CONFESSION ZERO (The Weaver's Song)

Three more U.S. service members were killed in Iraq, making June the deadliest month for American troops in combat since 2008. A total of 14 troops have been killed in combat this month, and another service member died in a noncombat-related incident. This was the highest number of combat deaths since June 2008, when 23 U.S. service members were killed.

Flesh falls away from peace with the squall of time. One, two, three, fourteen, twenty-three, blown to bits by the windswept assassination, relentless lips deflated of a full rapture as Love’s unbolted from her cheerful hymn.

Why insist on fumbling the original pledge? Enough guts to brave the world’s teeth that gnash away at happiness? The fine powder of industry hurling gutters of deliberation amid such noisy gloom stating the time is ripe to end the birthing pangs.

Recognize the affinity to Love’s waiting course, let beasts smile upon it, the well dug trench, and climb out of the ocean of Love that's flooded with a grave midnight. Love is meant to blossom, to respire and grow, not wilt, but bloom like the flowers within an unlocked mind.

Bones clank away from peace with the knock of last rites. One, two, three, fourteen, twenty-three, lopped off by the failing of the sword, a sprint to the finish with the dull courage of hate, with disbelief and murder streaming across scorched and broken lips.

U.S. cost of war at least $3.7 trillion and counting

Each love in this place breathes its own air.

The individual truth, which isn’t universal in its exactness, still soars, yearns to be set free of my hold. After all, what’s it worth to one? It’s lonely, languid, and most ready to take its place in the back alleys of abhorrence. The bean counter hesitates. What of the growing numbers that furrow their way across my arid tongue?

I have much to do. Where to start, who to seek, what to gain? Imagine the lives saved from the dust of war, like a video game where Love triumphs over the misuse of insane doctrines. And these words, like all others, are thoughts that grapple of laughter, liberty, life and Love.

Crows Remember Angry Humans. They Never Forget Their Face.

Scanning the face of trouble, is inherent like the blush of love detected as I dance with another living spirit moving across my span of breath, my affections.

The Blue-winged Warbler pecks at the beetle moving beneath the shadows of trees and the goldenrod and the Brown-headed Cowbird to make its vanishing known. Because there is weariness in the foliage and in Love, I must sing their ode.

I can talk of it and think of it, chat with friends, grumble of the wire thin grief caught in my throat, someone has to think of a remedy for unhappiness, why not the crow?

Space Station Alert as Debris Makes 250 Meter Near miss
820 feet may not feel intimately close, but when it’s just you and a few comrades (and multiple tons of floating metal) you’re going to need help, to comfort the seen and unseen turmoil that is yours to bear. Thus it is up to us, we must champion the cause; our survival.

Coffee May Ward Off Alzheimer’s
Something to stave off even worse things than some creeping subliminal death, only to then act as if it doesn’t matter yet regret the reaping of what I alone have sown…

New, Untouched Tribe Discovered in Amazon
Unscathed and upon my knees… Unhurt by the incessant flap of my lips. Unharmed by my foul use of her soil, yet, not untouched…

Gadhafi could face rape charges, international prosecutor says
Rape, murder, fraud, neglect. It’s already done my friends. What my animal wants in the flesh has begun to deliciously feast upon my soul.

Blagojevich convicted on corruption charges
Corruption’s like the school bully- he’s not liked and he’s certainly not loved, (save for his dear mother), his fear and our trembling is what brought dishonesty to such heights.

Corruption’s like a town drunk- he’s well liked, yet love eludes his gait, (even his mothers), his odor is spinelessness, his spleen’s that of death at any cost.

California ban on sale of 'violent' video games to children rejected
O! Children, come! Play games that needn’t split flesh with indifference, needn't smash bone to smithereens like it’s slate rock. The thin layers of forged love cascading along like fortune are a picture we alone paint, then destroy, as if rubbish. Violence has the somber bearing of the grim reaper, peace has the passageway of love nearest its center.

Choose…

Ex-Citigroup VP accused of stealing $19 million
A pittance to war. A smallness uncounted. A tank, a plane, a ship, a bomb... All of the starving children might get what their hunger calls for.

Sudan: UN authorises peacekeepers for Abyei
Send them in! Enter with love! Fear cannot rule our affections, it hasn’t the will, unless we summon it, it lacks kindness.

Hatred shrinks with compassion, it’s the ice on the sting, the arms of the mother.

Peace.

France nuclear power funding gets 1bn euro boost
Let my eyes be open to truth.

The bomb blasts away the spirit, so the spirit blasts away the bomb. All of this self-preservation won’t hold air, it is the embers strafing man’s footholds, from the fragile to the courageous.

Let my eyes be open to truth.

I’ve been busy trying to hide away. Hide away from all of the spewing ash, the upside down lips in a hurry to leave, the trees, the mountains, the rivers and seas. O! The full-throated beauty of The Garden! What an exquisite place to be able to lay my head, it gives me everything I need to be, to live and laugh and at the peak of everything, immersed with love!

I’m not sure that “who” matters much to me anymore. I’d ask you, but what would I really be asking and what would you really be answering, something you’ve heard or read before? No. You’ll be speaking with your own sweet breath. I’ve been trying to tell you for some time. It’s too late now. Quiet, children! Your minds are much too full of death! Okay. The masks can come off now. Live, laugh and love!

There are no two things that are the same, a blessing and a curse whispering my lessons with trembling lips and driving my red face down into dust. Might I triumph this round, stagger to my corner with legs of rust?

When the sun glints its breath over the seas and streams golden air across the span like a garden of sunflowers, I have to laugh at the breadth of my stupidity. Most damp and dim and without good reason my native Love’s been sabotaged leaving hemorrhaging corpses heavy upon my back, as if I hadn’t enough to carry, enough blood to wash from my slothful hands.

I keep coming back to faith with a vulture’s famine, hunched over a torrent of veins, cleaving the shadows laughing beneath my beak. I return again and again in search of a sunken truth, like a hound on the scent of wide-eyed rabbits darting in and out of the brush, ears unready to hear, eyes exhausted from panic, legs hammering their noise against the thing most lethal to reason; fear.

There are no two things that are exactly the same, they cannot possibly match, no matter how indistinguishable they might seem to be as I drive my mad face down into the sand and sea. Might I come with full Love, or loudly stumble ringside with two corroded knees? Haven’t I done enough to discourage the prowling jackal, held enough air to breathe, left room enough for Love and Peace to thrive in shames bed? I am finished with disgrace! It can howl all night and all day, but I’ve seen and heard enough, lifetimes of regret and woe, it’s time for my Love to reign.

The anguish in the children’s eyes brings me to trembling, a blue’s riff lingering too long in my hollowness like vanity. Like fatal weaponry pointed inward on the world’s kinship, honed in on my brethren of flesh and bone, my original family, like the coldness of death that’s come unattached from the spirit.

They cannot know my belief. It’s hard enough to have my own these days with all belief colliding into the unknown, which has never been known, its been the bird singing at my feet, striding over the warble of what might be known, as far as knowing is even possible.

Understand?

As far as I am able to know anything, anything that’s been all around me since my beginning, it has also been outside of my frail human grasp.

Truth is very elusive. Yes. Truth is also unknown, so it would stand to reason that it’s obscure. Yes.

Nothing can be known that is unknowable and visa versa, in my flush of flesh, in my brittle of bones, in my heart of hearts of Love...

I say, Amaze me, creation! Wow me with your enchantment! Bring me to my feet avowing of your undying Love! Send the sourness away from my hunger with haste.

Done.

Let my eyes remain skyward… the blood’s too much!

Silence...

The anguish in the children’s eyes brings me to trembling, a blue’s riff that lingers in my hollowness like unreturned Love, like indifference to my brothers and sisters of all colors, like coldness to the earth that asks for nothing in return.

What else must I do to satisfy the eternal mystery?

The days are stretching out and I keep imagining I’ve got time, got an inside track on what is knowable, an inside ear on the ultimate game of inside jobs, or do I imagine that I'm  immortal, god over my own murder and greed?

Should I scream? Shouldn’t I? Should I bow? Scream! Scream! Scream! Scream!

Sun's shining now, all’s well that ends well. Scream!

It feels like forever... my cry, my plea, my love to voice, my love swimming forever and ever into its own, from fledgling innocence to full bore flesh splayed for the world to witness the gravel of graves, the bleached bone and flesh of consumption, the sharp end of the sorrow coming my way, birds flying higher, higher still to simply breathe. The dream’s concluded, now is the time to act.

Scream.

Banner held high, fingers pushed up in peace, mouth taking in all the Love that it can bridge, that it might slather over the grimace of greed.

Put my feet in motion! Put my love in overdrive!

I’ve much to unlearn. There’s nothing more, really, that I need to know, aside from, “motion creates”…

I love. I love. I love from end to end of my affection that cradles me without want, save for the care of her ailing grief; her demise at the paws of ungrateful beasts.

I love.
I love.
I love.
I love.
I love.
I scream…

Obama to announce plan to pull 30,000 troops out of Afghanistan
Thirty thousand. More is needed. Much more. Bring water and food. Haul peace in by the jackboot. March war out of the sand by the scruff of its matted shell, drag it kicking and screaming of our deluded ownership.

Thirty thousand. More is needed. Much more. Arms held out with love turning in its fingers, bombs diffused with great care. Boom Boom Boom, inhales the lie. Hush Hush Hush, exhales truth…

Greece: Athens faces moment of truth, EU's Barroso says
A moment of truth would be nice to see. Full lips kissing all of the leftover love, hips grown down into the soil of our feet, truth bubbling up over wobbled knees, peace rising along with the new moon.

FDA releases 9 dire tobacco warning labels
WARNING: Mankind may cause dread.

Cancer, like war, rears its god-fouled head. Cancer, like murder, whirls its dry blade in us. Cancer, like abuse, puts its hands to our throats. Cancer, like genocide, strangles us of our half death.

-Cigarette Smoke Contains Carbon Monoxide. -War Smoke Contains Human Unkindness.

If one must choose one over the other, choose tobacco, there’s less suffering in it.

Africa’s Great Wall of Trees
O! Let the sand know it’s not alone! A great wall of red, yellow and green; loving armies striding across the Sahara, groves of loving limbs reaching up to the sun.


************************

I do not know. I believe.

I don’t know. I am but a man. I’ve done little to dissuade the talon’s in my own hands, save for screaming and crying out loud! Save for my most despicable sin; abandonment of belief, of child, of true Love, of truth.

But this is not about me. It is about that which sustains me without my asking as the crimson fireball of my collective desire is imminent.

I do not know. I believe.

O! What a thing am I and my dreams of control! Escalating rage and suspicion strutting about the span, taking their place in the conclusion of the unknowable.

I do not know. I believe.

Why copy what another thinks because I just can’t be?

I do not know. I believe.

My kind's gutless that way, emptied of any feast for truth, beholden to that which cannot be taken back, which cannot tote sustenance to a child’s lips.

I didn’t dream this! It is real!

It is the spirit’s will! It is ready!

It is red with Love, green with life and the last white-hot hurrah!

I must prepare myself to be mesmerized by my own hand’s affections and for doubt to emerge with fear and deception. Do not pray a sideways word, but instead, wrestle them down with love and affection.

I must steady my limbs to walk up the mountain of snakes, among those who have not yet understood where they’ve been; lifetimes of suffering as I can’t seem to grasp the sepulcher of man!

The grip of love loosened without my knowledge or consent, a devious machination, an outpouring of cruelty and conceit!

I'm not in an interim space. I need reflect on my own love, think of where I truly am…

A holding pattern? For what! I needn’t hold out any longer!

Reach for Love! Extend my arms with acceptance, with her virtue, the Mother’s tongue wagging a most valid signature bathed in forgiveness!

Let me pray I arrive before the hounds of man’s hell cuts into another’s flesh and bone in search of self; stalking another’s belief instead of my own!

Let me believe with my heart …and my mind!

One, it would stand to reason, cannot subsist without the other, nor can the singular soul rise without the two betrothed, save for the spirit of both.

The spirits that dance across this threshold are not content. They’re miserable because they believe in an angry god; their person not yet living with their spirit, unaccustomed to its demands to Love, to its trust to embody flesh and bone... and spirit!

O! What a joyous day to be alive! Thump thump goes the heart; the soul’s rhythm maker beating out a song for me to hear, for me to heed the exactness in its counsel.

For years I listened to them. I listened to their anguish, their sorrow, their conclusions’ of self, their voices; sadness saturating all of my kind upon a misguided path.

O! Haven’t I done enough to dissuade my most sacred journey from taking my hands and welcoming me into the fold of eternal Life?

O! Joy! O! Laughter! Rise up with the dawn and greet the world with smiling lips and be!

Be in belief! Turn the corner and step on home…

Do not make a covenant of war and genocide (or anything that attempts to separate love and divide kinship) for it is not a pact for me to make, it is hers and hers alone to carve.

Cease this foul use of her love! End the onslaught of discontent. This is heaven, as far as I can tell!

Rise up with a voice trained on peace, with eyes set upon love, a mind stumbling with wonder, guns pointed inward toward the sadness.

My mind is useful when it is at peace, not before or after, but continuously …without the bludgeon of noise.

I didn’t necessarily want this, or so I tell myself from time to time, from moment to moment of witnessing my belief as if it’s sacrosanct, trying to disregard who I am, who I’ve been.

I’ve been you and you’ve been me, and we've been they and they’ve been we. Let me conclude the suffering that’s within my hands to end!

O release my darkness! Fling it to the heavens, that it might look down upon me and witness my stumbling around, that it might gaze upon my bleeding heels clefting within the shadows!

I must descend the mountain’s I’ve made of my thoughts, release them of their bond with agony, this hell and torture!

I am but a man, nothing more, nothing less, begging myself to relinquish war! Retrieve and accept peace and love as the only thing worth struggling for.

I do not know. I simply believe…

As we gathered on the warm cliff that is Great Grandfather’s lap, our breath whirled its greenness upon the midnight sky, Great Grandmother beckoning us across the threshold of her ballet.

The moonlight danced upon the curve of the sacred water as lines traced across the sky like limbs, thin branches to prop up the stars …and my kind’s ungodly thoughts.

My Love was wide eyed with awe, with sorrow. Her gaze, like a sentry without fire, led me to stagger over stones. (Her breath told me that it was going to be a long night.)

I felt Love’s grief pierce my heart as we cuddled up. It wasn’t fear or regret; it was anguish lifting us to imitate revelation, to act out nature’s drama with hanging eyes.

The mountain came alive with voices; Great Grandfather bellowed his return as Great Grandmother slapped the air. Unaccompanied, I ascended the dark mountain in search of the hallowed ground where corpses slept, the path was lined with vipers and silhouettes of madness as I hauled her grief to the crevice and let it fall away.

I stumbled down the mountain, bare, blind and crippled, the serpent’s chain came alive with my awe and my hand stayed too long on its skin; cold, damp and angry.

I left no offering, save for that of her heartache and my regret. I called out to my Love to let her know that I was coming back, returning with open arms, ready to tote the weight of any leftover death.

I arrived tenderly and cuddled up with her wavering spree. She pushed her arms out seeking a freedom from it all, from years of indoctrination and insensible warfare, death.

Up the mountain to dump the corpses, pray for safety, lurch over stones, lay a hand on the serpent, shudder, wail and ache. Three times I went up the mountain and thrice returned to my Love. At last I snuggled up against her silence, the thing that stirs my speech, lifts my eyes with wonder and brings my hand to stroke her furrowed brow.

As we closed our eyes for the night, the old man and old woman cackled their goodnights with a finality of anger and doubt and we conceded our journey with reverent dreams.

Venom approached me with a varied gait. With urgency, it waited on me to turn away, to dash innocence with my selfish tongue, to flee from Love, to charge with rage. Poison isn't bashful, it dotes on no one. It injects doubt and uncertainty with glee, its wrath constructs thick barricades made of unexplored fear and conceit. It cracked open her tender heart like a levee breaching trust. I didn’t add to its torrent. I illuminated a fresh passageway for Love, a path that curved the creed of the day and opened the gates to her pain; the flood of corpses filling with the emptiness of darkness.

It’s not her fault, it's mine. She wasn’t prepared to witness the fetid water puncturing her fortress made by the weight of man’s doctrine, creeds that act as a yoke upon her habitual comfort arriving early. The idleness of sheep digging their vast caverns between inherent Love and unknown misery paralyzed her kernel of freewill, of precious self, and reached its filthy fingers inside her disguise resting nearest her tight lips and shuttered eyes. Oh Love! Bridge your laughter that she might fly!

Without shoes or worries, the children swam their laughter through the fountain that flowed with an eager pleasure; the delight for a day that wafted with their bursting wish.

They seemed content, a warm and suspended satisfaction brushing against blameless limbs dangling over the rim, copper and silver grinning the hunger of expectation.

We put all of our prayers into a dime, and, without a shard of want, save for the tender wishes coming true, we lobbed it down and I asked the children to make their wishes for goodness, craft them of a love for mankind, for goodness to be made known. Even the dog beamed its happy teeth in humble righteousness. Everyone laughed, as if they’d finally recognized paradise standing before them, green happiness danced of childhood, turning eyes aloft in innocent belief, hands hugging the sky, fondness puckering lips as our love's coin was mad flung to heaven.

Under the ice, the arctic garden floats with abandon. I’ve found it there, pierced its sway with my beams that walk on water without so much as wonder.

Is there something that I'm trying to know with a mind that remains a step behind, fluttering with discovery, heedless to counsel?

The Arctic Tern with its summer girth, the Ice Worm shirking the sun, and Little Blue fairy wings hunched in a flightless parade, know that Love's in trouble as the ambitious omen weeps its red beams through the dwindling ice, probing for a solitary minute more of salvation.

Is there something they're trying to say to me with their toddling passage?

Am I alive enough to sense the reckoning?

The beams tell me no.

My love blanches at its reckless path. My greed salutes the sky with a single digit, a predatory wave growing warmer, growing under itself, sending in a brigade of warm water to blot the day.

Might the beams penetrate the thickness of my wits?

What am I to do with knowledge which cannot be known?

And since it is unknowable, what, then, am I to remember? Am I to memorize the totality of that which is indefinite? Is imprecision even possible to imagine? To lead from the flesh or flow from the spirit?

Yes.

It is a choice I make. It is a howling life that I alone conjure. It is a cry of existence I mold as my own. It is a belief that’s mine to accept, a paradise to open my eyes to.

My being is separate from who I imagine I am. Faith is rooted in the unknown, telling me that I cannot know anything.

Thought is meant to instruct. It is not a foundation of what is, it is a foundation of what can be, and what I imagine cannot be truth. Faith is the only knowable thing, aside from the charity that swims near the ribs and waits for the feet to begin their dance.

My mission stems the tide if I allow it. My mission comes without a script. It comes with a pulse that needs attention, embraced like a child in danger.

Without embracing Love, I cannot have breath. Without breath, I’m unable to embrace Love, therefore I must enable my breath and open my lungs to grip all living things, all that has passed and all that is present.

It is truth, not as I assume it to be, but the embracement of that which cannot be known, known by my flesh or through some circular canon and not beholden to the weapons of the doctrines of corporation, or the least of greed, or influence.

Love is not to be bonded, it is to be free; a dance whose rhythm might be similar but whose steps lead me down a separate path.

It is free! It is up to my individual spirit to grip the trigger or hold the bullet, to accept the entrenchment of love or to eradicate its pounding death.

Suffice it to say, I’ve a long road to enlightenment standing before me. I can take its hand and dance or I can walk away with my arms in rusty chains, shackled from greeting the only thing I can truly know, Love.

The eartH, the wind, the water, the tree, the sky and mountain, speak the only truth I know...

The eartH is my living room, the wind is my ceiling fan, the water is salvation, the tree, a borrowed lung, the sky, a museum of art, the mountain, a fortress.

I am most fortunate to not have been expelled from life’s dwelling. Just how much more time should I allow to pass before the obvious begins to shape my spine into sandstone, my love into ragged canvases painted with the things I no longer breathe?

The eartH, the wind, the water, the tree, the sky and mountain speak the only truth I know…

Every child upon the earth feels with their spirit, mothers tell them to stay by their side, there’s less panic in proximity.

They’ll learn that they cannot remain when the wind calls out to them, lifting their feet in freedom, fluttering their briefness like mayflies.

They love, yet do not understand that Love is a lifelong journey that expands only after all of their suspicions sleep.

Their small hands hold my sleeves as I weep for my own youth’s span that suffocated from a lifeless tongue.

A thousand gallons of flesh and blood still pours over the soil as testimony, as marker for my loveless obedience.

The half-love I taught only hobbled, it didn't dance or soar with charity until, from back to front, it was unwritten.

I cannot bring them around with war, with anything that teaches separation. What on earth made me think I could?

The scenes of battle, real or imagined, steep my familiar sleeves in blood and mask innocence with casualty.

How long did I think it could last, my smile beneath such heaping fear?

Now everything hammers of sorrow, eyes wide with an absolute disbelief, innocence thrashed with liquid dreams, righteousness deprogrammed by deceit, proper Love left behind by coldness.

Bring my affections out to greet them, heal their fears with the power of love and hold close the child's gleeful innocence, it’s the only thing standing between them and the somber instructions in my breath.

Guest contributor (Discovery News) Adam Crowl looks at the fuel required for an interstellar trip and finds a gas giant with huge mining potential.

...However, there is a surprising amount of helium-3 in the gas giant planets of the outer solar system, and in the original 1978 "Project Daedalus" report Bob Parkinson suggested mining it via floating robotic factories in the atmosphere of Jupiter. Since then a different planet has moved to the forefront of gas-mining plans because it lacks Jupiter's intense gravity, Saturn's gigantic rings of orbital debris and is closer than distant Neptune.

Man’s footprint stretches deep into the forests, into the water’s depths, into the mountains, into the ground and now into outer space! Haven't my hands bled the eartH sufficiently that I need mine elsewhere for the spark? Hasn’t my rage scratched its final surface with the pale use of my wits and paws? The forests and oceans and mountains think so. How much more proof do I need in front of me, how much more evidence before I begin to think?

I've been the eartH’s predator, her leech of flesh and bone. Must I drain the world as if I were landlord, evict even the maker pouring forth its great sorrow? Cut the eartH and she winces, throbbing of the weight and kneels like a boxer to signal she’s had enough. The crowd is always disappointed by discretion, let down if something doesn’t die or come gushing. If I, her steward, continue to take more and more, I might be dumbfounded by her quaking return and find myself mindlessly digging elsewhere for Love.

O! Teach me of the beginning again! I'm infected by the weary spectacle, my failing worship of death that I might live forever without feeding on wisdom. Even the children are too prideful of the unknowable, iconic displays hurling down belief like hailstones, one bombing the other without regard to Love, to kinship, to equality in all things, to another’s belief. What have I been teaching them that will exhale tomorrow, when all they want to learn we cannot possibly howl? Let me teach them of Love as if it were science. Let me teach them of equality as if it were math. Let me plant goodness in them as if it were a garden. Above all, teach them that I cannot know anything until my eyes have been propped open by Love, by my care for the eartH and for another.

So be it…