CONFESSION ZERO (The Weaver's Song)

I cannot know what destiny awaits me. I cannot know where the stars came from or when mischief’s charade will end, or if my friends are really my friends or if this is just part of the bigger picture.

Nicknames feign loyalty like The Sopranos® or lend their snake oil charms to the easiest prey so I might use my own thievery to prosper the blade. With my deeds winding tight across my flesh, I'm intertwined with bribes that steal the tongue of another’s spiritual grace.

There was never meant to be Cain and Abel- a made-up tale of woe and murder and kinship… This tale of brothers (like my veins) whose manifestations mock and denounce the sacred ground upon which they lay their heads is a most heart-wrenching failure.

All I know cannot begin to fill such emptiness grown too thin from the years of self-deceit.

My sole purpose is to love…

For love to indeed conquer all, I must treasure my duty to the eartH, the water and the sky, and hold dearest the sacred love for my fellow brothers and sisters. This communion with the original seed of life was my solitary instruction... to love. Love what allows me my breath to champion my failure.

Why can’t I open my eyes to my great fortune? Hadn't I best begin to bow at the original alter?

Life, everything I know, rises and sets with The Mother. An allegiance must be made among all brothers and sisters, an allegiance among my darkening hope, a prayer that leans nearest to my tireless quest to abandon Home. In my shame I invented "I’m not to blame" and still listen as it echoes down the empty corridors…

Everything I imagine undulates with The Mother and her ripening tonic of nature's cure.

She enters by the old door and asks, "Do you feel most fortunate to lay your head upon the eartH that asks for nothing in return?" (I'd answer but I'm too busy crying.)

O! Creation! When will you shake me off, dispense with me like the insignificant nothing I am? Will your sorrow-filled wrath take time enough to look close enough, even into the beggar’s eyes?

(Long silence...)


When will vengeance begin to look back upon its reckoning and see that it too has been mortally wounded by the sword?

(Long silence...)

Monster Waves Behind Sun’s Coronal Heating Mystery?
The first question solar physicists are usually faced with when talking about the coronal heating problem is: "The sun's hot! Why are you surprised that its atmosphere is hot too?" It's not that the corona is hot that surprises solar astronomers, it's the fact that whereas the solar "surface" (the photosphere) is known to be a few thousand degrees Kelvin (or Celsius), the tenuous atmosphere just above has been measured in themillions of degrees Kelvin.

An analogy of this would be the air surrounding a light bulb being hotter than the light bulb's surface. It would actually get hotter as you moved your hand away from the bulb! That wouldn't make much sense, and the fact that the sun's atmosphere is hotter than the solar surface suggests something very weird is going on.

The heat of the great star fills our lungs with life, keeps us frothing with stories written by mortals, those who put a deed of sale upon the head of creation, slathered wanted posters with a list of foul conduct highlighted in red ink and a mugshot of the star melting the ice into rivers of steam and floating dis-ease.

On pins and needles, sweat, gnash and weep…

Storm Kills 25 in Philippines
Roiling winds, rushing water, a failure to seize, a loss all around if we don’t sense our duty. Come tempest, come ocean, come sea, raise your sway angrily upon the vermin of doom.

Cancers Might be Newly Evolved Species
Man is young in his journey. We evolve too slowly, metastasize too gladly, our thoughts rear their barren heads like moles.

Evolve! Evolve now, that we might grow our waning love.

Evolve! Evolve now, that we might bow with humble head and with love emblazoned upon our burnt skin.

In the pulse of air a rumbling’s begun to shape us, the asylum of affinity and Heaven exhaling away a throbbing orb. It's burning too brown now with no sympathy or reprieve. Echoing in our uneasy eyes is a vibrating dread just over our heads, through angry shades blown of dust.

No break, no dawn, just a violent flailing! Sympathy and faith, joy and mirth, pawned for a few seconds more of our haggling for an nth of unhappy greed.

Humanity is scratching at Love with a steady coldness. The children and their laughter, their dance and their chatter, the moon and the stars and our green thoughts are all drained to murmurs by our full-scale sorrow.

Where are the sunrises and sunsets seen through caring eyes? Where’s the happiness in our laughter, the high tides in our Love?

Here… all the lawns are groomed like a preacher’s beard, trees traded for sprawl, gardens undone by man’s oily venom, for glossy pools and hands grown into flickering screens and natural beauty implanted with Love-fouled butchery.

The whole lot illuminates the path that leads away from goodness, away from blue skies, clean water, old trees and peace.

The great and towering beasts of our story boom and plunge avalanches of murder through the rooftops of our noisy dreams as the throbs of air and water salute our lungs.




Food & Water Watch

She found them there, walking beside her, eager to breathe Love into her lungs, kiss her beauty with their winged affection that she might arrive back home when needed.

I see the tears welling up in the spirit’s eyes like a downpour that begins with expectation and ends after everything’s washed away and we stand with jaws drenched in prayer.

She floats in the midst of our yearning, among our breathing, uneasy affections, the prayer of the communal spirit, of Love’s divine union with creation.

I’m not there. I’m miles away, yet I sense her, her fragile fingers moving under the knife as the blade turns its edge into goodness with a smoothness calling for her to return.

(In the flesh she’s not had enough time.)

The spirit’s are gathered with their music, with an army of angels awaiting the call to offer the large Love grown down into their wings.

She found them there, walking beside her, eager to breathe Love into her lungs, kiss her beauty with their winged affection that she might arrive back home when needed.

Lord Shiva is also known as Nataraj, the Dancing God. This divine art form is performed by Lord Shiva and his divine consort Goddess Parvati. The dance performed by Lord Shiva is known as Tandava. Shiva’s Tandava is a vigorous dance that is the source of the cycle of creation, preservation and dissolution. Tandava depicts his violent nature as the destroyer of the universe. (Read more...)

When my fears collide with my belief I run from the soberly staged images as if my life were a circle my legs ran round on.

I’d relinquish any battle, any god, any idea of ownership if it would bring an end to the god-fouled racket!

The bat knows that its wings brush up against the unexplained; the living spirits we carry like handkerchiefs snuggled in our pouches, unfilled pockets carved of expectation.

The trees have summoned me once more for my instruction; the Old Lady’s going to speak what I must heed, divulge my purpose, that I might see then without blindness, that I might observe the hand of creation holding out for Love, fingers supple as birth, arms as wide as laughter, the flesh of belief smaller than the duty to my weary worn Home.

Creation’s fondly taken my hands and lifted them in a new-found grace for the world that’s given me my chance again and again until opportunity ran dry and joined my great river of useless words, the tributaries of useless language emptied of any nourishment, sorrow forced from the tongueless and driven like a stake into the heart of hearts of fear, the truth of truths of man’s everlasting.

Lift my eyes to her crown that I may bow in service to her breathing waters, to the magnificence of her sacred presence, to the Love of Loves and let my footing not be that of things I imagine I know, but be of things I've lived. Let me haul up her beauty like the sun lifting the first light of creation. I’ll cower to no one and love all equally with an immense thunderstruck tongue. I'll dismantle words like warfare and murder and rape, then pack them away as firm reminders of my kind's previous madness…

MUMBAI, India - Three coordinated bombings tore through the heart of India's busy financial capital during rush hour Wednesday, killing 21 people in the worst terror attack in the country since the 2008 Mumbai siege. The attacks came just months after peace talks resumed between India and Pakistan, which New Delhi has blamed for past attacks. (Read More...)

The train arrives at the corners of my mouth, its passenger, the scourge of Love, nestles up next to my despair.

Anguish does not consider what it asks of me, my cheerless face pressed against the pane of Love’s wet glass.

My laughter’s spent. My smile’s faint. My displeasure lodged inside the gated circus.

I, the train engineer, steers with bent hands. The unhappy prostitute begins her rounds.

Her lips crack and bleed. Her tattered legs quiver near the crossing. She weeps.

The train moans. I, the engineer shrieks. We, the prostitute and I, take off our disguises and feign shock.

The truth is beset on all sides by the illusion of ownership.

Breathing is becoming scarce these days, this, during the race for my disenchantment, which will crack the earth wide shut to the parade in the sky, our God and Pony Show, the grim reaper of “May I have this dance?”, and delusions of grandeur, (where everything, beyond my own beliefs, cannot truly be known with any fullness of certainty), rides atop this; the fresh renovations to Heaven, while The Grandmother awaits the mind’s arrival.

Come! Let me create something more than fear, more than mere kindness. Kindness brimming with Love, whirling with joy, most ready to breathe another day.

Let me weave my laughter into food and water, breathe hope back into my brothers and sisters and use my fears to weave a watchful courage!

Return to the sky, the mountain, the stream and in between the all and everything and let me make a pyre of my imagined grandeur and then burn it all away. Humbly burn it all away, it’s been getting in the way of Love...

"It was apparent to us that the Allied bombing of WW2 represented an inadvertent environmental experiment on the ability of aircraft contrails to affect the energy coming into and out of the Earth at that location," (Read more)

I used to think birds were happy because they sang, songs tumbling out of their frames, flying with the unseen wind.

Vagabond lover, like contrails etching the sky, your temporary affections and breathless want, stumbling and loud beneath the wordless blue, leave me open-mouthed to the noise found in man’s collapse.

The bluebird doesn’t question why it sings, my kind's the only beast that does.

A Satellite Navigation System for Electric Cars
Bring me around to peace. Deliver my message toward Love. Cart in my kind’s flaccid limbs. Carry my death-weighted tongue nearest to the depleted peace. Navigate the wobbling orb that she might hold me anon, and, with her love, carry me to weeping, bring me to remember the worship of her. My kind has forgone creation’s gravity and now dangles at the mercy of Love.

US Broke International Law by executing Mexican National, says, U.N.
Will I make it back from here? Will my mind walk upon fertile land or will I execute the world’s terror with my tall sickles cutting through Love, the unbendable screens flickering an SOS…

Police say man kills 7 people, including daughter, then himself
The bullet has found its mark so many times. The flesh and blood of creation groans. The darkness wears a scarf nearest my throat as I swing the barrel around to face me.

884 million people lack access to safe water supplies.
3.575 million people die each year from water-related disease.
The end floats alongside my fears just off camera. Creation hovers all around me. Above my head, beneath my feet, cuddling up with my sickly sleep, in the water…

The wind blew through the garden, the breath of creation exhaling its storm. Droplets of water laughed out loud their aria as they bounced off the cabbage leaves.

If love were to encompass the earth, war would have no place to commence, it’s thinning ranks would wail and bellow as high out of the water grew rainbows.
Funny how cabbage have cyclopean shells, huh?

I’ve a pair of eyes, yet I've been blind to a world chock full of rich tyrants and poor thieves, both with eyes closed up tighter than hell, clanking their fat fingers over stolen gold, clacking their fat mouths over want, trembling their fists in fear and agony leaving me eyeless to war.

Peace must come from the seat of unity. Peace is what eludes my kind.

What of your love?

Tortured by my gnashing teeth.

Then speak more of your peace.

Peace cannot be owned. Love, being part of peace, is also joyously free, it's my thoughts that pay the ferryman.

I've failed Peace. I've failed Love.

No. Peace has failed you.

Doesn’t peace swim with love just as the eagle and the trout dance their prayers in both the water and the air?

Love swims inside of peace, love is the air, peace is the water. Peace breathes inside of love, peace is the air, love is the water.

Without love, can there ever be peace? Without peace, can there ever be love?

Without them both, there’s war.

I’ve much graver things to think upon than my greed.

The look on the river’s face as neglect sifts through reminds me of a scowling beast waiting for Love to enter, to be released of its long sentence, to be found culpable, guilty until proven innocent by a jury of billions.

It’s no different than a fouled and substandard justice meting out unfair and disproportionate punishments. It’s not as easy as, “You win some, you lose some!”, I must take responsibility for the mess I’ve made.

In the mean time, let me continue filling my mind up with the breadth of dullness, the caverns of shame, the amassed ocean of the flesh and bone of my cousins as neglect fills the lungs with dirty water and washes this all away.

Flags again are sensed in empty gestures, tied to so many unimaginable transport, stabbed in America’s brittle lawns, impaled deep in the freshly wet green of wealth, staggered and airless in the crying fields, flapped against pickup truck and Humvee; nationalism etched in freshly waxed exterior to twisted frame of the fallen and dead ideals.

Empire's lifting broken families into the air, aloft in the explosion of mourning without comprehending such rage. The dead, suspended in bomb's brown sky. Children are odes instead of laughter, funerals instead of schools, as fear invades their ambitious eyes draped in the fabric of war.

Empire's lifting children up to casualty while its flags they must their flying! Hymns of righteousness must be sung, anthems exploded, void of comprehension. Flags fan the air where shrapnel pierces, penetrates the steel shell of lust, pitching compassion into the oily cloud racking torturous battles upon the world.

There is no national anthem or flag or war that can lift the soil from off the innocent. There is not a God with the claws of gravity to raise this; the soulless murdering. There is but one mercy for the violent flow; a statue must be erected, a statue as high as the heavens made of all of the guns and tanks and bombs and watch as, one by one, Love molds them into stars...

"Casey Anthony decided on June 16th that something had to be sacrificed ... . She took (Caylee's) life and put her in the trunk (of her car) and forgot about her," Prosecutor Jeff Ashton told jurors in the seven-week murder trial.

Closing arguments in the case opened on Sunday morning. If convicted of first-degree murder, Casey Anthony could face the death penalty. (Read more...)

~

“Monster!” “Awful!” “Terrible!” “Horrible!” “Murderer!”

A little girl's life cut short reduced to a memory; her innocent smile, her laughter and budding love.

O! What immense bravery to snuff out an infant, the flesh and blood of the breathing creation!

War is not like that. There is no sentence, save for the one conjured in foul wretchedness. Children are murdered without so much as a trace, tossed to the desert garden beneath the Nakhla. Foul animals can scream, blubber about one child for years. Why remain silent of one hundred and one? Why are they not shaken, distraught by the cries of the howling thousands stuffed under the sand? Why are they not screaming for the murder to end, are they not ashamed of their urge to grieve selectively? They should be mindful of Love, ready to live completely, not sacrifice children for the world’s oil-flooded fun? Their arms should wave of hope, be most ready to embrace them, each and every living thing under the sun.

O! What immense bravery to snuff out children, the flesh and blood of the breathing creation!