Sky Towers And Sunshine…

“If you’re going to San Francisco
Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair
If you’re going to San Francisco
You’re gonna meet some gentle people there

For those who come to San Francisco
Summertime will be a love-in there
In the streets of San Francisco
Gentle people with flowers in their hair

All across the nation
Such a strange vibration
People in motion
There’s a whole generation
With a new explanation
People in motion
People in motion

For those who come to San Francisco
Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair
If you come to San Francisco
Summertime will be a love-in there

If you come to San Francisco
Summertime will be a love-in there”…by John Phillips

A ‘Jet Show’ begins late this morning. A loud display of thunder-death-from-the-sky and the technology brought to us by another Military Industrial Complex. Do not wish to go—so bow head and when eyes close—remember Golden Gate Park and walking; both, Haight and Ashbury streets. Briefly; tears well and dry’ before a trickle path stains the face just below eyes’ blink.

Another jet drops from the sky and out falls imaginary bombs along its path…It is very quick and then nothing; but, quick-fading-engine-sounds and the imagined bah-boom-booms left behind. Nothing changes when ‘War’ is a dollar’s best friend.

This disease is not one; but, a ten-in-one-destroyer. This killer is infinite in variety and of undeniable power. Presently, nothing prevents or breaks its destruction across a country already destroyed by ‘war-stacking on’ and repetitive devastation. What was forest is no more. What was farmland is inhospitable soil. Unlimited infirmaries are absent. Accumulations of ability are vanished. Healers are in short supply. Farmers are few and their tools-to-farm are gone. Machines of commercial quantities now rust from ‘Oil City’ rains and country nothing. Presently, there are scattered boneyards for one billion soldiers. And! Funeral pyres for five billion men-women and children…’Innocence always dies before the fall is final.’

“Well I’ll be damned
Here comes your ghost again
But that’s not unusual
It’s just that the moon is full
And you happened to call
And here I sit
Hand on the telephone
Hearing a voice I’d known
A couple of light years ago
Heading straight for a fall

As I remember your eyes
Were bluer than robin’s eggs
My poetry was lousy you said
Where are you calling from?
A booth in the Midwest
Ten years ago
I bought you some cufflinks
You brought me something
We both know what memories can bring
They bring diamonds and rust

Well you burst on the scene
Already a legend
The unwashed phenomenon
The original vagabond
You strayed into my arms
And there you stayed
Temporarily lost at sea
The Madonna was yours for free
Yes, the girl on the half-shell
Could keep you unharmed

Now I see you standing
With brown leaves falling all around
And snow in your hair
Now you’re smiling out the window
Of that crummy hotel
Over Washington Square
Our breath comes out white clouds
Mingles and hangs in the air
Speaking strictly for me
We both could have died then and there

Now you’re telling me
You’re not nostalgic
Then give me another word for it
You who are so good with words
And at keeping things vague
‘because I need some of that vagueness now
It’s all come back too clearly
Yes I loved you dearly
And if you’re offering me diamonds and rust
I’ve already paid”…by Joan Baez

The Towers-of-Office are large towers. They are packed-to-brim with the Soldiers of Fortune. Towers of clones and Towers of sham. Below these structures industry materializes. Above! There is a whirling of all shares-of-measure to-be-purchased or-peddled without concern for: ‘We the People.” We are the creators of all commodities. We are the originators-of-survival for those clowned-clones-of-mischief. Offices are high and dry and lighted and—still dark. And! Hands are clean hands and labor does not occur.

These towers are buildings without prestige. They are rich structures without form. These places appear a cornucopia of shapes with no rhythm or rhyme. Lines both; hard and simple, reveal and complicate turns and curves. Synchronization of positions and flawless of construct. Elements of precision and of mischief. Often the eyes of Spirits active are miniatures. Often specks and flecks of gold and silver coats. Many are layered but still seen by beholder and beholden. Ice streams descend in slow straight lines—from rooftop slopes to solid sidewalks. Planes and plain models are soon streaks of many colors-colored glass and permit-in transitory twilight. Then, out-of-sight and with this bright-city-light appears an ‘almost-maybe’ night.

Civil layers never die. Tradition slips, and graciousness is forgotten. So are whirling dances and twirling songs. Touch lips and finger kiss your lips to mine then time space while moments’ race…And! Silence then carefully watch tonight. Sails do catch sparks-of-wind and high tides to run-to-sea-you’ll-see—won’t we? Struggle is perfect for the winner. The impartial distribution of resources never legitimately occurs. Productivity costs; over time, with all reasons spent, some products lost and some reasons to divine.

Do we trust-in-truth? While promoting and demoting forms of deregulated regulations and as speculations-in-ruin penetrate permissive perversions, the invasions of individual-greed-so-powerful completely dismiss all values and ruins the strengths of our Collective struggles. Tangible wages are gone. The powers of Societies’ Unions are gone. And! A Right—Wrong transference in Economics, Politics, Labor’s markets and an enlightened American refinement are now ‘all gone!’ ‘Trickle down’ is a perpetual lie! And! Remember; ‘there are no Blue Color Billionaires.’ Why support Capitalism since it is now; ‘Insatiable and Unequal and Repressed and Tyrannical and an enemy of ‘We the People’ and of ‘Earth’s Twirling Humanity’?

“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-Bah-Boom-Bang-Bang and let the game begin—again… ‘Tis’ good this Loving Rhyme. So! Follow this Time—this Twine—Re-wind. And! While I breathe—I Hope…

Light tumbles and darkness strokes streets and sheltered bricks and flaws and cracks. Impacts collide with those scented secrets and motions flow without sounds. We are the kings and the queens of these streets. This City is our city. World Spins and seven moons; two largest, two larger, one large and three from small to smallest; replicate spins-to-swirls, along expected lines and impossible attractions. All to rotate ’round about a solitary sun of bright light and due to an impressive distance; there emerges, blue forms and purple nightfall. Rafters are those sailors of Green Brinies; Emerald Seas, Surfs’ high curls of fifteen foot crests and set-to-shoreline and way-back—stone homes and shingled stores. Rafters are too, Sky Riders. Surfs’ sky curls are shaped by eternal coasts inside the mists of the forever mind.

On a semi-dry ‘kinda’ gentle cool, when sun dips swiftly and flatters night slips quickly, dimness folds into short -moon and gathering times begin. Alter now; customs and styles and accept hollow space and poise and repair. Darkness slides into day and ends night…Night fills lighted places and switched-on bulbs reveal grays; shadows many, forever produced and forever failing to cheer the sun. Our lives are fluid—liquid pour—consume and replace and replenish and then–recall something else—another time or some other rhyme.

And! Rain does pour from sky onto roof and 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 and collects on sidewalk’s flooded cracks into pools of wet and of mud carvings and pavement soaks.

Still here! Beneath this heaven 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 good. 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. Now! Touch the Witch-of-life and taste her sweet 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…

 

‘Comfortably Numb’—Pink Floyd

 

“Diamonds and Rust’—Joan Baez

Life moves—Life modifies—And!

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

 Ruled by the will of little people and the middling people, and by the demagogues they elected…And! Hobbled by moral laziness and fear…” Jonathan Fenby

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

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

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

“Inequality, even among the educated—often leads to demagogues…Demagogues rejects Openness and blames ‘others’—immigrants, foreign manufacturers, news media, racial or ethnic or religious minorities. “Demagogues rejects openness and blames ‘others’—immigrants, foreign manufacturers, news media, racial or ethnic or religious minorities” …Robert Reich

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

With care— we manufacture robots tiny—bundled rows of life about Earth-rise—underneath Moon-sparkle—still altered-still same and always twirl-spaced across Time bridged and rhyme. We inspire desire and require sweet diversity. Until shaped—we shift created life—a fabricated slip and tanked in agile spark from womb-song-to-light-then-back-again-to-two—again. Would have this—no other way-eh!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dare we—touch or dare to reach the inside spaces of Code-genetics and count the current streams—to spin—to craft—to be or—leave the untouched alone—Why not touch to feel?

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

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

Dare we—touch or dare to reach the inside spaces of Code-genetics and count the current streams—to spin—to craft—to be or—leave the untouched alone—Why not touch to feel?

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

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

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

And! Beautiful you are…

 

“Stardust” —Delain

“Closer to the Heart” —Rush

The Space Between…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And! Beautiful you are…

 

‘If I were a Carpenter’—Robert Plant

 

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

 

 

 

To Many—Too Often…

The word ‘Honor’…Many descriptions and quantifiers regarding this word…Honor is not a word. It is a singular way of life. It is without description and not reserved for Military motions. It is not an Executive twirl or a Legislative swirl…Though legal twist and turns, it is not a Judicial term. Honor is a simple way of Life.

“In the current phase of intellectual corruption, it must be stressed that, like democracy and human rights, the economic doctrines preached by the rulers are instruments of power, intended for others, so that they can be more efficiently robbed and exploited. No wealthy society accepts these conditions for itself, unless they happen to confer temporary advantage; and their history reveals that sharp departure from these doctrines was a large factor in development.”Noam Chomsky

Sky crust—blocks pearl light—as an evening of workers—failed strengths—home bound—as ‘Nighters’ replace the ‘Eveners’ and continue—work begins—ends and starts along the edges of digital clicks and analog clacks. Time cataloged into spreads of pages—indexed—assorted stuff—straightened—arranged—packed for space-spin—or unpacked to—go consumers—consumed with curiosity—hunger—required—needs or fulfilled desires. Oppression—succeeds when its legitimacy is internalized. The freedom to write it right—write—writing—toward left of sails unfurled and imagined as sea endless might and distance ‘tween stars— ‘tween galaxy— ‘tween the universal folds of space. There be books here and listen to these stories from spirit-speaks—of volumes long and voltage sweet. We—change everything with Blue Planet Waste?

‘The most heroic word in all languages is Revolution’-–Eugene Debbs

Landing places are measured by the spaces between Zero and One. Computer’s shrug in Yes and No. Where one arrives is never known until travel ends and arrival begins. To Heaven—to hell? Perspectives are various and determined again by ‘Yes’ and ‘No’. Empathy determines the variety of groups’ survival and through the artistic impressions of all things determined and created.

Light Fall and Darkness touch street and cover brick crack and moonless crackles. Colloid collisions—to scented secrets—and motions without sounds. We are kings and queens of these streets. This city—is our city. Listen! Our streets vibrate with good life—sweet blood and the strength of poverty covering America…’Feed my People’—strong words—weak wills to solve and still solutions are apparent and ready to use for many willing to share and to simply end greed. And! Please remember that a Police State is allowed when governments—desire only—to protect and maintain—Societies’ Hierarchy—and be damn the People…The Wealthy have forgotten with whom they once danced—and from where their worth began—developed and multiplied…Why are the many sounds of Poverty silent—when greed deafens—growls of hunger and the pleas of need—in the Mystic— ‘Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave?’ Protest and Speech Politic—twirls now toward the swirls of grenades that flash and crying sprays and Robocop of ‘all-dressed up’—and still—the You and I of—Us against each-other…

We are a place where laws were enforced by us without ‘dress-up’ and the notions of ‘bodily harm’ or the invasions of street-to-street—places with threats of harm by ‘other eyes’  conditioned to see our neighborhoods and us (‘We the People’) as their Enemy…People-Person-You and I—We still are…

Our lives are fluid—liquid pour—consume—replace—replenish— and then—recall. Surprise! How we shift—habits and ways—allowing for empty space—of balance—restore. Darkness seeps—slowly into day—end bright…Night fills lighted places and turn-on bulbs—share grays—shades many—always simulate and always fail—to cheer the sun…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.

This dot-dash in time is not America’s ‘darkest hour’…” Donnie T.—Be” not darkness; just a candle no- spark, no-match-to-wick—quick—foolish words—entertainment—more criminal than ‘ever clean.’ A fox in a ‘house-of-hens’— is honorable…’Donnie T. a Poser Be’—loss unity—without integrity. “A cloud of cicada on acid. A thrumming high-pitched squeal of acoustic irritation.”

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

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…

 

‘What We Do’…Oh Wonder

 

‘Crimson and Clover’…Joan Jett and The Blackhearts

Tiny Bundled Rows Of life…

“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.” by Candy de Rouge

With care! We manufacture robots tiny—bundled rows of life about Earth-rise—underneath Moon-sparkle—still altered-still same and always twirl-spaced across Time bridged and rhyme. We inspire desire and require sweet diversity. Until shaped—we shift created life—a fabricated slip and tanked in agile spark from womb-song-to-light-then-back-again-to-two—again. Would have this—no other way…

“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

By! Forcing our ‘Movements to Resist Earth’s Destruction—to regroup—and to protect their own blood—free of illegal bondage and unnecessary Death—is an absolute—WTF! Sweet-Earth-Mother-of-Mine, how the Witches-of-Sweet—Creations—Weep. Must our—Environmental crisis—be cursed–never reversed—and—always challenged by the ‘Gods of Capitalism’?

Petrie dishes’—life dollops’—creations dolls’—spirit robots’—and in the twisty-misty—mostly void—space dustless—mother ship rust-less—and wig-waggled miles to gain—before the ending day—just another way—realized—forgotten—remembered—embraced and replaced. At its most basic level all Life is ‘sanctity’ not in its mystical twirling—but in its endless swirling of supreme value. And! Androids do dance into Electric nights and love—does lead shifting-shapes—through—darkest frights and into those sweetest lights. Shadow-touch ‘cross ceilings of moon—dust and spaces—of time-without-races and inside—these moments—Life is an Almost-a Maybe.

We! Go to war for many-many reasons…And! Not often, but just once-in-a-while—we ‘the people’ almost become free people—but never-ever free of War. One can still love one’s country and hate War…One-can-still-love-one’s-country and Hate the war of ideologies—divisions of colors (‘red and blue and tattoo you’) …We share—we care, and Governments must never separate the ‘We the People’ from the ‘US’ of America…And! If the Executive and Legislative and Judicial branches—treetop high—dance without harmony—hopefully—they will always—dance—check the balance and balance the check—donchaknow? Because of this dance—we may—be free for just a-little-bit—longer…

A President?—‘Donnie T.’ just—another ‘Poser’ be—of country’s failed unity—and leadership?

Global reasons—to exist will end—as wars—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?

“Another head hangs lowly
Child is slowly taken
And the violence, caused such silence
Who are we mistaken?

But you see, it’s not me
It’s not my family
In your head, in your head, they are fighting
With their tanks, and their bombs
And their bombs, and their guns
In your head, in your head they are crying.” Dolores  ORiordan

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.’

Never! Despair—nor accept inequalities—for wealth is not created—to be collect by the few—for wealth must be shared—by everyone—everywhere ‘cross this planet—on this sweet sustaining mother-ship—we gentle ones—- call our own—sweet—Earth. While recorded history show us—inequalities in wealth and the capacity—to create wealth— ‘cross centuries’—patterns of imbalances have changed and altered and damned our human majority—to accept nothing-from-the-blood-and-the-sweet-sweat—of genuine labor—without apparent nor equal reward. From—nations—to between nations— ‘balanced income’—is a ‘never-ever’ reality—for us—the outside worlds call ‘those species—of humanity’…Then— ‘Never-Ever’—react to these—inequality-of- qualities with—absolute—resignation…People Strong—Revolution changes everything—and through—nonviolent means—while never politically convenient—often alters—imbalance.

‘La Liberté éclairant le monde’

“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me:
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.”

And! Beautiful are you…

Creases In Time—Rhyme…

Wondering if the current wig-waggle of government—is attempting to swift change our distribution paradigm? Amazon’s purchases of Whole Foods—challenging FedEx and UPS as goods-to-consumer in reason—is a diversion of forces gathered to scatter—the rhythm as competitive realizations and dreams of small—all businesses—grind into troll’s dust and just as sealed diamond mine entrances—ends mineral searches and songs’ rhyme. The attempts to alter a distribution paradigm may—twirl and twist the structural and strategic foundations of Markets to win or to lose.

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

“We must again become political equals lest we become an authoritarian society!  Openness and equality constitute a virtuous circle. Openness generate much better levels of prosperity. Prosperity allows prosperous peoples to invest in Superior Education—Universities and Schools. Basic Research leads to better health and healthy pursuits. Improved Infrastructures and Social Insurances…Adaption to change is easier when created within the righteous circle of Openness and Equality” …Author Unknown

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

“Inequality, even among the educated—often leads to demagogues…Demagogues rejects Openness and blames ‘others’—immigrants, foreign manufacturers, news media, racial or ethnic or religious minorities. “Demagogues rejects openness and blames ‘others’—immigrants, foreign manufacturers, news media, racial or ethnic or religious minorities” …Robert Reich

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

Is it true ‘that’—“Ignorance is no bar to reason—for it is often a reasonable reverse?” A Society of Modern Thought and Venture is not totally immune from the social force of religions? What of the conditions of ‘human freedom’ and the challenges required by Capitalism and an obsolete system of political economy? And! How has mechanized labor affected individual laborers—restraining the union of voices—apart and in part because of coded words and the efficient destruction of blood-flesh-sweat and blood—again?

What—Why and How must—an economic structure—consider the—modernity of serviced—servitude—a renovated—rendition and a re-naturalization—of Societies’ Laborers—-while all-the-while—casting about impersonal laws—seeking—the removal—of logic from—Humanities’ control?

Václav Havel once wrote that; “the current crisis that the world finds itself in.” He identifies the crisis as a conflict between “an impersonal, anonymous, irresponsible and uncontrollable juggernaut of power” and the “elemental and original interests of concrete human individuals.”

“Ruled by the will of little people and the middling people, and by the demagogues they elected…And! Hobbled by moral laziness and fear…” Jonathan Fenby

Brush—eye-lash-to-face—form dance in dreams and seems—as long pause—no cause— without voice—just breath-to-breathe—tiny freckles—lips to laugh—and—eyes to quest— together. Visions and quiet word—songs with gentle—space and no race—blends of—silence or whisper-speaks. Dreams-then dream quest—cease—increase those—creases in time—curtains’ climb—spaces die—and visit speak—of ways—of star-side streak—of starlight sweet—of gentle union—and love. Life—lives and mingle—heart touch good —as ring-circles—fancy-dance—into love’s rhythm—of love.

And! Beautiful you are…

Expectations And Precious Time…

15423“Love is the force that binds together and moves everything in the universe—creatures and objects are part of a total motion without top or bottom, gravity or resistance”…Chagall

Often we—through visits and thoughts—immerse ourselves in others’ visions-of-many-cultures—so twin—blood same—the magic of knowing this—is discovery. 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 exists—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—crimes of 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…

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.

Deep within the still centre of my being
May I find peace.
Silently within the quiet of the Grove
May I share peace.
Gently (or powerfully) within the greater circle of humankind
May I radiate peace
from the Order of Bards, Ovates and Druids

‘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…

Buildings and Lines…

1631“It glittered and it gleamed
For the arriving beauty queen
A ring and a car
Now you’re the prettiest by far

No party she’d not attend
No invitation she wouldn’t send
Transfixed by the inner sound
Of your promise to be found

“Nothing or no-one will ever
Make me let you down”

Kiss them for me, I may be delayed
Kiss them for me, if I am delayed

It’s divoon, oh it’s serene
In the fountains pink champagne
Someone carving their devotion
In the heart shaped pool of fame

“Nothing or no one will ever
Make me let you down”

Kiss them for me, I may be delayed
Kiss them for me, I may find myself delayed

On the road to New Orleans
A spray of stars hit the screen
As the 10th impact shimmered
The forbidden candles beamed

Kiss them for me, I may be delayed
Kiss them for me, I may find myself delayed

Kiss them for me, kiss them for me
Kiss them for me, I may find myself delayed…”

“Kiss Them for Me” written by—Susan Ballion and Peter Clarke

Buildings without prestige? Are structures rich or without form—do they appear—a wealth of shape and of rhythm and rhyme? Often—the eyes of Spirits—active are tiny orbs of specks—flecks of—gold and silver coats many—or layered but still seen—by both beholder and by the blind.  Lines hard and simple—revealing and hidden by few turns and curves. Harmony of sound—clear of body wraps—substance of the—perfection of bone and of muscle. Ice streams descending—long straight lines—from roof angle to—concrete sidewalks. Planes and plain models—streaks of many colors—colored glass—long pass nightfall—and—long out of sight–right?

Civil Layers never completely die…As traditions slip away—layers are forgotten—in time—as are—dances and songs. Touch your lips—finger kiss—yours to mine—time space—moments’ race…And! Silence—careful sight—tonight—as sail catches—spark and runs—to sea—see? What word means—“perfect competition”—and—“optimal allocation of resources”—and— “efficiency”? Perfect competition—is perfect for—a winner—Optimal allocation of Resources—are never fairly distributed…Efficiency costs—somewhere in time—some reason gone—some ration—divine…

Do neoliberals believe-in-truth? While promoting—demoted forms of deregulated—regulations—speculation-in-ruin—penetrating permissive—and pervasive—invasions—of individual greed so powerful—as to completely—dismiss all values—and—the strength of—Collective efforts…Real wages—gone—the influences of Societies’ Unions gone—and a Right—Wrong shift—in Economics—in Politics—in Labor’s market—and in—the Anglo-American—progressive Culture—‘All gone.’ ‘Trickle down’—a damned—everlasting lie! And! Remember—‘there are no Blue Color Billionaires…’ Hey Now! Celebrate Capitalism—when it has become ‘Greed—Sorrow—Inequality—Persecution—Quicksand Power—and—the ‘Real Enemy of—The People.’

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

And! Beautiful you are…

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…