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…

‘Never Enough’…Epica

‘Still You Turn Me On’…Greg Lake


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…

‘The Rhythm of Love’…Scorpions

‘White Dove’…Scorpions

Simplicity of Enlightenment…

Log Bench Viewing‘Carnival’

“Well, I’ve walked these streets
A virtual stage, it seemed to me
Makeup on their faces
Actors took their places next to me

Well, I’ve walked these streets
In a carnival, of sights to see
All the cheap thrill seekers vendors and the dealers
They crowded around me

Have I been blind have I been lost
Inside myself and my own mind
Hypnotized, mesmerized by what my eyes have seen?

Well, I’ve walked these streets
In a spectacle of wealth and poverty
In the diamond markets the scarlet welcome carpet
That they just rolled out for me

And I’ve walked these streets
In the madhouse asylum they can be
Where a wild-eyed misfit prophet
On a traffic island stopped and he raved of saving me

Have I been blind, have I been lost
Inside myself and my own mind
Hypnotized, mesmerized by what my eyes have seen

Have I been wrong, have I been wise
To shut my eyes and play along
Hypnotized, paralyzed by what my eyes have found
By what my eyes have seen
What they have seen?

Have I been blind
Have I been lost
Have I been wrong
Have I been wise
Have I been strong
Have I been hypnotized, mesmerized by what my eyes have found
In that great street carnival

Have I been blind
Have I been lost
Have I been wrong
Have I been wise
Have I been strong
Have I been hypnotized, mesmerized by what my eyes have found
In that great street carnival

In that carnival”…by Natalie Merchant

Light fall and darkness—touched street and covered brick—crack and moonless crackles. Colloid collisions—to scented secrets—and motions—without sounds. We are—the kings and the queens—of these streets. This city—is our city. World Spins—with seven moons—two largest—two larger—one large—and three—from small to smallest…All to rotate ’round about—a single sun of bright light—and at distance—blue cast and purple night…Rafters here—sailors of Green Seas—Emerald green—storm’s high—ten foot crests—and set-way-back—stone homes—and shingled stores.

On a semi-dry ‘kinda—gentle cool evening—when sun dip—quickly becomes night slip—darkness folds into half moon and Harvest time begins…Shift then—habits and ways—allowing for empty space—of balance—of restore. Darkness seeps—slowly creeps—into day—end bright…Night fill—lighted places—and turn-on bulbs—share grays—shades many—always simulate and always fail—to cheer the sun. Our lives are fluid—liquid pour—consume—replace—replenish—and then—recall—someplace else—some other—time—or—some other—rhyme. And! Rain does pour from sky—onto roof—through spirals both—short or long—gutters or just eaves—from leaves’ soak—or arcs—golden tricks of night light—inside—as outside water—splashes ground—collects—sidewalk—flooded cracks—into pools of wet—and of—mud carvings—and pavement soaks.

Still here—beneath these heavens—our sea—swirl-twirls and we hear—whale sing-song our mother— into-necessary-sleep. Whale—sing-songs—the heating of blood-self—until warming is—non-fear. She rises from—emerald seas and from—black sands—where tide pulls current— and—lines-of-moon-light are perfect—and—disappear into the—dustless night. Now! Touch— the Dancing One—the Witch of life—and taste—her creations…Goddesses do create—Heavens-Earths and Moons-Suns—while passing—Spirits-to-flesh—and back again…Spirits do form—and substance—is free… Correct notes!—Pipers of those—silver flutes—held ‘gainst heart ‘beeps’ strong—as fair—seafarers often pass—others-into-light—as others ‘cross— star-streams-to-suns—above sea and beyond sky…

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

And! Beautiful you are…

‘First Light’…by Lindsey Stirling


‘Carnival’…by Natalie Merchant


Flip-Flop And Vacuum…

4583“Hey you out there in the cold
Getting lonely getting old
Can you feel me?
Hey you standing in the aisles
With itchy feet and fading smiles
Can you feel me?
Hey you don’t help them to bury the light
Don’t give in without a fight

Hey you out there on your own
Sitting naked by the phone
Would you touch me?
Hey you with your ear against the wall
Waiting for someone to call out
Would you touch me?
Hey you, would you help me to carry the stone?
Open your heart, I’m coming home

But it was only fantasy
The wall was too high
As you can see
No matter how he tried
He could not break free
And the worms ate into his brain

Hey you, out there on the road
Always doing what you’re told
Can you help me?
Hey you, out there beyond the wall
Breaking bottles in the hall
Can you help me?”…by Roger Waters

And! Still the flip-flop shriek—wind sound—slips round—colder spaces between—broken brick corner—and crumbled mortar—time aged and weather worn—and–since-time-began—nature is never fond of vacuum. Crowman stumbles—sandal worn strap—from right side notion—of footwear—broken—a thousand years ago—causes flip-flap noise—skyward shrieks—bombers ‘cross—inside clouds—so thick from sky-to-almost-ground—as to hide nose rounds—fired—as jumps—loud then quietly—as pronounced—as gone… Statues—broken—some scattered round—park-of-lost—times—before the mime’s danced—unbroken and bending to—purpose—unfounded-unknown—or lost with—the rhymes of times—recorded-forgotten—and gone.

Arrives—those machined boxes—machine-sweet and together—in minds of same or alternates—where we twirl—the whirl and call the laugh—or—two—as boxes open and—away we—they separate into—some thing-or-less or—the loneliness of crowd—bridges twin screw moments—of those spaces-of-time— without seconds. And! We—search blood and find–taste good—in mingle-tingle moments—touch-amazing—touch not those—imagined sources of—unnecessary wariness—and one—is another brief—the flashes together spread—the separate into—singularity—no more than once… Feel intimacy—of rhythm-or-rhyme—as touches—speak hides deep—inside the formality—of syntax creep and syntax crawl—where ear-here—hears echoes bury—idiom not—conveyed by—dictionary’s space—between word-speak and why…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. Still! Sweet Witches-of-Creation—smile—womb-spun life—comes and goes—without road-speak and without—interstate shriek…

Twilight—Dawn—departure gates—to swirl through—go-to-spaces—-between places—both here or-there-or-back-again—to hear-to fear-to find—to die or to—live again—in places without time—signs-in-parts—or sums-to-hold-again…Ecliptic twirl—galaxy ‘cross—spaces when composite—forms appear-to-disappear—Serpent speak and Eagle reach—Ophiuchus—holder-or- bold—once again—Quetzalcoatl boys—and—fair Gaia girls—wander star-gates—through and touch-find-found—reaches—useless rhythms and trouble—times. Ophiuchus high stands— above sun—rises-feet-crossed—Galactic wide and planetary—substance filled—from brim-to-rim and back-again…

Our nature runs—with or from—the many or the few…See often through—curved ceilings of doorway—when curved light enters—twenty-one windows round—openings through—to escape places or—leave regions. Still! More spirit than—body proper—’til chemicals—those-of-doubt or-satisfaction body rule—self ending sometime—in time—without reasons to be—except—a rhythm to—complete. We are—the daughters—and—the sons-of-earth—and of—the starry skies. Our history–alive—simple and true—except when—suppressed—through layers—distortion or—flashes of fears and—tears…We are the eternity of spirits—never having—to begin—and—never ending. Such is—the sweetness of life.

“The circle safely closed—the web building starts—the markers of builders old and builders new. Star Guide—folded into original shape— until it is—again required and opened to read and follow—‘cross sky-bridge….Bang-Bang-Bang and let the game begin—again…‘Tis’ good this Loving Rhyme. So! Follow this Time—this Twine—Re-wind. And! While I breathe—I Hope…”

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Hey You’…written by Roger Waters—Performed by “Smooth Jazz All Stars”

Sea Salt And Twine…

744“I counted the letters. There were exactly a hundred of them. I thought this must be important. Why should there be a hundred letters? Haltingly, I tried the word aloud. It sounded like a heavy wooden object falling downstairs, boomp-boomp-boomp, step after step. Lifting the pages of the book, I let them fan slowly by my eyes. Words, dimly familiar but twisted all awry, like faces in a funhouse mirror, fled past, leaving no impression on the glassy surface of my brain. I squinted at the page. The letters grew barbs and rams’ horns. I watched them separate, each from the other, and jiggle up and down in a silly way. Then they associated themselves in fantastic, untranslatable shapes, like Arabic or Chinese.”…from ‘The Bell Jar’ by Sylvia Plath

Lengths—knotted-note—brine soak and rope—twists —candy-cane twines—without white-reds—color dead—dark from baked-suns—and—sea-salt’s—rhythm and rhyme—over and under—time. Sometimes—the timing—of dancing words—seashells and wind—dusting shorelines—rhyme. Sometimes—V-shape flights—great shadows bound—northward—toward stops and starts—marshes of Horicon—and then again—until touchdown is Home. And! Great ships—straight lined—from—dock-safety-to-sea—tide-high-be—and free—bound southward—toward sea-wide reach—below right beach—and around the African Horn or into—the Orinoco Flow…

At time same—Starship starts—slow move-motioned—straight lined—from safety slot—tucks of—home port—gentle slid and simple ride—Year’s light-race-space—outbound-to-leave—blow leaf reach—and—careful teach—that travels’ dust rush—touches—light winds—riding shores—here-and-there—and everywhere—skies beneath—the far above—heaven’s cross winds—light’s speed or lesser sails—‘star-bright—or star-light—down Nebraska’s—highway—sky-way—before dawn’s—misty arcs—or Denver’s distance—night-light…

She said—Scorpion shapes—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.

Sunshine’s understanding—of star-ship’s search—deeply go—inside heated globes—round sources—of death-life—life-death—and—gravity—things-holding-wings—globes of mother-ships—many times ‘cross Universes—both small and great—combined with magic glue—crystal twirls and Witches’ swirls…And! Equations speak concisely—formed from clutter speak—into quantitative models—derived and survived from—fury storms and qualitative impressions. Weigh—the Ways-and means—often far before—human thoughts—mediate the distances among—perceptions—laced biochemically—senses five—to reach six-seven-or eight—and reach—hand stretch—inside sunlight’s core—not to feel the burn—but just-to-learn…

Teach-speak now—and explain—a cosmic giggle-wiggle—as slashes—dashes—dots and lots—are only heard and never seen—have been ‘round—about this universal gash—and back again. Seek-the safety keep—without that—number sleep—and twin-spin—hieroglyphic’s deep—into—poetic speak—that trance and dance—to learn—to turn and—to almost burn—again…Vacuum’s void—avoid—an empty space—as often counting—does come alive—dusts-of many—particles—do swirl or twirl into shape—into mass—from nothing-into-something—then into unseen—not seen and also—never was—or will ever-be again.

Lives—gathering together and—strength—of one or two or many more—than them or us—or we—be—power of scatters—no rules followed—no moral folly—or man rules—called God speak…For those ‘world words’—are songs of death—of control—of fiction—to suffer swift—lies against Spirit—Speak and Life. Women Love…Men Love…Love is Perfection—is Touch—is Peace—is Spirit—is Song …Sweetness—‘gainst canvas—lines and circles dance—and—soft songs play—and—laughter reaches—diners’ corner…Open doors—a call to come—inside—secrets of ink—motions and canvas—wet with colors—scents of orange—of green—of  blues and browns and yellow—perfume inside—night air—and—dare and wear and fare or—future moments—again without—layers of walls—climbed and discarded…And yes! With you—I do ‘taste beauty.’

Again to be—to see…Love-the-loving…Hands joined-to-body—dance…Of swings and wings and—Peaceful sighs and Spirit Sings…Creation—The Witch smiles and for instants—within this  moment in Time—‘Tis’ good this Loving Rhyme. So! Follow this time—this Twine Re-wind.

 And! Beautiful you are…

‘Nothing Else Matters’…Metallica

Pixel Light and Thunder Rolls…

21687Thunder rolls or the sound of it—somewhere out there—both distant and near—moves along lightning ridges—somewhere—between ground level places—and a sky mix of—-gray and dark gray and scattered light. Weather changes—thunder and lightning right now—and season’s end—begin another’s matter. The changing grays—the raining ways—and crispy streaks of—darkening days—giving night’s—chance-to-stay…And! Do we dream of love—as a sense-to-scents—because of love—or—do we do or not do—what we do—had we been or not been in love—ones-time or again? And! In death do we really cure—love’s cure—as love begins or never ends?

Pay attention to Life—call it a modern Life—and all this modernity—simply wears a body— completely out…Call a Life—themes and structures and verbs and existentialism and authenticity—unreal and where you ‘be’ and who you ‘is’—stories be—unfinished collection—rejection—objection—subjection—detected—inspected and revealed. And! Many writers have fashioned varieties of these—“That art is the attempt to render the highest justice to a visible universe”: Wondering if this justice is rendered with and without sunlight? Still a visible universe is visible without sight-to-see? Why not?

The gentle touch—of skin—brushed-wind—morning stars—and angel’s dust… And! These precious feet-touch—wings-speak—to start another path—leading little ones—to another—precious shore—sustained hope—and—just wishes for a moment—of ‘good day’…Uncertain in world-scream—uncertainties-wide—grief—bowed head—always—certain in—the certainty—of swift chaos—and—tears…And so—no doubt—be found—from ‘cross this sea—travelers see—candles bright—‘cross this night—a coming home-to-us—delight—light shined—‘Welcome’—from windows’ space—of ‘Safe Harbor’—not race—just place—to stop—and—stay awhile… Real Sea—we’ll see—and another and another—of water-ships and places far away…This is here and between landings another beach—reach and as quickly discovered then thrown away…Dragging the lines of surf’s fall and rise—as waves dash high—into moonless sky—and crash along miles—of sand and shoreline. Sea inhale and exhale and breathe again—and time marks—nothing—when endless and everlasting. So! Pixel me a thought today and watch as pictures fade away.

When the—you-of-me—becomes—a-never-ever—enemy-mine—and the boarders—between living and dying—fade away—as the greed-of-destruction—destroy—the greedy nations—of earth-sky—and—trades—of imbalanced—balance—earth-ceases—and—decreases—the rich-or-the-poor—or—the education of stupidity or—the ad infinitum of—better-me-than-you-god meaner-than your god—my way and your way—is not—a direction apart—instead—just another direction…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. And! Does protection always equal servitude?

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

And! Beautiful you are…

“I’ll Stand By You”

“Oh, why you look so sad?
Tears are in your eyes
Come on and come to me now
Don’t be ashamed to cry
Let me see you through
’cause I’ve seen the dark side too
When the night falls on you
You don’t know what to do
Nothing you confess
Could make me love you less

I’ll stand by you
I’ll stand by you
Won’t let nobody hurt you
I’ll stand by you

So if you’re mad, get mad
Don’t hold it all inside
Come on and talk to me now
Hey, what you got to hide?
I get angry too
Well I’m a lot like you
When you’re standing at the crossroads
And don’t know which path to choose
Let me come along
’cause even if you’re wrong

I’ll stand by you
I’ll stand by you
Won’t let nobody hurt you
I’ll stand by you
Take me in, into your darkest hour
And I’ll never desert you
I’ll stand by you

And when…
When the night falls on you, baby
You’re feeling all alone
You won’t be on your own

I’ll stand by you
I’ll stand by you
Won’t let nobody hurt you

I’ll stand by you
Take me in, into your darkest hour
And I’ll never desert you
I’ll stand by you
I’ll stand by you
Won’t let nobody hurt you
I’ll stand by you
Won’t let nobody hurt you
I’ll stand by you”…written by Chrissie Hynde

“I’ll Stand By You”…The Pretenders

A Lunatic Of One Idea…

1435In a couple of thousand years—the Travelers once again spread wings-to-fly and cross space—from fleshy beginnings—to a Mother ship—called Earth…With each arrival—many kinds call them—Gods—Goddesses—Wizards and Angels…The Travelers unite—divide—arrange—re-arrange—construct—de-construct—create and destroy…Ones to worship—to fear—to despise and each time—their comings and goings are recorded—written—re-written and replaced…Always wars—always…Ever—superior to Earthlings—these worshiped ones—do not know peace…And! If they are true—they are an—abomination to Life—everywhere…No one wonders—why Earthlings are always at war…

Expansion—shifting reds—to observe—Star Path—motions away—Suns’ red color suggests ‘out-bounders’ while—‘in-bounders’ are not—‘red’ shifters…’Bench markers’ —nova—supers—only depend on—the invariability—of time—‘tick-tock’—throughout—the Universal Divide…If Time—is—‘downshifting’—our notions of—solitary time—is on slow-bump-grind—into a dimension—of—New Space. “Twinkle-Twinkle-Little Star”—how we wonder—what you are? And! Even ancient stars—from Earth-spin-twirl—perspective—does appear to still be accelerating…

On Carta-Spin—a twirl of world-look—a revolution of sunshine—moonshine—tucked between—dusk or dawn and—somewhere outside—Sol-speak and near—Star shine—Police—the—Political Group—only serve—to—self-servitude—hating all—without real power—rich—were they—and elect—by them…Their roll—vast—their rock—solid and while—supporting—a demon—democracy—of token—spoken—lies and spies—nothing “of the people—for the people—or by the people—never-ever existed—no matter how—spin-spun—fought-thought—taught—or sought—And! While hungry folk—began to understand—their representation—accounted—for no—accountability and hope—was—viewed by arrogance—lies—bravado and skies—slime’d’ freedom—existed in words—not deeds-of-needs—that elites-of -few could-would obtain everything—anything—anyway…Realizing this…again Revolution follows—the followers—‘cross Cart-Spin’s heaven’s dark and sunless days…Again—hope—stops—blood flows…

The Crystal Ship

“Before you slip into unconsciousness
I’d like to have another kiss
Another flashing chance at bliss
Another kiss, another kiss
The days are bright and filled with pain
Enclose me in your gentle rain
The time you ran was too insane
We’ll meet again, we’ll meet again
Oh tell me where your freedom lies
The streets are fields that never die
Deliver me from reasons why
You’d rather cry, I’d rather fly
The crystal ship is being filled
A thousand girls, a thousand thrills
A million ways to spend your time
When we get back, I’ll drop a line”

And! Beautiful you are…

‘The Crystal Ship’…By The Doors

Bridge Ridge And Candle Night…

HC_54‘Baby’s so high that she’s skying,
Yes she’s flying, afraid to fall.
I’ll tell you why baby’s crying,
Cause she’s dying, aren’t we all’…from Taxi…by Harry Chapin

Loss world—another time or place—race—case—drive body or eternal spirit…And! ‘Everything is gonna be OK’—alright—maybe never now—or just a little later than right now—maybe Ok—or not and—that is even alright—right now—donchaknow…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 hard travel—for Noah and his family…They reached him—the Builders of Star Ships—the ready ships—of Earth Spins and moonlighted paths—along waterways—of places to begin—other fleshy forms—a place without—the red—word-of-worlds. Making Forms—the place of rocks’ motions and creature speak—and songs—of Glass-Beaker Folk…

Thought be and different—differences—happen as wall forms—protect—to forget—to remember—to be again lost—where ships sail toward ships—and seas-once-clean—are dirty seas—of dirty ships—lost lines—shadows’ creep-keep—sleep—underneath—a bruised sky—swollen colors—dawns’ gray and fright—light—weep. No wind stirs—these masts—without sails. No fuel—cold furnaces—boilers—empty drums bare—no air. Eyes adjust—and follow silent ships—as each—slip-past—one another. Horns moan—breathe—sea—odors of—tears—wheeze—coughs and oil spit—mixes puddles of—water—separated—oil and swears—that the Line has moved—closer—too close—to shore…Ghost ships must not—disturb—an oiled sea—or move silt—onto dead shoals—along invisible channels—of sightless-sounds or soundless-sights.

Now—watch for next fire—to begin and end—as another begins and ends—until tower eyes see not—the next and the next—and—the eternity of signals—meaning—absolutely nothing—to valley people—and those framed—against a November sky. Those notes right—are—played thru circle flutes—held ‘gainst—heart-of-beeps—keeps—of roaring seas—pass others into light—and—set others—‘cross star streams of suns—beyond sea—beyond sky—and—into love.

Taste now—liquids—of life and of death—while running from—bolts of steel poison—as darts—dart—or fly from bows—crossed or long… Pack—life and live—on nights—wolves’ runs—start-stops. Pack—hunters’ life—of streaking—runs-runes—‘cross full moon’s light-right—toward—kill-still—and sated—salty-taste-of-plenty-blood—spread—beyond the quick—and the dead… ‘Tis a good moment to live and to die in three quarter time’—and—it is hard to be an— upright walker—and hard to be—an angel…at the same time? Would rather pack-run—and—drink—honest blood—at an honest pace. Rather to—forever moon-howl—than hide—inside truth—less self—of both questions and fears. So follow now—the wisps of vapor—the melody—of sing-song choir—below line where—sea meets sea—and—sky rises above—a long forgotten shimmer—of water—stretching—beyond eye sight—and runners’ slight. Walk upon —salty waves—a dead sea—between melody’s notes—and—the mists—of another dawn.

Remember? We wish-list-aspire—to permanence—and—to that permanent wish—of whispers. Spells cast—against unholy Gods and priests’—scream away—the terror of life—the strength of truth—unknown-the-knowing—and—the eternal hunger of—sleep. Maybe—damned and maybe—never to walk—stooped shuffled with age—doubled with blood hunger—and the vampires’ wish—for—complete death. Legends never die—alive with moon howling—and— running with—wolves of night. Pine rooms—flower boxes—and—within sanctuary—the blood hungry—fear the light. So! Listen to the Wolves—of night. Free? Why—Yes…

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Taxi’…by Harry Chapin

Love—Life—And Back Again…

London_1073‘Fire and shadows cross a sky—Color moon of blood and gold—Simple songs and thudding drum—Stars light up another home—We move by wind across this place—In sunlight waves and dancing twists—Of silver rain and stretching space—Ship’s gentle streaks in skies of grace—With muted voice and silent rooms of—Blood touched throat and emptied tombs—Bridge walked toward and skylight’s scream—By taking flight and falling dream—Warming suns of days ago—With salted mist and taste of tongue—Lights of passion—times of rain—Wolf cries shout of sands and home—Across this universal stretch—Window shine in candle’s light—And let us touch another peace—Of safety sleep and lover’s reach.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And! Beautiful you are…

‘London Calling’…by The Clash

So Strikes—The Minds of Us…

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

We—determine—destiny—as spirits and as flesh? 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?

We work these fields—beneath sing-song wires and lengths of wave grain—toward the forever of sight—out-in and back again…Brushed wind—white tunics—seagull wings—flapping over soil black and breeze seeded—hand to bag—to sky—to flip ‘cross ground rich—water ditch—return again—‘til tunic—lost shapes—into the bluest evening mist of planet wash and evening spin…

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…

Look—ahead—we heart ask—to find a way—anyway and without voice touch—we know those traveled roads—of desert keep and ground soaked reach…Our hands are covered—centuries deep—dust—with must-do-to-will-not-be—and secrets of the good—of evil—and the surest evil of—good—too great—to see—forgotten heart fears—drying tears—gone voice—silent with—pretty pity and reverence silly-speak—squeak folly—or death…

We cannot know—standing here—if earth twirls at universal core—or still stranded and branded—dust ships swirl across a patch of dark grey—dawn and waiting for rainfall—to clean-wash us and our perch—we hear—here balance upon. Here—hear now—heart cry—sobs—without light—and—waiting without warning—then—just waiting—just begins—to want—again. And! What happiness—happens—is possibly happening—on dust speckled earth-side—through goals higher—than justified—to vindicate happiness—for dust speckled us? Or? Is a dust-speckled ride—a stand-alone stride—alone goal without end—without beginning—without purpose—but-to-be-point—free?

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 starship 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?

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Born To Be  Wasted’…by Alexander Perls