct and caves to clean and for a little while landing life reaches mountain homes. Be better than missile’s explosions and sites too far gone to search for hazardous sanctuaries. Perhap a faraway chance for another dance before smoking tears and tomorrow’s sorrow. Death and peace and good Life. Countless routes forgotten, recalled, then gone. And! As long as I breathe, I Hope.

And! Still the rest is eternally approaching.

Misusing the right of the Workers-of-this-World is a Crime against Mankind. Similar to liquidation, opportunists destroy life and the freedom of people everywhere. Are we free if we are wage-vassals, still?

We are all Children of this Universe and We have the Right to be Everywhere!

And! Beautiful you are…

Home Waves Ahead…

A universe of angular momentum is turbulent from dust to black holes. Notches of rotation are slight, are massive and just happen. What splendid adhesive preserves the whirl-of-the-twirl?

We and the dust of us are voyagers. We are scattered ‘cross places of everywhere? We are not timed or blessed or wonderful or gifted or fortunate or meant-to-be ‘something else.’ The dust of us is without a price-tagged-branded-commodity of enhanced steroidal surgically modification. We create cartoon fashions and lip-stick mouths pouted and picture perfect when replicated glossy imitations of sport models swish as a dish of corruption and a wiggle of splash-dash hope and fanatic fantasy.

We build twelve inch wide maple shelves inclined and staggered up a soft and painted wall. Upon this vertical presentation, we place flea market choices, colored jars filled with copper and stones discovered. We decorate and we change as season alters sight and sound and scent.

We travelers internally detect or obtain from ‘reliable sources’ a sorta source sorted through search or lurch internally through structures only to reach and teach or bleach amid many throngs of wrongs as ‘sure truth’ is torn from snow-bright-right to lies-lily-white. Deceits detected or accepted or rejected or corrected from inside-out applicability is not workable until altered internally and externally prior to exposed or imposed upon the confusion of mass-squeak-speak. What a righteous cycle; when whispers, smiles and sighs and quiet nods could or would be better?

“So, does that mean we’ve got to rest contented

And say, ‘That’s how it is and always must be,’

And spurn the brimming glass for what’s been emptied

Because we’ve heard it’s better to go thirsty?” by Bertolt Brecht

This time of days of times ago and today, may the old man vision touch those other ones and whisper, “Not this time and never this time, will our children ever go to war.” Others know that this time of times will not be the time for dead families and metal touches-to-body-madness. For these flashes in time, fighters are not compulsory.

A rational response to a rational insanity. The whole world appreciates humanities’ finest minutes. “Love and Peace and Touch and Trust” with no controls or advances or imaginations. Just connecting the realities of reality and sensing those sweet spaces, just an instant before lips touch with co-mingled breath and the cold nightfall warms. A second when no one stares into empty space without noticing starlight’s star bright and star-ships’ passing between light-speed and arrival, silently appear.

When all and sundry realizes that what we do not have-does not mean anything. When hearing a lover’s voice touch our heart before substance becomes words of meaning-or-reason-or-another notion. When silence completely fills all senses with rumble and clatter and music and notes, chaotic or symphonic simplicity. Then duality ceases and singularity melts into universal polarity and truth.

The love-of-man and the love-of-woman must not be divided by the capital of greed. Consider! All are fashioned by the equal blending of us and beyond the borders of a-wherever-boarder for non-reasons and steeped in-the-fallacy of color, big guns, ‘atomic destruction’ and the perpetual diatribe of isolation, individuality and fear. Remember that we have the right to be Everywhere.

Love reminds us of the equality of equals! Of woman and man and the spirits of all trapped and living sentient sentences inside body while minding body.

And! Beautiful you are…

 

Imagination and Wrinkles in Space…

“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;
‘because we drained her blood, then forgetting her face
to hide from everyone” by Draconian

Imagine! If we could create wrinkles in space-time, we may be able to manage to bring a distant location much closer to us, so it would be possible to reach it without breaking the light speed barrier.

Swirling whirls of smoky fires to cook and fog mist touches life from mountain high to valleys of twirling-spirits and folks-of-flesh spreading across a triangle called Kalints. This may be considered life or love’s memory and the almost real of a now to then and back again. Creators speak and touch canvas with lines and circles a dot of dash as songs play and laughter reaches to diners’ corner and open doors call to inside secrets of ink motions and canvas wet with colors and the scent of orange and green and brown and yellow and perfume inside a night of air and dare and wear and fare or the future of moments again without the layers of walls climbed and discarded.

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 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.”

Abusing the rights of the Workers-of-this-World is a Crime against Humanity. Like Genocide, speculators destroy life and the freedom of people everywhere on this sweet planet. Are we free if we are wage-slaves, anyway?

‘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.”

This garden is hilltop high and we come here in season to plant flowers and remember some time ago with voices today. Tree lined field already picked and plowed of life crosses path resting inside good woods as we look toward cattle and fence and trees and fields and a creek bed dry except for trickles of little waters caught by pools and deposited by rains covering this hill and the valley just last evening.

Consider the everyday failure of notions to grasp the chance of peaceful portions. Depends on how-where you be when flash streaks with smoke reeks as eyes burns in the tears and fears and by the warps of notions, peace cease just 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 ruined ‘bridges of seven’ or on another land-fall beneath another sky. Homes to build and 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, a chance for another and another dance before smoking tears or tomorrow-sorrow. Death and peace and good! Life! Ways forgotten remembered and gone. And! While I breathe, I Hope.

‘And the men who hold high places
Must be the ones who start
To mold a new reality
Closer to the heart
Closer to the heart
The blacksmith and the artist
Reflect it in their art
They forge their creativity
Closer to the heart
Closer to the heart.

Philosophers and ploughmen
Each must know his part
To sow a new mentality
Closer to the heart
Closer to the heart
You can be the captain
I will draw the chart
Sailing into destiny
Closer to the heart’ by Rush

Speculative Capitalism is both non-social and immoral. It is an unproductive financial system that channels greed into speculation and usury. It is irrational and unstable and a Crime against Humanity. Oops! There goes the right to: Life, Liberty and our pursuit of Happiness…And! Due to this Incredible greed, the collapse of Capitalism is inevitable. Crisis investing causes the ‘markets, about this fine world to fluctuate; up-down and all around…A hundred plus points up or down—causes non-productive investors to jump up-down and all around. She or he becomes nervous and begins to whimsy buy and sell. Using sound financial practices becomes mute and the destruction of many billions and lives ensue.

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. ‘And! Why not?

We are all Children of this Universe and We have the Right to be Everywhere!

And! Beautiful you are…

A Lower Winter’s Light…

The word “solstice” is derived from the Latin words “sol” (sun) and “sistere” (to stand). Winter solstice is also known as “The Day the Sun Stands Still.”

Goddess and Gods dance inside snow fall, desert sands, hills, moors and within soft lights tonight. Beiwe and her daughter Beiwe-Neia, Tonantzin, Bheru, Horus, Louhi, watch while the Kallikantzaros count colander holes and return to somewhere underground.

And! Maybe once or twice a modest breach in our Universal Vault emerges and, on that star-filled night, magic happens. The ‘Witches of Nature’ gaze upon this Worldly-Twirl and pause for a second to watch lights dance across the heavens. For that moment they smile, and one-plus-one equals two.

And! Beautiful you are…

Genetic Contours And Spinning Complications…

“Academic freedom is very important—there are risks when it is occurring in places that don’t have that academic freedom, giving companies or governments the power to shut down research they don’t approve of” by Emily Bender.

Are we beyond the physical figures we virtually appreciate? An Eternal Spirit is a forever being with great substance and knowledge and wisdom and the mind of us…We are the illusions of all, and we are more than less. Existence is not the riddle of life. It is the living of this day. We are not born to die. We are not created by accident or purpose or reason or rhyme. We are life and we follow universal space  between drops of rain and amongst flakes of snow.

From genetic profiles and spinning webs come calculations inherited and dancing traits and the merging of urging begin the beginnings of tiny robots’ mirrors of images and with simple complexity children of love are born. They arrive complete with slivers of magic beasties, portions of golden hearts and brief stops between breaks for Eternal Spirits to slower whirling twirls and again become blood dances and double bodies…

We spin exactly right of our whales with horns and the unicorns of ages ago and futures from earth. We live inside the vast shadows of a trillion suns of light and night and moons’ silvery twirls against the magnificence of between times when drenched in golden dreams and diamond wolves of today’s day-night. Not a middle riddle called Life…

Walk these magic trails long before bombs turn soil red and chase air away from ground. We dance to piper sounds between green cliffs of magic and the forever of Ever-lands. Gods smile and we; you and I smile back and with boundless energies. We are the blood of substance for a minute. Then we rerun begin-again as now, and as then we go.

Do we determine our own destiny both as spirits and as the blood of flesh? Angry Gods do not exist. Angry men matter little except to the scrubs of scurry selves, being just before the spirits of after self and spinning matter of expressions. Rude the kings and queens of foolish speak when angels fall toward earth bound’s trivial moments and gods require no explanations and fear rules these angled angels.

With care we manufacture robots tiny, bundled rows of life about Earthrise and underneath Moon-sparkle; still altered, still same and always twirl-spaced across time bridged and rhyme. We inspire desire and require sweet diversity. Until shaped we shift created life a fabricated slip and tanked in agile spark from womb-song-to-light-then-back-again-to-two again. Would have this no other way required!

Dare we touch or dare to reach the inside spaces of code-genetics and count the current streams to spin to craft to be or to leave the untouched alone. Why not touch to feel? Some today’s we destroy both the wonder of wonder and sometimes we die in the fearing of fear. Sometimes, eternal spirits and the realm of nonsense physical do confuse and bewilder or cure the magic of life and the mystery of death.

The evangels of lofted higher Gods’ notion as something novel crawls our way those must haves have half twirling tales or songs of knowing knowledge that those highest Gods of swirl cannot contain life and the wag-of-wiggle of shaping-shifters and Androids are we.’ And! Oh, those ghosted machines are those spirited us. Tiny specks-to magic witch we survive all, to dance life across those many spaces of races and kiss storm stars known or stars remembered and forgotten.

Images created as mirrors reflect mortal moments to immortal spirits with motions from nothing to something and again back to those nothings of something that may have almost started or stopped and started again. ‘Would have or could have or should have’ may have been here or gone over and over ad infinitum. Life both of Robot creators and Creator robots forever last and through our eternal stretch and scratch, they too survive.

So! Let us watch those winged and those with fur and feet-of-four or those in deep oceans or sand or tiny against the ground. Womb songs we sing and as we, they eternity be. Eternal Spirits all.

And! Beautiful you are…