Steps Through Light Ripples…

“My love must be a kind of blind love
I can’t see anyone but you
Sha bop sha bop
Sha bop sha bop

Are the stars out tonight
I don’t know if it’s cloudy or bright
I only have eyes for you dear
Sha bop sha bop

The moon may be high
Sha bop sha bop
But I can’t see a thing in the sky
I only have eyes for you”by Harry Warren and Al Dubin

Once from the harbors of Calimesa City —sailed great ships of crystal and purple satin sails—‘cross space high—sea wide—space—toward small—places of spinning—three steps from star-bright—to sunlight tight—dancers—heated waves vibrating life—chances of starts—begins-of-ends—exploded—homes of variations and always—conducive to blood-fleshed creations—and our—creature selves. Lights of night—spot brilliance—and lines—along shoreline’s length—dimming as they too—scatter away from seeing—folks passing one another—as they walk water-front streets along—the westerly notions of Calimesa City.

Shine ‘cross water’s edge—looping and faint—far away—from those faithful walkers—street people—moving—when sun drops—and twin moon spins—enter sky—both from the East and again—from the west…Were they substance? If not—then could—those two—be ephemeral? Time measured—as moving ahead—when moments—disappear backward? How can light—become bright—and still often—plunge one—into darkness? And! How does one—wake up in places—with no darkness—and still be in—an endless night?

Step through—lights—from mountain top splendor—to photographs—of halo and nights. Cram—Jam—Berry talk—and moonlight walk—begin—as Orbits of—Multitudes clear cloud cover—and circled—blue worlds…And! The amounts of dark matter—are so substantial an amount—as to far outbound—a Universe of visibility…Heavenly bodies do swirl—along the twirl—laws forwarded by Johannes Kepler—and gravitates’ fundamental natural forces—of glue—to either hold or attract toward—paved circles or—twines-of-lines—by Sir Issac Newton… And! Now—we know—ripples in Space—are Gravitational Waves…

We may—be-proof-of—the something-of-else—far from planet—here-to-there—where once and often— Gods—if allowed—do rule—the what-of-ever-forever-for-more-or-less—create something’s—woman and man— inside worlds—of Sirius Peak-Shriek and Speak. Then—Nomad Gods drag—life’s sweet strength—to Mars and Earth—and other—beyond—in hinged—fringes and the light-bytes—of Crystal ships and magic sails—-and no sound engines-to-race? Improved or less—and by the joint—-endeavors’ of sin survive—and here we-be—alive?

Ships of crystal—and filled to brim—with living mischief—and the odd whimsy—of god-speak and legend—lurch forward—-toward features reversed—or continued—or extinguished…Titans created—the-creations-of-presences—histories and common fallacy…And! Since wars—among Titans rage—heaven’s high and length— ‘tis simple why creatures—created in images—or by—production of accidents’—industrial strength—and robotics’ revolutions—determine little more—than continued strife—strike—stupidity and suffering—through little success—successfully executed and lost…

The created-creations—lost an ‘Eden’ place—when the ‘She’ and ‘He’ of the ‘It’—either happens—by an accidental-accident—or fall from—or is pushed out of—the wonder of— ‘Immaculate Contraptions’—and through construction—‘divinely discovers’ the—‘other than’ robotic being—and join the ‘Spirits of Twirl’—while discovering choice is better—than and more difficult than—the straight-in-line-crawl—toward golden lights—cave dwellings and scrawling—dots or dashes ‘gainst walls—without reasons or rhymes or the ‘Rhythm of Love.’

The concepts of Alpha’s—fade into sunlight’s setting—in a western sky—or—an eastern place— where Suns counter-twirl—the clock’s faced sweep —of hands—out-of-motion in—the used-to-be circle—and night still happens—and daylight’s measure—is counts of —products- produced—and profits’-loss-or-gain. Must be—Gods-of-creation…We create them—they must earn—a return—for creations sweet—‘so let it be—in written-speak?

The commune of Paimpont—is near the city of Rennes…Is Paimpont Forest—Brocéliande? Magical—mysteries of planet space—a place—where the Lady of the Lake—Merlin’s capture—a tree where imprisoned—he may still remain? Or! Mystery rich—Merlin’s tomb—the Val sans Retour—enchanted land—where ‘Morgan le Fay’ casts spells—to—imprison—her loves? And! Remember—that once Rennes—was Condate—tiny village—of wonder spells—twisted whirls of twirling—tells—story rich—and tame.

The People should never be afraid of their government…Their government should always be afraid of The People …Bombs to feed our Children—WTF? ‘Swords to Plowshares’—How Simple and How Sweet…Worlds without Rape and Murder—Absolutely! And! ’ Sleeping in Safe Arms’ Wonderfully—Wonderful…donchathink?

And! Beautiful you are…

‘I Only Have Eyes For You’…performed by The Flamingos

The Orbit of Multitudes…

136_JLThe Orbital Multitudes—arrived above Calimesa City—lighting a sky—once dark—for one hundred years—often gray—often starless—often filled with falling dust—black soot—oil rain—and prime—with grime. The Galileo folk—talked of these things—long before ‘these things’—arrived. Priest-speak—praise reek—the beginning of ends—beginning again—along with those street whisperers—truth—less dares and single cares. Before a million days’ past—present days and moment ways—had once multitudes—filled sky—before changing way—circles found—round—older time—than now and here—to hear and see—another dot of light—fill—with winter sun—and less—night long…

And! There is night long rights—when moving creatures—tree merge—in pale moon—light scatter—along mist ridges—or bridges—‘cross valley tucked down—so far—not to be—to see—in silhouette’s’ shadows’ rhyme—without day count—or time. The water’s edge and skies of blue and pink and red and orange and yellow—as earth spin sets sunlight to softness and twinkles of sky-lighted-canvas—sheets the blue-gray into darkness—and stars light —the sailor’s way along the caverns—of space and place and—the race of time. Still! We all cross spaces—along these places of—the races in time gathered—and night ships—crossing heaven’s ragged ridges…

Collusion collides—confusions of aesthetics—incarnations of color blocks—geometry—cage glisten—staggers-of-rusted-steel—lemon peels—orange scents—tombstones—and waste—placed—in straight lines—stratified air—and musk…Village Insis is—one hundred and thirty seven miles—from—Calimesa City—reached by dry road—three forded rivers—or—one craft stretched—across the Wall—Hallenid and a—flash-splash-paced-space—of climb-drop—into Village-Center. Not far to run—unless walking—inside sun’s—noon-day heat—and—wanting to race—toward—streamed liquid—silver drops—and cooler rain. Aeolian Harps—line the wires—of sketch stretches—along creased ways—eastward and away—from town-side-to-City lights—along many sparkles—from river’s edges—to sea shadows—and piers.

The Walker—a silhouette tuck—tucked low—beneath Grand Moon rising—careful-to-carve—a cross-dark-sky—too close to be real—and—too real to be—proximity’s cost—close—to-shapes-to-shift-shapes—and closer—to buildings tossed—‘cross landfall—to sea-line-to-skyline. Tide shifts—in evening time—and—changes along season’s—mix-or-match—same as sunrises—as sunsets—and—shadows do play—twin moon seasons—with splashes—textured cloud colors—and—star twinkles—too-far-to-see—or—too close to be—and—not to catch eye—noticed-in- brain—with spirit touch—time same.

The Walker—glides ‘cross jumble-tumbles—stone dust purple—made by rain—visible—as digs—once moved dirt—above rock face—and dragged—these weighted ones—from place-to- special-place—buildings built—or—structures moved—restructured—replaced or destroyed. Needed things—as times required—when places—were homes—and buildings ruled—seaside—land-side…And! Little death—be only—notions of—Lizard Kingdoms—where the motions—of ‘we-be-pills’—available—or needed—from car trunk glory to—never matters—what gates—we fall through—matters not—what star burns us…Matters—that gates open—matters—that stars are hot…

Now—run well—with the wolves—of Reach River Park—and—face taste days—of oiled rain—with cougar’s heart. Watch pageant—brute human—crowds—of those both—burning rights and torching wrongs—fights—both frenzied—always short—with bursts-of-peace—too—long notice—sun-scarred and dusted—with forests’ green—summers’ too—then—fallen leaves. Bargain old—with new—the contentions of—earth-speak and necessary sadness—necessity weighted—heavy burdens—too fierce—too varied and multiplied—by conditions-of—humanities’—weights and survival’s—moments—and—the need-of-greed.

We do not summon—gentle love…Love whispers—to our spirits—and—touches us—beyond the flesh-of-resistance—and—through those—routes of layers—of life—inside walls—too-high- to-climb—or under—or around—or about the shout—of daily doubt—and flight. Love—heart touch—and reach—into body frail—and those—attempts-to-hide—among thrones-of-thorns and cost—already paid—and—already spent. Listen—just listen. And! Love—reminds us of—the equality-of-equals—woman and man and—spirits—all trapped and—living sentient—sentences- of—life—inside body—minding body.

‘Brush to lids—of my own eyes—with sweet—your lips—touch deep—my heart—with spirit dance—your strength as—my own—often fails. We—you and I—do spin wheels—together—and—taste soft wine—in starlight bright—and—setting moon—so large that—reflected eyes— lock these—mind spaces—in—forever memories—of life. Tis—good this dream…Tis—sweet this Night…Shining candles—harbor flash—from sea-today-and-follow-tide…Come to harbor—sirens call…Shining candles—harbor flash…From sea-to-safety-side—tonight.’

And! Beautiful you are…

‘God Bless The Child’—performed by Julie London

Even Here—We Belong…

WL_591‘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.”

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…

Our People—our many—our injured—our women—our children—our homeless? We are Refugees—the running ones— from—strategic Genocide…White towers—and—meetings—and planning—and—meetings—and planning—and—still we die. And—Still! We are—refugees—of Strategic Genocide—praying—dying—crying—and—again planning—denying—and more Ivory Tower—White-world—meetings…Does anyone require God or Allah or Buddha? No! Only—‘We’ are required to ‘Live’…Be damned—the ‘Rulers-of-Anywhere-of-Anyplace and-of-Anytime’…Not needed—for our blood—to inside flow—where blood belongs—and—to ‘synchronize-in-equivalence’—with—sweet—Earth-spin—and—with-each-other. We are—so many—bodies—Lost-Broken-and-Forgotten. War is now! War is yesterday! War is tomorrow! Today—‘we free-fall’—toward—acceleration—and—annihilation—of—Everyday. And! The Witches of Creations Cry!

Fools and folly—of off-world—stops—our only way—to continue—to—be. Foolish—they—fail to see—their vision—be—a fade—into star-stream—and—moon-dust. They remove—our Love…He looked—up and said—”Scan the sky-sweet baby. Must leave… They will kill you—So somehow—go to them—and you will not die.” She too looked—and—only—saw his face— “Without you, I am dead…Without us—we end. Without you—without me—no Baby—and without—we are…” Ivory Towers—bring—Strategic Death—and Plans—to meet—and—Meetings-to-Plan? Still! Bank wide and Somme River wet—falls—physicals—thousands more—spirits all—stories’ lost—to-be-or-too-lost-to-see—tucked inside—smoke—wiz-bangs—teach—life chokes—barbed wire fears—and—evening tears—‘cross—‘Crimson Fields’—a million—one day long—lives—too precious—too quickly—gone. And! The Witches of Creations Cry!

We began—before the stars—And together we melt—into the mist…”We-Be’—Fire and shadows—‘cross a sky—Colored moons—of blood—of gold—and—simple-songs and thudding drums. Stars ‘light up’—home—and—we move by wind—across this place…In sunlight waves and dancing twists—of silver rain and stretching space—and—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—failing dream. Warming suns—just—days ago—with salted mist—and—taste of tongue—and—passion light—and—times of rain—and—wolf cries shout—of sands and home. Across this universal stretch—window shine—and—candle’s light—and let us touch—another peace—of safety sleep—and— lover’s reach.

‘The Trail of Tears’

“The sunrise above them
As they make their way
In the early morning light
No backward glance
Frightened of tomorrow
On a lonely road
Shrouded in misted rain
The vanquished race
They felt the touch of loneliness
They felt the dread of fear
And found the path of wisdom
Along the trail of tears
So many ways of falling
A thousand barefoot tribes
Who trusted promises
No resting place
March into the wilderness
Time their fate decides
Leaving behind them
Treasures and gold
The sun sets before them
In another land
Withered in spirit
The struggle ends”…By Noel Ó Dúgáin

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Trail of Tears’…by Clannad

Natures of Spins Begins…

‘Siúil A Rún’

“Siuil, siuil, siul a run,
Siuil go sochair agus siuil go ciuin
Siuil go doras agus ealaigh lion
Is go dte tu mo mhuirnin slan”

“I wish I was on yonder hill
‘Tis there I’d sit and cry my fill,
And every tear would turn a mill,
I’ll sell my rock, I’ll sell my reel,
I’ll sell my only spinning wheel,
To buy my love a sword of steel
I’ll dye my petticoats, I’ll dye them red,
And ’round the world I’ll beg my bread,
Until my parents shall wish me dead,
But now my love has gone to France,
To try his fortune to advance;
If he e’er comes back, ’tis but a chance,
I wish, I wish, I wish in vain,
I wish I had my heart again,
And vainly think I’d not complain”…written by Clannad

What causes us—to be happy…Who would dare control happiness—a government—a person—a religion? Our own little inner fascist—tells us what and what— not to do? Brain washed since birth—tis the survival of ‘a’ pack…However—all packs—from everywhere—run same—eat same—same be—we—fast-slow-weak-strong-hungry-not-smarter than—a what—still—love little ones—And! Maybe only reason ‘We’ be—donchaknow…Imagine—just imagine—that—when we wake-up—Love-Peace-Understanding—always was the world—of reality—and we had accidentally been—watching a horror film—in a theater of hell…For entertainment?

Draw now—pictures that love—these caves—and—these walls and these—tribes of we—and me—and us—and them—and—before the storm—and—after the end—of rains—of winds and bumping things—and—silent shrieks—once loud—and—now absent—from ear and fear and tear. Sounds—of life drawn—‘cross a million miles—of rock—and rolling till—another—day of storms—and—another night—of passion—shadow dance— beneath a—star-lighted ceiling. Once—again share moments—and lives—and—the power of life. Blood and love—is the matter—of the matter—and—the survival of these—survivors of wherever—gods and whatever storms.

Is Spin World—good—is good—is balance of wheel—syncopation true—symmetry—cut grass—to lawn—green grow—too-to-‘fro’—then cuts again—to match—eye’s sight—wronged—or right? Rip parts—animals do—due—to survival need—bleed—seed—then wronged—or corrected—detected—consumed—only to be replacements? Needs to cheat—each-to-other—one or two—then more—too many—score—before—others-do-to-you—survival required—to win—to lose—too many—to count or rout—before—the over-of-out—begins again? Then spin—us twirls—of balance-speak—world perfection—balance squeak—when one thing dies—to others—survives—the lies—of imperfect—Gods’ whirls—imperfect twirls—nothing loss and nothing gains…Then ‘we all’—again— remain…

“The family is the natural and fundamental unit of society and needs to be protected by society and the State.”(Article 16 (3) of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights)… Slums are the creations of  Capitalist Elites…And! Maybe Truth is a Fiction of the Mind?

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Siúil A Rún’…performed by Celtic Woman

Spirits Sell Dreams Again…

771Winter Landscape, with Rooks

“Water in the millrace, through a sluice of stone,
plunges headlong into that black pond
where, absurd and out-of-season, a single swan
floats chaste as snow, taunting the clouded mind
which hungers to haul the white reflection down.

The austere sun descends above the fen,
an orange cyclops-eye, scorning to look
longer on this landscape of chagrin;
feathered dark in thought, I stalk like a rook,
brooding as the winter night comes on”…by Sylvia Plath

Early morning—sounds are soft ‘gainst ear—and—movement here—does not play darts—and goes—and—stop or start. Reflect—don’t think—and—happen—as life happens—in a sweet flow— of quiet seashore—and moonlight—bright. Waves gentle—gently removes—sand castle winds—fade fast—as eastern stars’ twinkle faith—and—roars of today’s—day touch future stops and goes. We are—barefoot children—of yesterday’s—todays—and tomorrow’s sunlight—bright. We leave—behind—dances—little paws—marks—in semi-wet sand—cool—and— without ever-care-never. Pipers play and children dance—into ragged-sorted-night—and—as they dance—Goddess flash—darkness—thunders and—those claps-of-little-hands—and—rings join—little songs and laughter—only as a child laugh–sings. A piper of the raggedy—sorting day—the role of rolls—the answer ones—and follow dance—behind-beside and before—the flute of silver crafts—and—the simple-dancing song. ‘A better day,’ they shout—and—everyone agrees—if you please.

If no one died because of War—how different would worlds appear—to be—to see—to hear—to here—to know? And! While snow run ‘cross deep knee—tuck and stumble—carry-to-steps—afraid to breathe-stop—fearing too high—places—not our own—or theirs—then coming spirit winds—round panting lips—face red—wishing air flow—and a knowing—you hear—are here—just as you disappear…And! If spirits sell—would—only dream you back again?

“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.

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

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Round Midnight’…by Julie London

Fancy Us A World Today…

1147‘The young man goes out looking for the diamond in the sea
the old man rows his boat to shore and falls with twisted knees

And you’ll drown before the water lets you in
Yeah, you drown before the water lets you in

The feeling that I feel the most is the one that follows me
all across the starry coast from sea to diamond sea

Says you’ll drown before the water lets you in
Yeah, you drown before the water lets you in

I think the thing I wanted most was just never meant to be
a thousand waves, a thousand ghosts their sorrows follow me

And you’ll drown before the water lets you in
Yeah, you drown before the water lets you in’…“The Water Lets You In”—by Book Of Fears

Would ride—music—out-to-place-where-music-be-then—note-pop—toward—cease-crease time—then quietly—wade away? Tis Ok—alright—donchathink? Once we—held hands—jumping us—from flying whirl—to spinning-twirl—then—back-again. Good falling—when landing gently happens—just before the fall ends and begins—again. What is both exciting and scary—Life? Are we defined by choices of our own desires? What if—‘We-Be’—once crossed a length of space—wig-waggled—from planet-side to earth-ride—Mother Ship—deep in splendid—Petri-dish—love and to form—‘we-do’—from Zoo land reach and gravity teach—among the WTF of creations’—relations—with ‘We-Be’ and ‘They-See’? And! Is life often scattered among the illusions—of perceptions or reactions—to perceptions’ folly—in this ‘runaway—alternating dream.’

Religion has preempted the field of ethics—turning morality against man—and usurped—
the highest moral concepts—of our language—placing them outside this earth—and beyond the reach of We-Be’…‘Exaltation’—is taken to mean—an emotional state—evoked by contemplating the supernatural. ‘Worship’—is the emotional experience of loyalty and dedication—to something—high and—above man. ‘Reverence’—is the emotion of—sacred respect—to be experienced on one’s knees. ‘Sacred’—is superior to—‘not-to-be-touched-by’—any concerns of man or—earth side whines or whimsy. These concepts—do name actual—-emotions—though no supernatural dimension exists. These emotions are experienced—as uplifting or ennobling—without the self-abasement required—by religious definitions. What is their—source or reference in reality? It is the entire—emotional realm—of man’s dedication to—a moral ideal….It is this—level of emotions—that must be—redeemed from—the murk of mysticism and redirected at its proper object—‘we-be-us’ folks—donchaknow…

Entity Religion—is in constant enmity with one another? Satirizes self-contented morality and suggests that—-in the end—all religious groups are going to engage in violent and selfish acts— regardless of their professed moral teachings. Just another Government and ‘governing whimsy’ is corrupt—nasty and destructive. Religions’—-immaculate contortions—‘American Style’—twist in-out of ‘the Separation of Church and State’ producing a ‘Governmental Right to Legislate Morality?’ Wrong! For only Lovers-have-Lovers’-sacred-right-to-Love. Love is being…Morality is a selfish word!

Portion-for-us and scatter 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 crash booms—into the silent space—-between raindrops and life…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 up—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.

These are the salty ways of salted sea and flecks of foam scatter—along shore-sided shifts of sand from wet-to-dry and dune rise—above and beyond watered edges—before ruined boardwalks remind-nothing-of- something—once savored and watched and known by forgotten ones—once upright writers of the times—and the sounds of ‘days of a future’s past.’ Still! We all cross spaces along these places of—the races in time gathered—and night ships crossing heaven’s ragged ridges…

Woman—warrior—Man—warrior…We will together—if required—die—protecting our children and our homes…Man Warrior—know—as you dine in candle-light with Woman Warrior—She is Equal—She is Everything…Isn’t it interesting—in this ‘paternal society’ of a ‘WTF’—‘Good old Boy’ world—that without Woman Warrior—‘We’—could not physically appear? With her gentle touch—She spins these spits of dancing DNA—touch and born—this day—across these Spinners…

‘Fancy Us’—a world where precious women—walk in day/night safety and precious—men do not know a word called ‘War’…Where—love-is-love and force is—‘Never-Ever’ …Wherever—Whatever—and Never is heaven or hell…A place where—life-is-belonging and where—life is—everyday—Good…Heaven or Luck… No! We create worlds—we maintain worlds and we love our children.

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Black Water’…by The Doobie Brothers

Intervals Begin Anyway…

WS_621‘Wooden Ships’

“If you smile at me, I will understand
‘Cause that is something everybody everywhere does
In the same language
I can see by your coat, my friend
You’re from the other side
There’s just one thing I got to know
Can you tell me please, who won the war ?
Say, can I have some of your purple berries?
Yes, I’ve been eating them for six or seven weeks now
Haven’t got sick once
Probably keep us both alive
Wooden ships on the water, very free and easy
Easy, you know the way it’s supposed to be
Silver people on the shoreline, let us be
Talkin’ ’bout very free and easy
Horror grips us as we watch you die
All we can do is echo your anguished cries
Stare as all human feelings die
We are leaving, you don’t need us
Go, take your sister then, by the hand
Lead her away from this foreign land
Far away, where we might laugh again
We are leaving, you don’t need us
And it’s a fair wind blowin’ warm
Out of the south over my shoulder
Guess I’ll set a course and go…”

by David Crosby—Paul Kantner and Stephen Stills…

Intervals begin and—Gods of Greed—square pairs of—Hopes-Choice or Loss. Once again—little while—becomes longer time—Children of Earth-side spin—again—sleep—without hunger—and war birds—disappear—somewhere—inside morning mists…Is it true that—after body dies—devoured by vultures—land based physical creatures—finally free-fly? Language is our means of expressions—inverted—and succumbing to stranger contrivances? Are we speak-masters—sharpers—of too many twists of travel—to be true seekers—of peace? Expressions—happening—often degenerate—often decline—inclinations—to impression—without expressing—impressive—rhymes or reasons—anyway?

Across—dark dividing distance—between world twirl and star lights’ twinkle—wrinkles space-form—benders of light join—twisting dances start—once and ending twice—only to start the stop—of eternal jolt and bolts of flashes—across many skies—of many places seen and known and started and stopped—only to again-begin and again—to sweeten life together—dance—with drum beats—racing hearts and together strength. The ‘I’—is welcomed into ‘We’—powers-to-be-a-sea of them—and the gentle ends—of ‘Me.’ And! It is OK to ‘Dance the Night Away.’ Machined wonders—spirits that guide—the processes of robot arms—robot legs and—watch through robot eyes and hear through robot ears—and once or often weep spirit tears and die— never-ever-even—if a book-or ten call living—‘sins of flesh’—when spirited robots—must live and die and forever move—into dusted star-streams—-while dancing ‘cross twinkles—sketched across the winter’s sky.

And! Beware of the middle of middling places—where middle robots produce the non-productive station—of stationary worlds—no twirl spots without—tops of fashioned—fastening clamps to fantastic swirls—of chaotic-creative—creations. Spaces—without the creations of wonder and joyful—productive productions—crease and cease—along ribbons in space-time and—the continuation of any reason to be—a being—melding into together and universal power. We are—light and darkness—silence—but for a moment—then flash ‘we’ across forever—riding with—sweet Witches of Creation—come—midnight blue and Life…

“Governments are power systems. They are trying to sustain their power and domination over their populations and they will use what means are available to do this. By now the means are very sophisticated and extensive and we can expect them to increase. So for instance, if you read technology journals you learn that in robotics labs for some years there have been efforts to develop small drones, what they call “fly-sized drones,” which can intrude into a person’s home and be almost invisible and carry out constant surveillance. You can be sure that the military is very much interested in this, and the intelligence systems as well, and will soon be using it.” by Norm Chomsky…

There are times—when good silence—makes ways for righteous noise—when sound-speaks another word-or-two—then makes way for again good silence—behind the tucks of night-light and morning’s hush. Of Freedom—with no concrete meaning—attached to the word. Freedom—as idea—must have definition? If Freedom is a principle—it should have definition—to allow implementation…Opened-Eyes—Opened Mind? And! Seek protection—from ‘taking-a-stand’—refusal to admit—the nature of what is accepted—is supporting plans—designed to achieve serfdom? Still! Love or believe in Freedom…What crime is committed—if ‘crime’—is not crime and has not—occurred—in memory-man…What crime when ‘no-law’ provides for it?

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Wooden Ships’…performed by Jefferson Airplane

Purple Night—Denver Light…

NA_149“For I am the first and the last.
I am the honored one and the scorned one.
I am the whore and the holy one.
I am the wife and the virgin….
I am the barren one, and many are her sons….
I am the silence that is incomprehensible….
I am the utterance of my name.”
‘The Mother of Creation’A voice of Feminine Divine Power

Purple lights—fading into—night dark—and ribbons of—coming and going highways—somewhere between Colorado bound—along I-80 and I-76—and a southwest slant ‘cross—Nebraska nights and into—Denver’s lights. 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! 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—brief the flashes—together spread the separate into—singularity—no more than once…

Touch now…And! Feel the intimacy of rhythm or rhyme as touch–speak hides deep—inside—the formality of syntax creep and syntax crawl—where ear-here—hears—echoes bury—an idiom—not conveyed by—dictionary’s spaces—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 Interstate shriek…

Our nature to run—with—or—from—the many or the few…See often—through curved ceilings of doorway—when curved light enters—twenty-one windows round—these openings—to escape places and leave regions. Still! More spirit than body proper—until chemicals—those of doubt and satisfaction rule body—self ending—sometime—in time—without 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.

Twilight and Dawn departure and gates to swirl through—go-to-spaces—between places—both here or there or again back to another here—to fear—to find—to die or to live again—in places without time-signs in parts—or sums to hold again…Ecliptic twirl and 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. Or— Ophiuchus high— stands above sun—rises—feet crossed—Galactic wider and planetary—substance filled from brim-to-rim and back-again…

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…

‘America’ by Simon and Garfunkel

All—Just Want To Be…

1265

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

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

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

You see it really doesn’t matter
When you’re buried in disguise
By the dark glass on your eyes
Though your flesh has crystallized
Still… You turn me on

Do you wanna be the pillow
Where I lay my head
Do you wanna be the feathers
Lying on my bed
Do you wanna be the cover
Of a magazine
Create a scene

Every day a little sadder
A little madder
Someone get me a ladder

Do you wanna be the singer
Do you wanna be the song
Let me tell you something
You just couldn’t be more wrong

You see I really have to tell you
That it all gets so intense
From my experience
It just doesn’t seem to make sense
Still… You turn me on”… ‘Still You Turn Me On’ by Greg Lake

Routes of ‘0’ and ‘1’ slight shifted—sighted lifted—as wig-waggle space—digits’ size—the adder surprise—machined ghosts and wraith swirl—of spirit twirl and whispers—along space ride—world—wide divide —robots’ form and earth swarm—end-to-begin—begin-to-end—to start-short-again—recalled to warm—across the sky and die…Open one hatch—to latch—day long into—places down—tuck—between flowers’ reach—and bullet—teach—where little hands pick—circle twirls of petal swirls—and—small eyes dart to other place—from inside gun smoke—to—far beyond bam-bam-pop-pops or fear—of tears or reverses-verses—of never far enough—to recall—reminders—of once again—begin…

Cause—measures’ matter—changing mean worlds—may need—many more minutes—than humanity lasts—in pasts-presence—and futures-ago—tomorrows. Like beach moves—a shoe full of sand—one time—one shoe-then again—then again—winds discounted-then recounted and forever—change—one shoe at-a-time—takes long days—to change beach places—in the wig-waggle of time and space. On worldwide—other place—where race-to-stop—to never goes—away spaces—never—far enough—to silence—bam-bam-pop-pops—sight—right from clutching ground—to standing away— a corner—of concrete floors and—rusted doors—gate high and wasted.

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

The water’s edge and skies of blue and pink and red and orange and yellow—as earth spin sets sunlight to softness and twinkles of sky-lighted-canvas—sheets the blue-gray into darkness and stars light the sailor’s way along the caverns of space and place and the race of time. Still! We all cross spaces along these places of—the races in time gathered—and night ships crossing heaven’s ragged ridges…

We do not summon gentle love…It whispers to our spirits—and touches us beyond the flesh of resistance and routes of layers and lives inside walls too high to be climbed or under or around or about the shouts of daily doubts and flight. Love heart touches and reaches—into body frail and those impossible attempts to hide among thrones of thorns and weary costs already paid and already spent. Listen—just listen. And! Love reminds us of the equality of equals—woman and man and the spirits of all trapped and—living sentient sentences of life inside body—minding body.

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Still you Turn me on’…performed by Emerson-Lake and Palmer

Still You Turn Me On

Petri Dish Warriors…

1‘The circle safely closed—Tis’ good this Loving Rhyme. 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.’

When you are chasing shadows for your next meal—freedom’s whimsey ends. It is a world we inhabit—it is not me and it is not you—Then! What are We…Spying and ‘Brother Guv’?  Nature’s control—uncontrollable—instantly forever and beyond scopes of science and of imagination. Rarely—fairly sized bits of spaced-placed spins—swirl by the twirl of Terra-formed globes of—mother-ships and heaven rips—along the ‘ins-outs’ through—wormholes and folded space—distance short—through tomorrow’s-daze and reaching toward—yesterday’s-today. Gods roar—small voices and the sky wars begin and end as Watchers—on Walkers Hill gather—and record the might and flight of Petri dish warriors and ‘thou shalt not’ killers form time and place—scatter across one thousand worlds of sin and spin—begin and end and then—begin again.

Petri Dish creations appear—to first crawl or redraw—soups of shimmer and microscopic glimmer— and from those mud pots—creations—cover a globe of twirl—along and around fresh or salted or brackish soups—to boat-float about—by single constructions—to ships of destruction—to curse the folds of space-time purpose—with cathedral towns and roundabout stores…Then! How does the Acts-of-Survival—intended-by-life be bound and drowned—revived to-only-die-again? Babble towers—divinity curses—from Volapuk speak—to the Esperanto’s lyric touch and still to more and other and another—ad infinitum—til good is better to best almost and then—back-to-begin—again. Qwerty and AC/DC speaks of—rhythms and rhymes in ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ and still the ‘1’ of life to ‘0’ not and then back to life’s ebb or spread and hacked—back—again to-begin and then-to-end—again.

Words may—too often influence and warp the processes—through how—we know-what-we-know-we-now-know—or almost future—know-what we almost-may understand—sometime—in some-place-in-space—somewhere-in-time…And! All fits—all places—mostly—almost right-writing and writing-right either incorrectly or almost-always finding fit—too and almost—never-quite-writing-right-correctly…So! Write word-speak and text/message masses—via earphone-to-headphone and standing by—that understanding may begin and start again—in one thousand places—through six thousand spaces—mixes with many—impresses a few—and almost—maybe—enlightens one and with many sounds and through the swirl of syntax twirl—the many may forget the few. OK! But still right bends truth-to-left and back again—’til what—may be true is false again and false once truth is back—again.

Riches flow about the words of sound—tongues known and tasted—treasured—accepted and often heard in other spaces-places seen—felled or yelled against gloom—gathers where sunlight is wishing—spaces scattered among stars of reaches—stretches across skies of night and spaces between word sound—and light. Sand and leaves—together speak—rustle—whisper—murmur and moan of death—not found—of life—not known. And! Still—now notions of her away sounds and her quietude. Feathers and Leaves and Sand and Ashes and Seas—silence see—and thunder be—peels across sky and rolls onto shoreline—and skylines—and time. The share of poet-touch and story-spin—of exile’s faith—of disaster’s private pain—as speech native—fails—creative spirit—often maims—creature-speak and often confuses the never-place-of-everywhere.

And! Beautiful you are…

‘DreamCatcher’…by Cusco