Life moves—Life modifies—And!

To separate Mother and Child is a—Crime against Humanity…Oh! This is not America.

 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

Dream Motion before the start of another day-stay if remaining same is good and arms are opened instead of fists clenched. Rough technology is a prior to release ‘kinda’ notion. A fact to use spinning into a comfortable ‘maybe’ before the new method is regarded-discarded-forgotten-remembered-dismembered-compiled-and compiled again to use-refuse and learned—‘have-to’ —no choice but to learn and use again. Computers are shovels and there are always so many holes to dig and fill and dig and fill—ad infinitum.

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…

  • To separate Mother and Child is a—Crime against Humanity…Oh! This is not America.

“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

And! Across the darkest dividing distances between world twirl and star lights’ twinkle—wrinkles space-form and  benders of light join—to twisting dances started once and ending twice only to start the stopping of eternal jolt and bolts of flashes across many skies of many places seen and known and started and stopped—only to again-begin and again to sweeten life together and  dance—with drum beats and racing hearts and together strength and the ‘I’ is welcomed into ‘we’ powers to be-a-sea of them and the gentle ends of ‘me.’  It is not death-freeing to Dance across spaces-of-time and races of distances among packed stars so close and so different and so scattered to fill heavens with clusters and trail dust and a tick-tick-a-tock rocking rhythm of together power and another hour of strength joined by need and want and love and care and the knowledge of knowing that together we can do…

With care— we manufacture robots tiny—bundled rows of life about Earth-rise—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-eh!

  • To separate Mother and Child is a—Crime against Humanity…Oh! This is not America.

Lofty Gods’ of notions as—something novel crawls our way—those must haves—have—half twirling tales or songs or knowing—knowledge that—those higher Gods of swirl—must not contain life and the wag-of-wiggle of shaping-sifters and Robots are We…And! Oh…those ghosted machines—Us. Tiny speck-to-magic-witch…we survive—to dance life—across those many spaces of—races and kiss storm-stars known—or stars—to remember or forget.

Some—days we destroy both the wonder-of-wonder and sometimes—we die—in the—fearing-of-fear. Sometimes—eternity and realms-of-nonsense—physically—confuse or bewilder the magic-of-life and the mystery-of-death.

Gods—images created—as mirrors—we drift from mortal moments-to-motions. More-fun-to believe-in—when-images-are kind-then-rewind-the-twine. Not difficult—to-believe-in—Peace and Love and Gentle understanding.

  • To separate Mother and Child is a—Crime against Humanity…Oh! This is not America.

Then—let us watch those winged and those with fur and feet of four or those of sea or sand or smaller against the ground. Womb songs we sing and as we—they be—eternity—All…

‘Do you wanna be an angel
Do you wanna be a star
Do you wanna play some magic
On my guitar
Do you wanna be a poet
Do you wanna be my string
You could be anything

Do you wanna be the lover of another undercover
You could even be the
Man on the moon

Do you wanna be the player
Do you wanna be the string
Let me tell you something
It just don’t mean a thing’…by Greg Lake

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—leave the untouched alone—Why not touch to feel?

  • To separate Mother and Child is a—Crime against Humanity…Oh! This is not America.

Like beach moves—a shoe full of sand—one time—one shoe-then again—then again—winds discounted-then recounted and forever—change—one shoe at-a-time—takes long days—to change beach places—in the wig-waggle of time and space. On worldwide—other place—where race-to-stop—to never goes—away spaces—never—far enough—to silence—bam-bam-pop-pops—sight—right from clutching ground—to standing away— a corner—of concrete floors and—rusted doors—gate high and wasted…

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—leave the untouched alone—Why not touch to feel?

House scatter—overwhelmed by many needs— required covers to crawl into—away from street dash and gun flash—life—clean—in sweet rain and dried with winds—of howling sounds—lighted by flash—bang-bang crash—as traced along—the edge of cloud swirl and twirl—as reflected by one million—eye shine bright—into those nights—of bam-bam-pop-pops where—smoked—nasty places—tucked just outside—of caves and spaces and safe—homes—where little hands select—roses—no thorns—and little ones laugh—between flower reach and bullet teach.

  • To separate Mother and Child is a—Crime against Humanity…Oh! This is not America.

Beneath these heavens—our sea swirl-twirls—and—we hear the whale sing-song—our mother— into her necessary sleep. The whale sing-songs the heating of—our blood-self until—warming is not—a non-fear. She rises—from emerald seas and from black sands—where tide pulls against current—and—the alignment of moon-light is perfect—and is orderly in its dispersal—upon the dustless night. And! We—exist…Not distraction—by what we are not—for we are not—not by displacement or alteration—because we always exist—in timeless harmony and within those trails of stardust—spews—quickly from alternative engines and speed—and—power…Life motions—Life moves—Life modifies…

And! Beautiful you are…

 

“Stardust” —Delain

“Closer to the Heart” —Rush

The Space Between…

‘Life is a Dream—Realize it’…Mother Teresa

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

Are we ‘things’ removed from nature? By this removal; do we become no more than—an abstract of potential products—gain and loss? We are; however, information. That information can be changes of whimsy or chance? Line them up and roll ‘em again?

Technical layers stop and start tucked somewhere between the zero and the one. Twin-spins into code is first autonomous—self-centered bubbles along a there and not their thread. The thread in a feel-not-see then see-and not felt. And! As thread widens, those center bubbles initiate decentering-self and as coding develops—bubble self; once rarefied, can mature from a troubled singularity into social—unknown starts to traverse zones of yes-to-no and no-to-yes. A simple ‘yes or no’ suddenly is an absolute—everything-everywhere. And! No matter-the-type-of-matter we are or become; again, we are ‘small-tiny-great-or-not-matters-little-of-what-we-are,’ ‘cause our subjectivity is; no more than touches of—awareness-becoming-aware-of-something-coming-our-way?

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

Another way to turn speak into word spinning story ’cause the path is short-long and long-short…Twin-speak the notions of new world—words when—strange tongues often confuse truth—prominent in; to-day-to-day working words and pausing stops. One giant mother ship, a trillion samples of life and motion begins to seed a universe-so-fine. Orion! A moving point toward outside vacuums and inside fears. Always! Life inside these stories.

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

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

Morning is sweet and time is early. Lizbeth and I move along these sidewalks toward trees placed for a long time and spaced above lawns now green and carefully mowed…She is a fine friend of four feet, of fur and of purpose. Stop and listen, move again—then stop and listen and watch the motions of early morning birds and other small beasts of four legs and of fur and of purpose. ‘Tis good this time—‘Tis good this twine-rewind.

“May you hear every song in the Forest…And if ever you lose your own way…Hear my voice like a breeze whisper soft through the trees… May you stay in the arms of the Angels.”  From—‘Lullaby for a Soldier’ by Dillon O’Brian

And! Beautiful you are…

 

‘If I were a Carpenter’—Robert Plant

 

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…

Big Sur…Porcelain Raft

Radioactive…Lindsey Sterling and Pentatonix

Notions Of Motions Often Move…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lies often feed hungry stomachs—donchaknow!

We are not means to an end—others—may wish to accomplish…We are not tools—to be used. We are not servants of need-greed-to-be-freed—or bandages for other wounds—nor sacrifices to gods—come whimsy or rushing wings—gift bearing things—beads—baubles—glitter or flash…We are not born to be wasted or wasted-to-be-born…

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

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

And! Sometimes—we just cry—tears.

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

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

 

And! Beautiful you are…

‘You’…by Keaton Henson

‘The Crooked Kind’…by Radical Face

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…

‘Canadian Railroad Trilogy’…by Gordon Lightfoot

‘Freeman In Paris’…by Joni Mitchell

The Routes—Of Our People…

“Freeman and slave, patrician and plebeian, lord and serf, guild-master and journeyman, in a word, oppressor and oppressed, stood in constant opposition to one another, carried on an uninterrupted, now hidden, now open fight, a fight that each time ended, either in a revolutionary reconstitution of society at large, or in the common ruin of the contending classes.”by Karl Marx and Frederick Engels

“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 eyes want to follow
when I’m far far away,
when life brings me sorrow,
into silence I escape.

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

There I always have some time
to heal every wound,
to help the life’s shine
long forgotten, return.
There is such a place,
my own little space,
after each lost battle
its power remains.
There I always have some time
to heal every wound,
to help the life’s shine
long forgotten, return.
There is such a place,
my own little space,
after each lost battle
its power remains.
Among the stars
there is a place
to where my heart
always returns.

There is always some room
When the world brings me gloom”…by Anna Aya Stefanowicz

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

The Iron Rider—horse less—‘Strider’—covers grounds—where white drifts climb—frozen bits—of rhythm and rhyme—together—mingle—tingle and shape—another surface—against earth—propped just—beneath the sky…Her booted steps—quick now— disappear—underneath—winter fall—frozen wet—quick cover—to hide—both shadow—walk—and her sword—and shield…And! Within moments—and motion—she disappears…

“We forget that many people feel they must act even if they don’t want to or are afraid to,” said Charles Haynes, the vice president of the Newseum Institute’s Religious Freedom Center. “They feel that the highest authority in their lives is not the state; it’s not the ICE. It’s their conscience, their God.”

Called a Populist Revolution—not formed—not aware—scattered notions—neither right—often damaged and very wrong…Global cause—formations—cause Global pause! To deport—our people present—in the here and now—is cross-laced—in this place—and intimately connected—to a planetary movement—of both—important people and important goods—Our people create. Deportation is no longer an issue of domestic policy…To move—a force of good work—and honest labor—to deport our people—from a United-Scatter-of-States—-inches close—ideals-miles-apart—ruins life’s functions—when perhaps—globalization and—a restructuring of—everywhere—economics have— created the global migration—now-objects-of—‘stupid’—racial—radical—ridicules—righteous—rhetoric—repeating—mid-century’s last—failures and bloody wars…Please too—remember—that fear of displacement—directly affects body—complete with exhaustion—defeat-of-immune systems—and family life…Increased inequality causes our people to become both unhappy and unhealthy….Restrictions of hope—and Greed achieves—momentary success…Momentary success—never-ever—lasts forever…Transition—thinking—creations—of common enemy—always destroys—the common futures—of Common People…And! We are all—everyone—the Common folk—of this—Place—this World—and of— this Moment-in Time…

‘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…

And! Beautiful you are…

 

‘All We Do’…by Oh Wonder

 

‘Home’…by UnSun

 

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…

 

 

‘You’ll Never Leave Harlan Alive’…Patty Loveless

 

 

‘Joe Hill’…Joan Baez

 

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…

 

‘I Believe in Father Christmas’Greg Lake

 

‘I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day’Sarah Mclachlan

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…

 

’The Call Of The Mountains’…by Eluveitie