Lucretius Sings…

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

We are self obsessed—Everything Us—Our gods—Our history—Our philosophy and Our psychology…Still Cave folks we may be—then see—our ignorance—our prejudices—weak sense and shadow selves—to learn—to set us free—above ground—round where—sunlight and shadows both confuse and naturally mix…We are grains of elementary realities—divided—cornered—pushed and pulled—colliding with one-another—attracting—joining—coupling and uncoupling either by—by-product and always random and often accidentally. And! What happened to Democritus? Why is Aristotle—‘thought speak’ the foundation of Western normalcy? Why monotheism? Why—the ‘anti-pagan’ movement powered by yet—another belief—‘Christianity’—destroy all written proof—not in accordance with— ‘Christian Ideas’…Emperor Theodosius made Christianity—‘the only and obligatory religion’—of a once—open-minded—Empire and Ancient Schools in both—Athens and Alexandria were closed and Democritus’ texts of ‘Naturalism’ destroyed…Why? Aristotle and Plato were both—Pagans. They believed in the immortality of the Spirit and the possible existence of God—Gods—Mover Prime ‘Directors’—not in accordance with Christian’s ‘baffling wanders’—but close enough to tolerated—eh? Must be an Ark—Ship of wood—and could—be—maybe—a Starship crossing another Sea-of-sky and those spaces between the—Stars…

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

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

“Nothing  behind me, everything ahead of me,

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

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

 

And! Beautiful you are…

Heal This Land…by Maire Brennan

Gra De…by Maire Brennan

 

Called Bedlam…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Touch me—in Sing-Song poems—forget the world and touch me with voice—we two—too need—those requiring—words of hope—and verse of love’s—together-forever—in dark dancing—with rhythm in—our mind and drumbeats—in our hearts…

 

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Last Train Home’…Pat Metheny

‘Minuano’…Pat Metheny

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

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

Flights Too Far—Often…

927‘This Is Not America’

“This is not America
Shala la la la
A little piece of you
The little peace in me
Will die
For this is not America
Blossom fails to bloom this season
Promise not to stare
Too long
For this is not a miracle
There was a time
A storm that blew so pure
For this could be the biggest sky
And I could have the faintest idea
For this is not America
This is not America
This is not
Snowman melting from the inside
Falcon spirals
To the ground
So bloody red tomorrows clouds
A little piece of you
The little piece in me
Will die
For this is not America
There was a time
A wind that blew so young
For this could be the biggest sky
And I could have the faintest idea
For this is not America
This is not America
This is not
This is not America
This is not
This is not America”
…written by David Bowie–Pat Metheny—Lyle Mays

The time has come and gone…The getting there is wrong…Simple—eyes close and motion—start and stop and destinations—gain…Talking gone—of Folding Space—and Worm Hole—and speeds-of-light…Simply—eyes close—motion starts—the starting—the stopping and destinations—remain. Motion often starts—with mind reach—time teach—‘cross space—endless melds—of  somewhere else—confusions—solutions—and elsewhere when—other places matters—the matter. Appearance—deceive—in eyes twinkle—shift drifts—when net folk—study—and others find appearing—to be ahead—in places—too far behind—to matter…

Granite rims—stone mountains—five hundred miles—too high to scale—too far to sail. And! For many times—the rhythm—rhymes and over—begins and ends—forever. Domed pockets of air—care—little—when space turns—into—miles too long—and distances—too wrong..Look for those—spaces—between the stars—feel shape dance—touch mind—heart beeps—‘cross misty ways—and beyond—far reach—‘cross skies…We see—same light—you there—and here—almost everywhere—view point—angled or dangled—jangled—still same—‘donchaknow’?

What occurs—when appearance shifts—only to deceive? ‘Shifters’ time lies—and—space-place —people-in-charge appearing—to-be-in-charge—are people—being studied by—people appearing to—be ‘not-in-charge.’ And! Let another Dance-with-no-sound—begin!

Our Freedom of Assembly—Our Freedom to Speak—our Freedom—Our Rights—Our Hopes and our—Coming together—to speak our Communal minds—whether Right—whether wrong—must be a something—wishing for—dreaming for—forever dying for—“in three quarter time” —and…And! Are freedoms expressed—often—as “mindless babble-rabble-razzle-dazzle—words of conflicted—conflicts—‘scorched-the-ground’—beliefs—that governments and authority in-places—spaces—there-to-here—are ‘worse-than-ever’—and—that all actors set-to-dance- ‘cross—stages-of-freedoms’—fading rings—are complete—only if ‘very good or very bad?’

Freedom Speak must continue—with too much—too volatile—too dark—to see—for-if-not— punctuate the—perpetually fearful—failures’—of ‘Dreamscapes’ past—present and future—reminding ‘master-crafters’—of lost-words-towards—obvious terminations—while—loud voices destroy reasons—to be-to see—or closely resemble and assemble—coming together—with the discovery—of communal ‘Mindspeak’…Wondering if creations—the FCC—a Congress-of-mysteries—or the Government of Federal Speak will test—the ways-of-means to ‘abridge’ our already purchased—precious “Freedom of the Press.” This World of Fear—Created by Control—created by Money—and peopled by Ignorance will cause Freedoms to be ‘abridged’…Please Remember! Government is not created for ‘Freedom’—Government only exists to—‘Control.’

We are all Children of this Universe—And! We have the Right to Be—Everywhere…

And! Beautiful you are…

‘This Is Not America’…Performed by David Bowie

‘Rebel Rebel’…Performed by David Bowie

Proper Park To Cardington Square…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stands up—eternal legs and starts along—the hoppity-skippity road. He stops—and the Hurts—join him. He skips—toward them—and they skip—toward him. He turns and little lights dance— just skips— in front of him. A little dance of—light—of sparkle—and little else.

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

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

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

‘Almost Crowman,’ he almost answers,

‘I know this!

‘We Know!’

‘I have known this Sparkle!’

‘Know Spark.’

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

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

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

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

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Under the Bridge’…by Red Hot Chili Peppers

‘Raspberry Beret…by Prince

 

 

Little Robots Five Miles High…

imgprix.comLittle Robots become—because—Eternal Spirits re-enter—entry now—then starting—starts of blast off and crash—before burn—The newest giggle-to-wiggle-to-someone’s-sorting and another starting and ending and all alright—OK? Lucky we be—not Holy hollows—Imagine—Imaginations—Beside pushes of strong—Dances baby birthing—and the powerful protection—of—iron Love—nothing stronger—Love or better—than—together—songs– and mixes—of a trillion spirits—strong. Path reaches—‘cross one trillion—leaps-of-space-race—fills— twirling lights and—one-trillion-ground-bound souls.

To hold-To-Touch-Too-much—No! Forever—not long enough… And! Sweet Dance—indeed…together we—and with—no love—there is—no peace. So!  Ride waves with me— crashing ‘gainst— shorelines…We are these—Ghost-of-These-Gardens—toward space flying— where home’s—touch ‘n’ go—is just one planet—east of sunlight’s door— and below—ridges-of-long-space—in sky’s silent misty world. Concuana—with—fifty  generals—and—the one hundred thirty-nine—gather all—outside the Proper City—a place—placed well below—the ‘Five Hundred Mile High Mountains’. Some villagers outside—the domes of—City fearing—destruction—gather their gatherings—as others seek—to welcome her—a protector -gainst another—Watcher Army. Concuana watches also—gathers—her magic—her coven and shrugs. Placing armor beneath—ground reach and—good—sky-high-silver-search—silent slices motions—well above and race-space—still along sides—high rock-stacked rock—and—stacked rock—until far—out-of-reach and—far- out-of-sight…Proper City and Twisted Gate—domed—crystal and glass—fortification—of weapons—enchanted spectacles—and—doomed to either fall—or gather—their gatherings—while—standing still—fading smoke—into nights of ice and winds of pain—reign—the ring-wings—of golden pods and silent ‘copters.

Fire of Blue light—sorted beginnings—and dances—of yellow streaks—torn coats and journeys. Scream Toward Moons—light—the dark night— and still—Horses run—Martian Ridge. We are— children of—salted Seas—as seaside spirits—unify. Clouds do—look for skies—and house sounds are also—those leaving-kinds-of-sounds…Blue Butterfly and wishes—granted or—made and–those soft wings—of slips and of flits—ride currents of breeze—slight ‘gainst soft skin…Switch often– directions-or-fancy—willed once—or often—through desires-of-fancy or weary-of-time—trips-to-beginnings-ends-of-time—shifted—drifted—-lifted—and forever—gifted-toward-lines of carted—crafts—and— beings-being—for a moment—above-moonlight and just-below-daybreak.

Protection—must not—equal servitude? When—heart 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—-an instant before—lips touch—co-mingled breath—warms-a-cold—and—evening air. Rational response—and— rational insanity. A moment—and—no one dares-stares into—space—without—noticing starlight’s—star bright—and—starships passing between—light-speed and arrival—and—silently appear. When everyone—everywhere—in-all-places—between skies—realize—that—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-is-words—meanings-or-reasons-or-other—notions. When silence—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—almost—truth.

Per Pope John II— Centesimus Annus: “Ownership of the means of production, whether in industry or agriculture, is just and legitimate if it serves useful work. It becomes illegitimate, however, when it is not utilized or when it serves to impede the work of others in an effort to gain a profit which is not the result of the overall expansion of work and the wealth of society, but rather is the result of curbing them or of illicit exploitation, speculation or the breaking of solidarity among working people. Ownership of this kind has no justification and represents an abuse in the sight of God and humanity.”

‘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.”

We are all Universal Children…We have the Right to be Everywhere!

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Children of the Sun’….by Poets of the Fall

‘Stardust’….by DeLain

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

 

When Flowers—Turn-Into-Glass…

33“All we had was Simon Finch, a fur-trapping apothecary from Cornwall whose piety was exceeded only by his stinginess. In England, Simon was irritated by the persecution of those who called themselves Methodists at the hands of their more liberal brethren, and as Simon called himself a Methodist, he worked his way across the Atlantic to Philadelphia, thence to Jamaica, thence to Mobile, and up the Saint Stephens. Mindful of John Wesley’s strictures on the use of many words in buying and selling, Simon made a pile practicing medicine, but in this pursuit he was unhappy lest he be tempted into doing what he knew was not for the glory of God, as the putting on of gold and costly apparel. So Simon, having forgotten his teacher’s dictum on the possession of human chattels, bought three slaves and with their aid established a homestead on the banks of the Alabama River some forty miles above Saint Stephens. He returned to Saint Stephens only once, to find a wife, and with her established a line that ran high to daughters. Simon lived to an impressive age and died rich”…From “To Kill A Mockingbird” by Harper Lee

  • Wondering how disease (plague-times) affect civilizations—their rising and their falling…Rome (circa–AD 165)—passed through a plague-time called ‘Antonine’. This illness, was responsible for a decrease of approximately 30% of the Roman population by (AD 180)…This ‘Civilization Killer’ recorded as being carried by the Roman Army from the Far East—also destroyed most of the military…
  • Wondering if—Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t…Wondering if control is illusion? Will—Democracy become a dictatorship—‘as we in-fear’—watch these motions and movements—toward ‘Martial Law’…
  • Wondering why Believing in—Open Boarders-Amnesty-Immigration-Multi-culture’ism-Freedom-for-Everyone and Life is called being an ‘Elitist Socialist?’ Wondering why— America’s Constitution claims “That All Men Are Created Equal” and America’s Slaves built the White House?
  • Knowing that—‘We’—the People—must never again be slaves of thought or owned by the richest of Slavers. Redistribute the Wealth-of-our-World—and Wage Slavery ends…And! Blue- Collar-Billionaires’-do-not-exist!

Ending a this-or-such-stuff-or-thing—things gone and still remembered in hazes and clouds—sometimes thick or sometimes thin—or remembered when those reasons for ‘tick-tock’ recall is not ‘at all’ necessary. And! Still memories along with the knowledge of futures’ days or yesterdays’ stop-starts—sometimes wisdom stumbles—flash words appear—and sometimes are transposed from wiggle-squiggles—to-words-to-letters-to-numbers-or-other such scratches—black-blue ink—into shapes—on white paper. Small square boxes—rows across and stacked—checkerboard-graphic-white tiles—framed-square—first sides perfect—then added rules of thickness rectangles—jumbles-or-mumbles of thought—frowns and smiles. The confusions of simple symmetry—good boggles—good toggles—mind flashes-in—rhythm or rhyme. If one stares toward glares of graph motions—of rectangles and squares—of ink and white spaces—will one—feel-free-fall—and sometimes—just disappear?

A spot of ship—quick-to-appear—touch-down and secure—no sounds—no noise—just-here-gone and back again. So often completed and always—the same motion—the same silence—the exact drop-speed-entry-and stop. However! While content same remains—the extra mix-of-touch-kiss-score and life—end-in-the-time—taken to breath-in—Earth’s night wind and Life-to-begin…Wondering why—survival’s song—may also stop—with a single note—not pitch—not harmony—nor—sounds beyond—a single note? Chorus or Choirs not required—donchaknow?

And! Beautiful you are…

‘For What It’s Worth’—Buffalo Springfield

‘Sunset Purples’…Tony Godsey Band