Mar 07 2015

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Word Rain

word rain 2015In the loss of restrictions is the bounty of freedom and thinking and philosophy under the mainstay of finite solutions, to the proxy of education. Fill in the blanks of emptiness and falsehoods until the wells of fresh thoughts are springing forth into fountains.

Experience the boldness of believers who isolate the words of wonder into mantras of self hypnosis. Find the hidden lining of golden fleece within the tribal rituals of wearing goat heads and horned remnants of past conquests now dead , ravaged and cannibalized.

Howa, Howa, Howa, is the breathing sound of words to the beat of hearts and drums. Dances done to the  rhythm of wind and rain and breeze and trees and water and skies. Listen to the songs of silent singers telepathically focused on their herds of cattle and sheep crying and moaning and bleating in stampedes of dust and debris scattered  over plains of green lands burned by the greed of oilmen, farmers and madmen prospecting for gold or planting seeds.

Future feelings of honesty escape the thieves of time as they run down the clock for a few extra minutes of pondering in the light of fast food offerings on the altars of recycled petroleum and plastic waste circling the earth.

Insolvent bankers run scared against the demanding governments of waste and fraud, until they can no longer stand or run or ward off the persistent attacks of greed. Laughing in the wake of ruin the largess is lost and gone never to return,as billionaires and millionaires jump from their burning buildings and murder their board of directors, while you and I and others refuse to lend them a dime, and our government of real people retaliates against the black hearts of greed and crime. Worshiping in the mind meld of Vulcan existence respecting the life of Leonard Nimoy ” Spock” and immortalizing him as millions of Canadians reface the Canadian Fiver.

Hell bent on waking to a cacophony of musical notes tuning up or loosening keys and stokes on brass and wood and strings. The side swipes of a bald headed music director against an orchestra of dead and dying music from the 15th century. “Ha.” said the one man audience as the comedian fell off the stage and cracked his smile.  Instructed by the Tarot kings in 4th dimensional fantasy the lost Fool of Tarot fame is recognized by his brothers Abel and Cain the Pages of Swords and Wands slashing and clubbing demons in his delusions.

In the cage of contentment the ostrich thinks it can fly and the eagle stays in his nest, a sparrow never falls, a man never runs and a woman never talks, makes love or nurses a child. In complete contentment what is there to do,other than rest in peace knowing your mortal mission is complete.

Death is a deep sleep for the innocent and a delirious dream for the guilty, ravaged by fear and souls of all who hate them, waiting for their eternal revenge in the hell of repentance.

Blessed are the hopeful homeless, who wander on city streets alive without sustenance without  visible means, lost and found collections of misfitting souls of hard crushing blows from friends, family and people they know.

A woman in a doorway of an abandoned house laughing hysterically by herself until she cries out that the house was once hers, where her heart was lost and her life was severed. No one cared, no one heard, non one saw her , but she was there. She and millions of women and men and  children like her suffering in excruciating lament, refugees of torments, cast out of their lives, left to die wandering aimlessly and alone, to starve.

Another woman weeps in a hallway as a maiden moon wanes across the night sky. She looks out the open door and begins to cry. Then she screams and falls to her knees as the maiden moon ages before her eyes into the mother and the crone, too quickly to remember the moments between youth and the rest of her life. “Oh, My God!” she cries, “How did my life pass before my eyes, without me seeing it , without knowing it , or remembering with nothing to show for having lived my life in this hallway always looking at the moon in the night sky?”

In the fallacy of dreams the soul floats from scene to scene and forgets most of what it has seen. Except for the lucid moments when the dream seems real and we walk through them. “Good morning. How did you sleep?”  The first words heard today and replied to. “Did you sleep well?”  Why , I wondered is it so important to her and I to ask what we did for the last 8 hours as we slept together.

An on going test of time reminds me of where I am, watching clocks and people and places until I return home again. But not until I spend enough time to earn my pay for watching clocks and people and places and things, as a watcher watches his or her watch or wall  clock in rooms filled with people or things.

Tatoos never seem to be what they seem. They all have special meanings of love or hate, pain or poetry or something special to the tatooee.  Unlike the litany of librarians of “Shhh! Be quiet!  You have late fees.”

Welcome to the mayhem of mundane lives in self imposed prisons of husbands and wives  reaching for the proverbial sky of freedom , rest and vacations, floating through reality in a free flowing lucid dream.

L.A. Steel

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