Seaside And Star-ship Lights…

“You live in a church
Where you sleep with voodoo dolls
And you won’t give up the search
For the ghosts in the halls
You wear sandals in the snow
And a smile that won’t wash away
Can you look out the window
Without your shadow getting in the way?

You’re so beautiful
With an edge and charm
But so careful
When I’m in your arms

‘Cause you’re working
Building a mystery
Holding on and holding it in
Yeah you’re working
Building a mystery
And choosing so carefully”…Sarah McLachlan

Teach-speak now and explain a celestial giggle-wiggle as slashes and dashes or dots and lots are only heard and never seen. Star-ships! Have been ‘round about this interstellar gash and back again. Seek-the-safety-keep without that numbered 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 avoids an empty space as often counting does come alive, to sum that dust-of-many particles, that swirl and twirl into shape and into mass from nothing-into-something then into unseen not seen and ‘never was’ or will ever-be again.

Star-ships start slowly, move-motion straight lined from safety slot tucks of home port to gentle slides and simple rides. This year’s light-race-space outbound-to-leave blow leaf reach and careful teach that travels’ dust rush touches light winds riding shores from here-to-there and everywhere. Skies beneath the far above when heaven’s cross winds with light’s speed fast or lesser sails are ‘star-bright or star-light down Nebraska’s highway sky-way before dawn’s misty arcs or Denver’s distance and night-light.

Lengths and tangled notes, brine soaks and rotted ropes. Twists! Candy-cane twines sans white-reds color dead from baked suns’ times and sea-salt’s rhythm and rhyme over and under sun’s shine. Sometimes the timing of dancing words, seashells and wind may dust shorelines rhyme. Sometimes! V-shape flights, great shadows bound northward toward stops and starts and the marshes of Horicon and then again until touchdown is home. And! Great ships—straight line from dock-safety-to-sea-tide-high-be and free bound south toward sea-wide reach below right beach and around the African Horn or into the Orinoco Flow.

Again, to be and to see! Love-the-loving of hands joined-to-body and dance. Of swings and wings and peaceful sighs and spirit sings. Through creations the Witches smile and for instants within this moment in time—‘tis’ good this loving rhyme. So! Follow this time—this twine re-wind.

Scorpion shapes and Physics makes, common reach and teach through uncommon words, and the boundless twists of honest computation and manipulation contrived to derive, common wisps-of-wisdom, extracted and reacted and contacted; then, rejected and projected with twists forever turns to be melded into simple sense and corrected logic. Paradigm shatters and whispers matters while sails and ships of storm’s tatters, up righted-ignited-provided-decided and once-fears now tears along with seed sowing acknowledge knowing and either real or almost correctly forgotten and then remembered.

Sunshine’s understanding of Star-ship’s search; deeply goes, inside heated globes round sources of death-life and life-death and gravity and things-holding-wings and globes of mother-ships, many times ‘cross Universes both small and great together, combined with magic glue and crystal twirls and Witches’ swirls. And! Equations’ speak concisely; from clutter squeak, to quantitative modes, derived and survived together with fury storms and qualitative norms. Ponder ways-and-means often, long before android notions mediate the distances with perceptions; laced biochemically, senses five to teach six-seven-or eight and reach, hand stretch inside sunlight’s core, not to feel the burn but just-to-learn.

Lives gather together and the strengths 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 and the fools of Gods’ squeak. For those ‘world words’ are songs of death of control of fiction to swiftly suffer lies, against spirit speak and Life. Women Love! Men Love! Love is perfection and touch and peace and spirit and song. Love is sweetness ‘gainst canvas and lines. Circles dance and soft songs play and—laughter reaches diners’ corner. Open doors are calls to come inside. Secrets of ink motions and canvas wet with colors. Scents of orange of green of blues and browns and yellow are perfumes inside night air and dare and wear and fare or; future moments, again without layers of walls climbed or discarded. And yes! With you—I do ‘taste beauty.’

Again, to be and to see! Love-the-loving of hands joined-to-body and dance. Of swings and wings and peaceful sighs and spirit sings. Through creations the Witches smile 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…

 

‘What I Am’ —Edie Brickell & New Bohemians

 

‘Building A Mystery’— Sarah McLachlan

The Fiddler’s Secret Songs…

“Love Will Come To You”

“Hey, what’s going on? Whatcha doin’ here?
Is there something wrong tonight?
Do you remember who I chose to be?
My best friend in this life
Life doesn’t run a clear course
It flows through from within
It’s supposed to take you places and leave markings on your skin

And those marks are just a sign of something true
you witnessed in your time
Of something new, like the start of something fine

Like morning dew love will come again to you
Like morning dew
Morning dew

Hey, can you tell me who you are?
The color of your dawn
When the gates are open from last night’s revelry on the lawn
And when the sounds of laughter still echo in your dreams
The smoke screen disappears and nothing is what it seems

And your tears have been worthwhile
They got you through to a different place and time where all is new
To the start of something fine

Like morning dew your love will come again to you
Like morning dew

Love is there when you open the door
and you step off the trail you knew before
Through the streets and the houses of gods you roam
and on their altars you lay your heart of stone

Till all laughter is claws on your skin
and your moments of clarity scream the hell within
When you fade like a rose in the gloom love waits outside your room

Like morning dew your love will come again to you
Morning dew”Poets of the Fall

No secrets on—the walk plain—a plan of mystery—so strange as—thinking maybe not much—as mystery as just plain—plans and sweet whispers—as dawn slips away and night’s—almost lightest—slightest sights—begin.

Now and then as a laughter of strings—from harps’ sings—happens when verses—dance along these—pages of parchment and thin—tin pictures. Dust—spreads across this land—as too much wind and too—late water—cannot not spread trickles—and tickles of streams and lakes into oceans—of fresh liquid ‘cross another salt-less-sea. And! On this dusty wind—we will caress— soft sounds and submit—to our sweetest—songs.

Dancing skates of wheels—and—those of ice rails arriving to use by—our feet and ancient selves—of balance and twists—of turns and freedom—without the gravity—of graves and again —singing strings—of violins fill evenings with—song and rhythm and rhyme. And! Fiddlers play music—late into nights and dancers form—circles toward fires—of light and away from darkness—or the empty space—of silence.

Our bags of sleep are warm—and not—the humble man’s strait jacket. We gather—to face fire for light—we turn away to sleep. Quick is the night—and into the mists—of morning’s gathering—we shift and shape and move—as substance occurs—and flesh begins—warmth of blood and energy. As day—we begin—another time—without restrictions or reasons or thoughts—except to begin—as light spreads—and we muscle our way—into another stay—of day.

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? Is a dust-speckled ride—a stand-alone stride—alone goal without end—without beginning—without purpose—but-to-be-point—free?

Together—stories of life—sounds of joy—sweet harmony—and true balance—are songs of love. Tales and lies—and glories and lies—and all tall words—historic speak—heroic praise—are not required—when fiddlers play—true strings—of liquid verse and—motions toward peace—seeks hopes’ beginning—in fires of spirit strengths and—life’s power. Everlasting is—spirit and life begins and ends as—the fiddlers play.

We—watch Storm Gods…We! Tucked inside—this swirl of trash and tin—bobbles and cardboard homes—of glass and stone wait—the confusion to rise and winds-to-wind—these narrow streets of—matchbook stories—and—matchstick folk. After—the roar and the wetting—and the flashes—gods of storms—flash-dash—dart-depart—to dash and trash—another world—apart from us—our own. Begin—those flower songs. Without wails—those sweet tales—with soft music—and misty touch— and—peace of moment—songs.

We—venture into drying—air and cross wet—sands and blooms of desert—flowers and fresh air—rejoice we of—ourselves and a certain—knowledge of knowing—certainty for another night and another brighter day. And! We understand the— knowledge of good—of something needed—and good love. Together; our story—of magic life—and world love—just is…

We— do come home. There are places—where monsters do—not dwell. We—do come home, where bombs of war do—not shatter dreams or disturb—the determinations of freedom—folly and lives. This is our place without borders! Walls climbed—do not exist. Only the religions of kings—attempt to divide—and—conquer—spirit wings and fiddlers speak.

Robots—now and—then and once again—when creature walks splendid—winds across another place—of times—remember and stories—of this and that—told by any-to-any-listening—of robot tales and—silver sails–adventures of course—of discourse launch—comes—songs of sailor’ speak and— the wig-waggle ‘cross—of thousand skies complete—with warrior songs and priestess kiss and—home returns. We sail here—the sailors of these moments—friends and family—the you of me and—the me of us and—all eternal spirits be—we the power—of life inside a fold in space—or outside of—yonder rim-spin—we are…Instincts trust—for anticipation—may—often fail imagined—dragon wings and wind.

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. We—turned peace to war and gash—slash across another spin of earth. Battles disturb the strength of peace and the balance of life. We war against nothing except the ideas and ideals of Anti-life. Remove religions and governments and kings and queens!  Better-to-fall-in-love—not-to fall-in-battle—donchathink?

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 are we sacrifices—to gods come whimsy—or rushing wings—or gift bearing things—beads—baubles—glitter or flash…We—are not born—to be wasted. We—are not wasted—to be born…

We androids—do dance—into Electric nights and—love does lead—shifting-shapes—through darkest frights and—into sweetest lights. Shadow-touches ‘cross—secret ceilings of moon—dust and hidden space—of time-sans-race and—inside— moments like these—Life is an Almost-Maybe.

And! Beautiful you are…

 

‘Love Will Come To You’…Poets of the Fall

‘While Your Lips Are Still Red’…Nightwish

 

 

 

Sing-Song Additions…

And! Is Ethical Capitalism—impossible? And! Is Human ingenuity born out of desperation?

Use your voice without restraint of convention, structure, model, and tone. Sing-Song—and your voice always pleases the ear.

 “Then I’ll be all aroun’ in the dark. I’ll be ever’where – wherever you look. Wherever they’s a fight so people can eat, I’ll be there.” The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck

Inside this blue Globe of hot and cold and the twirl-swirl of gravities’ need at still-hub toward outbound spokes of motion and the greatest of spinning outbound wheel from tiny hub, a stretch of (124) miles away. Great no-wheels spin, unnoticed by centers’ touch and hollow spokes to final wheel twirl.

“We come to inside blue bubble space,” someone said. “Like domed over somewhere high, too high to see,” another voice added. “And after 200 years, we still have someplace to be.”

They were adrift. They were safe. They were never lost. They were-what they had already become. They traveled inside a ship of no origin, no named to identify, and they did travel across a universe of no name, no place known.

“Why ask a man lost to lead you across a universe of’ non-know’ and still expect to leave bread crumbs to follow and find another lost non-way home?” the fourth voice whispered and never heard.

Hey! Do you remember the moon-moons? One red and one blue—hot light and cold light—forgotten when one remembers—that too—forgotten when lighted red moons needs attention and god swirls require worship—painted sky and streaking nights.

“So raise the candles high cause if you
Don’t we could stay black against the night
Oh raise them higher again and if you
Do we could stay dry against the rain”…by Melanie

Is war a lathe created by Civilizations’ own progressive mischief and the magical misery of Life? And! If true, then to all spirits in the wind and in those dust-bone-drifts, we are the Children of many-many-and more than many—meek disasters. So! Give us real voice; to simply speak the story of us—of mischief’s creations—wise folly—and wistful-misty-Life. And! Forgive us the stages we build and the scenes we steal and the notions and motions of strength and fear—both; surprise and comprise—the wretched beauty of sin-win-lose-gain-pleasure-pain—do remain. We often speak with imperfect words. We often cannot commit to ledger numbers squared or circled round or perfectly pointed shapes of tin-gold-or the rhythm of rhyme. We often cannot describe–reasons or—feel-feeling-right-ways—since those ways are no-names or no reasons to feel—anyway. But! That’s OK…

“A place that failed to keep up with history. A place not taken down by a foreign enemy, but by the avarice of our corporate elite and the neglect of our elected leaders”…Adriana Huffington…

Dreams come and sometimes—remind dreamer of memory sweet and twine so brief. He dreams and remembers you. You in form, your face—little  freckles, your lips, your dancing eyes and laughing creases ‘cross cheeks and your no-shape—the whispers, no-reason touch and twin–twined forever second-slights—lonely soul’s search to heartbeat dreams and ever-seems forever long. For short minutes we two–do hide where lovers go–a place–little space—to—smile and touch and whisper and hide forever—together time always—too—brief to be real. And! Dream break—so wake and thinking you have died and visit-touched on your way home to just—whisper—that we are still—

“There’s a road I’d like to tell you about, lives in my home town
Lake Shore Drive the road is called and it’ll take you up or down
From rags on up to riches fifteen minutes you can fly
Pretty blue lights along the way, help you right on by
And the blue lights shining with a heavenly grace, help you right on by

And there ain’t no road just like it
Anywhere I found
Running south on Lake Shore Drive heading into town
Just slippin’ on by on LSD, Friday night trouble bound

And it starts up north from Hollywood, water on the driving side
Concrete mountains rearing up, throwing shadows just about five
Sometimes you can smell the green if your mind is feeling fine
There ain’t no finer place to be, than running Lake Shore Drive
And there’s no peace of mind, or place you see, than riding on Lake Shore Drive

And there ain’t no road just like it
Anywhere I found
Running south on Lake Shore drive heading into town
Just slicking on by on LSD, Friday night trouble bound

And it’s Friday night and you’re looking clean
Too early to start the rounds
A ten minute ride from the Gold Coast back make sure you’re pleasure bound
And it’s four o’clock in the morning and all of the people have gone away
Just you and your mind and Lake Shore Drive, tomorrow is another day
And the sunshine’s fine in the morning time, tomorrow is another day

And there ain’t no road just like it
Anywhere I found
Running south on Lake Shore drive heading into town
Just snaking on by on LSD, Friday night trouble bound”…written by Skip Haynes

And! Beautiful you are…

 

‘Lake Shore Drive’…performed by Aliotta—Haynes—Jeremiah

‘Candles in the Rain’…performed by Melanie Safka and The Edwin Hawkin Singers

Judith Point And Ice Cream…

IMG_0270Discover time! A little step back-to fro-to-forward and back-to-beginning—down Ocean Road ‘cross Old Ocean Road—and on toward Point Judith Light House—Judith Point and Camp Cronin Fishing Area…Just uphill from Iggy’s Doughboy & Chowder House is—a place—Aunt Carrie’s Ice Cream Shoppe (childhood—little guy—more ice cream than—a sandy-salty-sea-foamy carpet—or—great gray hulks of steel—a meal of—Nathan dogs—mustard and bun—just right—chips and Aunt Carrie’s—one scoop white—and one scoop chocolate without napkins and sticky hands-on a warm summer eve.

Adapts are Martian Blood—always upright—since time began and now—hurtle-turtle inside moon— and—outside of Earth borne—feet-of-four—and starting—a hell ride—world twirl—an adapted life. Launch—ride an Ark—massive wings and things—strong-fast-silent often wrong and never—incorrect—a change so small—that shadows tall—are gone and Martian’s world—never whirl—never forgotten—in curious minds—of New Men in—another—other times. Storm of sunshine began—late in the day of October 26th…Long strings—tendrils tall—licking sky for ten million miles—giant—great things-to-jam—slam space and homes from Mercury gone—to Venus and—Sun worship comes within the reach—teach that shine works—shine lives and light often kills. 

Seen Before or Used Again—OK?

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.’

Sunshine’s understanding—manning star ship search—deeply go—inside heated globes—round source 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.

And! Beautiful you are…

Did We Once—Only Paper Be?

R_169“Someone ought to do it, but why should I?” — “Someone ought to do it, so why not I?” “Between these two sentences lie whole centuries of moral evolution”…Annie Besant

“The fake gods sat down in a circle
As if around a three-legged table
it was necessary to reach the last extremes
it was necessary that the air burn in whispers
for the pencil to start moving
There is no death it said
on one side and the other side of the paper
There is no death it said
on one side and the other side of the paper
the voices are the same the thunder
is the same roaring in our ears for
on one side and the other of the paper it said
there is no death
There is death though in the paper where
the muffled pencil moved
Only in the paper only in the shrouding paper”… Annie Besant

Did we once—character dance across these lines? Booked volumes away—to go—stay—in place of other ones—or other twos—or threes—more or less than begin—to end and back again—to place—race along pages—seeks-to-keep—story from too-soon-to-end—and—then again—back—again. We are—chronic spirits—place roamers—‘cross round-about—earth space—spaced—just-so—as to touch—and never run—‘smack into others—over faces—of earth twirl and planet whirl…Instinctively we—never slam—we touch face—sometimes lips—hand swish—just to express being—and never—to announce passing-to—other sides and other rides. We never mean—to rise—arrivals here—when there may seem better—than rather—though we simply happen—to be us—as weather often happens to—us all—everyone. And! Sometimes we are recognized in rhythm—and in rhyme—sometime—but not until we understand—the words—we sing—and these pieces—that peace—chunks varied—in bringing—ringing-to-ears—inclined to decline—war-riches as violence—reminds us—to leave these races—and migrate—to bloodless shoreline—and new chance—dances—just slips—rides before us—as we leave dying—behind…Strange—Western shores—are sometimes doors—away from wars—that colonization—delivered to us—mere—scant—rants—only a few years ago…

Socialism is not a creation of death—Socialism is simply another way to handle money—to not horde—to not lord—too simple—to understand—when Capitalism—damn-dam—most-of-us—to slaves of wage—with nothing to give—as we end—and they continue. And! If the Mediterranean Sea—is drained into—farmland—would the land be everyone’s profit or just the Drainers-of-their-Containers? Is it also—possible—that a-way-of-life—call it an—Industrial War Machine—maintains—Laws-of-Capitalism—Evils—be—either—Democrats or Republicans—in a faraway country called—the United States of America…And! South America—is just as important—as—North America…Though—the Industrial—War Machine—is the—-‘destabilize r’—of everything good—honest—democratically elected—rejected—inspected and dejected…Capitalism—has destabilized—the non-western world—and—destroyed the lives of—millions of good—honest—families—and why—and where—and why again—to—begin-an-end-only-to-start-it-all-again…

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.”

Abusing—the Rights—of the Workers-of-the-World—is a Crime—against Humanity…Like—Genocide and Sociocide—Speculators—destroy—Life and Freedom of People—everywhere—On this sweet planet. We are—free if we—are wage-slaves—anyway?

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…

‘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.”

“Never forget that life can only be nobly inspired and rightly lived if you take it bravely and gallantly, as a splendid adventure in which you are setting out into an unknown country, to meet many a joy, to find many a comrade, to win and lose many a battle.” by…Annie Besant

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

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Born to Run’…by Bruce Springsteen

Sweet Spirits Laugh…

743“Isn’t it a shame
The reaper said
He is quite alone here
And still waiting for you
Oh I really did fail for the first time
Spoke the fiddler, poor old fiddler
The fiddler on the green
The fiddler on the green
It would be nice…

Take my hand

Just hold my hand
I’ll take you there
Your pain will go away”

…from ‘Fiddler On The Green’—by Demons and Wizards

Spirit Dances…the chances of creations—combined in shrieks of plenty—night cries—disturbed wings—motions—seen—never noticed—always—a happening of life-death and future days and forever pasts. We are sweet spirits—laughter ‘cross these starry nights— to plunge into another —day—somewhere—someplace—placed in time—at almost—ever-spaces—inside the wind. ‘Tis a good wind—‘tis a good—day. We are ever here—even unknown-to-know—the knowing of Spirit’s speak and notions’ seek. We—live only—along this stretch of sand and—along with the catching up of tide flow—believe the ice and water before and behind us are—our ground—our chapter of seasons lived and written against the sands of shifting grain and the wind. Care for life and alive and steeped in the reality of earth-beat and washed in the eternity of spirit and—even alone—never lonely or forgotten with passing days or endless years of grooved space and the distance between here and there and everywhere.

Rigid to—regularity—then—sweet chaos—systems dynamic—‘dynamo-hum—where’s that dynamo coming from’ (Frank Zappa) —And! Suddenly the regularity of phenomena—no longer measured rigidly—now burst into the probability of theory—though dynamically and universally common—plain-speak and stench—drenched in fractal messages. Pixel me a thought today and watch as pictures fade away. Input-Output’ and many layers hide—within? To count those hidden layers do—counters—count the ‘Input’—one or count the Output two or just ‘1’ and ‘0’ then reverse the flow—skip entry once—to find point then—continue while—depending upon the flow—within? Matters not the incline of the incline—matters—those inclined to forward—reach and backward—catch?

Stop—‘Rockets-red-glare-or-bomb-bursts-in-air’…Rubble crawls are not familiar fare…Homes built should never-ever-be destroyed—Life builds—Always builds. Hồ Chí Minh -[ho̞˧˩ t͡ɕi˧˥ mɪŋ˧]–His name a synonym for the ‘Bringer of Light’…Born Nguyễn Sinh Côn—and wishing his country free of the—Imperial tyranny of France—while in an idealistic—dream— sent letters to Woodrow Wilson and Harry Truman (presidents of another Imperialistic Nation—called the world’s greatest Democracy’—to champion Vietnam’s struggle for independence from France—He received no answers…

“If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.”by Ernest Hemingway…

Survival’s portion—portioned and scattered across understanding simplicity—and the variances in relativity—either linguistically determined—or silenced by rain—loud—gentle beginnings or the whispers of fire-fly wings and lighting…Wait! Eyes—tightly closed—to hear thunder—rolling across separated skies—as unseen flashes—knight the ocean—and crashes boom into the silent space—between raindrops and life…‘Plant your flag on—truth…’ Science eternally dances with superstition…Once and often either—momentarily wins something-of-else or another choice-to-follow…Crossroads to matter—chances to spark—and destiny always flirts with other up-and-about—perhaps…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.

A World where women can walk in day/night safety and men do not know a word called ‘war’…Where love is love and force is Never …Wherever—Whatever—and never is heaven or hell…A place where life is belonging and life is good everyday…Heaven or Luck… No? We create worlds—we maintain worlds and we love our children. So! Pixel me a thought today and watch as pictures fade away. So! Pixel me a thought today and watch as pictures fade away…OK?

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Fiddler On The Green’by Demons and Wizards

Bridge Buckle and Creaks…

Setrise 12“All speech, written or spoken, is a dead language, until it finds a willing and prepared hearer.” ― Robert Louis Stevenson…

—A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.
—A robot must obey orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.
—A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law—‘Three Laws’—also known as ‘Shelnutt’s Laws’ by…Isaac Asimov

Do humans learn through perception’s ability or is perception an imprinted program already etched onto our brain’s chip? And! Does this ‘perception-of-prefect- imperfection—slow our computer selves? Thinking that ‘I am’ often confounds knowing that ‘We be—DonChaSee?’

Then! Why do we characterize intelligent computation by the appearance of problems requiring solutions? Computers add the number two with another number two and solution four does not make for an intelligent computer…

However— performing symbolic integration of…sin2x e-x …is ooh—aah…intelligent. Yes-No…No-Yes…’0’’1 ‘ And! ‘While I walk through the valley-of-death-I shall fear no evil’—if only programmed not to fear—though not fearing—would not be intelligent. Oops! Must be another (2) + (2) equals ‘whatever’ programming.

Class problems are classically human programming and machines of survival—‘we be.’ Electric outlet and pin equals shock and artificially ‘we be’ learning—not to place pin in outlet—another lesson that is not intelligent computation, however; survival necessary…’Been-there-Done-that and oops’—we learn something all the ‘live long’ day…

True…’Classes of problems requiring intelligence does include inference based on knowledge.’ Every day—uncertain and incomplete information—varied forms of lessons learned and perception’s twirls and swirls—along with those applications—required to classify—predict and control chaos—often require optimal optimization of Yes—No—and ‘yep that will work—maybe’ and ‘once-in-a-fashion’ we may survive—to ‘Oops’ another day.

Intelligent computation may depend on biological processes and issues to gain solution. Genetic Algorithms and Networks neural—Wowzer. Teach a Robot to compute issues not seeming to be ‘intelligent’ and Artificial Intelligence is created…Let us fashion ‘Law Four’…Robot! Walk not into ‘the valley of death’—because the appearance of ‘US’ planet-wide-carbon-based-squeakers are not for ‘the faint-of-heart’…Be aware and be very-very-afraid…

Ethics are impossible when any form of exchange is possible…
Democracy is great as long as the USA blesses it…

‘The Vagabond’

“Give to me the life I love,
Let the lave go by me,
Give the jolly heaven above
And the byway nigh me.
Bed in the bush with stars to see,
Bread I dip in the river –
There’s the life for a man like me,
There’s the life forever.

Let the blow fall soon or late,
Let what will be o’er me;
Give the face of earth around
And the road before me.
Wealth I seek not, hope nor love,
Nor a friend to know me;
All I seek, the heaven above
And the road below me.

Or let autumn fall on me
Where afield I linger,
Silencing the bird on tree,
Biting the blue finger.
White as meal the frosty field –
Warm the fireside haven –
Not to autumn will I yield,
Not to winter even!

Let the blow fall soon or late,
Let what will be o’er me;
Give the face of earth around,
And the road before me.
Wealth I ask not, hope nor love,
Nor a friend to know me;
All I ask, the heaven above
And the road below me.” ― Robert Louis Stevenson

‘Na Laetha Geal M’Oige’…by Eithne Ní Bhraonáin (Enya Brennan)

Lemon Whirls and Gumdrop Twirls…

M_135“We took the blood of the earth
and fell in love with death
with life itself as an excuse
Black is the sunlight shimmering below;
it flows through life and the guilt we share
We’re hiding in chorus as starry eyes close,
and seasons part in farewell;
‘cause we drained her blood, then forgetting her face
to hide from everyone”…from ‘The Last Hour of Ancient Sunlight’ by Draconian

Walked to once war—places—of warrior kill and spill of red along the sandy streams of green spaces—dreamed graces and where man—gun—marches—of rustle and rice mix—water—man—gun—to run—to stay and wait for the standing dream-scenes—plays and dances of red colors and life runes—places in ruins along sandy streams—of greener spaces—dreaming graces—places found and now not remembered—OK…We cannot kill a man’s family and expect forgiveness. Come by drone—by rifle—by bomb—by war or proxy—no one can forgive another for the murder of his own blood…Family by family—street-by-street—village—town—city—region—no matter and absolutely—no forgiveness. ‘And! While I breathe—I Hope…’

Planets of beginning’s end, and flashes within war clouds on high and on lighted skies for a trillion miles across the sky. The Alpha and the Omega—where Titans rule Atlantis—and—men of great—remove or rule places in time—now gone and a history of never was—on both the Earth and in the sky. We are—before Floods and long before parts of Genesis—that sometime happened—on—sometime worlds or other spaces—of other places and other times. Our Garden of Eden—not Sins—and then—tossed off-world? Eden could—have been better than ruining—by—T-Rex or consumed—by stronger uprights. Eden and sin and serpents, oh my! We are the proof of far removed parents—when gods may have ruled and created women and men—in places from Sirius to Mars to Earth and back—again? Our rulers and our ruled and our voices and our religions have rewritten our beginnings—in so many places and in so many—might have been accidents—that—these truths or fictions—have blurred the start of lost and the loss of—start. And! Still—the rest is yet to come—why not? ‘And! While I breathe—I Hope…’

This garden is hilltop high—we come here—almost twice—to plant flowers and remember sometime—with our voices. Tree lined field already picked and plowed of life—crosses—path as—resting—inside good woods as we look down—toward cattle and fence and trees and fields and a creek bed dry—except for trickles of water caught by pools and deposited by rains covering this hill and that valley just last evening. ‘And! While I breathe—I Hope…’

These—everyday—fail to notion-grasp the chance—of peaceful notion—depending on how-where you be—when flash streak—smoke reek—eye burn—tear and fear and the warp of notions—peace cease—little ones die before—killer memories evolve—into sweet substance and light bright smiles. Just bump-bangs away or a simple sail—set-to-wind—rail balance—‘neath ruin— bridges of seven—or on—another land-fall beneath another sky—homes to build—caves to clean—and again for a short while—arrival—life comes home. Better—than missile speak or places too far gone to seek bomb shelter—chance for another—another dance before smoking tears or tomorrow-sorrow—death—peace—good life—ways forgotten—gone. ‘And! While I breathe—I Hope…’

“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. Again to be—to see…of loving the loving…of hands joined-to-body moving…of swings and wings and…Spirit-singing and peaceful sighing…Creation—the Witch smile and for this instant within a moment of Time—‘Tis’ good this Loving Rhyme. So! Follow this time—this Twine Re-wind.” ‘While I breathe—I Hope…’

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Rebel-Rebel by David Bowie

Layers of Flash…

Star_735“Know I’ve done wrong,
Left your heart torn
Is that what devils do?
Took you so low,
Where only fools go
I shook the angel in you

Now I’m rising from the ground
Rising up to you
Filled with all the strength I found
There’s nothing I can’t do”…From the song ‘Love Me Again‘…written by John Newman and Steve Booker—

We are not layers of flash and fear and afraid of flash and a million directions without notions of where and how to go or leave or approach or fade away. We are not human…we are alive—life—simple of reason and always on our way away to leave or stay or afraid to simply fade away…Climb now— branches high—winter nigh—leaves not springing—sprung—prior budding and climbing high and tucked just below frost line—mountain soft and night-time slow. Tree high and not moving twin-spin—slower—motion still.

Foreign—not home and light-year long—away from places seen and spaces known before earth-fall—tunnel bright—tunnel sight—and—a space of place between real—and among the magic ones. Planet guided—peace pleased—run coming to streaks of night flash and day dash and a clash of two…And! They come by copter churn-twist-chop—by lorries-engines-rush—by cart-horse-pull—by men stretch-manned-carried—and all wounded ones or twos or many more or less and behind the layered flash of red-pink-nights—we wait and wonder and gather-to-elves notions—of life to stay or life to pass away—today.

We are the daughters and sons of earth and of the starry heavens. Our history is alive—simple and true—except when suppressed and distorted for unnecessary gains and a perversion called wealth…We are the eternity of spirits—no need beginning and never ending. Such is the sweetness of life. Symmetry with no form except wind and rain and careful storms of chaos and figure. Go figure—the here or the now and still history is not preformed or manufactured except through the controllers—of spins and twists and the thrill of the lie. Or—go figure with the smile of Leonardo or the Lady’s laugh or the chatter of many minds or—just a few—of many hearts. Is it better to flee or better to dig livelihood from the bottom of one’s own grave?

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 things or less or the loneliness of crowd bridges or twin screw moments of those spaces of time without seconds. And! Yes robots—we—search blood and find taste good in mingle – tingle moments—touch-amazing—touch not those imagine sources of unnecessary wariness and one becomes another and brief the flashes together spread the separate into singularity no more than once…Again—again and again.

Wind across this liquid—sunlight and thick wave dance—lights and slivers of silver and gold. Followers watch for scraps or bits to fall toward their reach either diving for something new or rocking gently on this clear sea of warming suns and moonlight’s dance of song and silence. Our nature to run with and from the many or the few? See often through the curved ceiling of doorway when curved light enters twenty-one tiny windows round these openings to escape places and leave regions. Still more a spirit than the body proper until chemicals of doubt and satisfaction rule body self ending sometime in time without mere reasons to be except—a rhythm to complete.

We are the daughters and sons of earth and of the starry heavens. Our history is alive—simple and true except when suppressed—through layers—distortion—or flashes of fear—tears…We are the eternity of spirits—never having to begin and never ending. Such is the sweetness of life.

And! Beautiful you are…

Love Me Again‘…performed by John Newman

Witches of Creation…

Power_67

So Spirit Fly…We are all Angels! Spirit Fly—for Love protects Everyone and Love reminds us that We are the Everywhere of Everyone across Touch Universal—Spirit Dancing—Spirit’s Life. And-Oh-Yeah! Thanks for allowing this ‘Humanum Robot’ to Follow—You! Witches of Creation—for another Year…

And! Beautiful you are…

‘The Power of Love’—by Candy de Rouge—

“I’ll protect you from the hooded claw
Keep the vampires from your door

Feels like fire
I’m so in love with you
Dreams are like angels
They keep bad at bay-bad at bay
Love is the light
Scaring darkness away-yeah

I’m so in love with you
Purge the soul
Make love your goal

The power of love
A force from above
Cleaning my soul
Flame on burn desire
Love with tongues of fire
Purge the soul
Make love your goal

I’ll protect you from the hooded claw
Keep the vampires from your door
When the chips are down I’ll be around
With my undying, death-defying
Love for you

Envy will hurt itself
Let yourself be beautiful
Sparkling love, flowers
And pearls and pretty girls
Love is like an energy
Rushin’ rushin’ inside of me

The power of love
A force from above
Cleaning my soul
Flame on burn desire
Love with tongues of fire
Purge the soul
Make love your goal

This time we go sublime
Lovers entwine-divine divine
Love is danger, love is pleasure
Love is pure-the only treasure

I’m so in love with you
Purge the soul
Make love your goal

The power of love
A force from above
Cleaning my soul
The power of love
A force from above
A sky-scraping dove

Flame on burn desire
Love with tongues of fire
Purge the soul
Make love your goal

I’ll protect you from the hooded claw
Keep the vampires from your door”—Performed by ‘Frankie Goes To Hollywood’