Similarity Across Scale...

.

.

.

I must defend the beating heart of what I think is true; though, I'd do it in a way that makes a place for me with you. While making no apology for what I see or say, it's incumbent on my character that my honesty's conveyed. That honesty's transference is, then, why I "beat my gums" Raison d'etre to officiate the rhythm of my drum.
.
See, poetry's a song one sings to tell a truth one way. Rhymed lying's near impossible, or it's harder, safe to say... True, truth as "thought" is sometimes not and error is conveyed... but it's still truth if it's believed... or is it? One can't say.
.
Though, who makes up lying poetry? What audaciousness is that?  Few'd take the time... to craft a work... such crap for toe to tap! Who'd suffer such to make up rhyme that could, to MOCK, be sung, and know if caught, it is the rope they'd use to see them hung...
.
A song is sung in words of rhyme to make courageous sense; a result of  pure expression it's refined and much condensed. Lo, it has the harder job to do; it's older than our speech: it is in fact a language aid where nascent songs would teach.  Too, it's "stuff" comes out in poetry where prose words fear to tread. *Stuff's* expressed in rhyming verse where prose must flinch in dread
.
See, shimmering before us is a step that we can take... that will make us all autonomous, and what teams, then, we will make! Anomaly might quicken... come to life, and find its sting! Every woman her own princess, every man his honored king?
.
Everything's in levels of a quantum nature, free!  Stasis is abhorred and action wants to happen, see?!  As it happens, *things* will happen if they're happening or not! If *things* happen then they're natural; if they don't...? That's all you've got.
.
Consider no coincidence an atom's "electron cloud," ...like a planet's solar system is a galaxy, if not so proud. Mandelbrots and fractals are the same from large to small. A "sameness" spanning scale is the process of, well... all.
.
So, one must look within ones self to better look without. There is finding in the looking, and that's what I'm about. There is all that one could need not drawn from all that's "bought" and "sold"; the kingdom is at hand, in fact, but dealt bad cards, we fold!
.
UFOs, for instance, in a multitude of ways... are obvious to anyone with a lick of sense in place! Recorded in a history—mostly hidden—that we know, they are written down on parchment and composed of ink and stone!  They're deep within the language that is Joyce's Mama Matrix.  They are coded into DNA whinin its double helix!
.
They're in portraits and in pictures, and they move on secret films! They're seen by famous witnesses and some witnesses are killed? Dismissing the reports which are as bogus as can be, still leaves, then, many thousands which are righteous, most agree!
.
...And that destroys, invalidates, and up-ends institutions: our Religious and Political—Corporate media mass confusions... All are made well suspect by the way they play their game, with their lying obfuscations, and the way they shift their blame.
.
We're manipulated... in a way to suit too few, so that status-quos from yesterday... can suck their "juice"... ...from you!  If everything one knows is wrong, then what is one to do?  Well, start living more responsibly. You play? Who pays? Be true!
.
There's more to life than they'd let on, and who the hell were they? They're the privileged arbitrary non-elected holding sway! They are those, who having had, would keep on having, friend—practicing injustice's specious ethics, they offend.
.
They have the information that would credit any ONE, explaining why it's hidden and obscured or dissed and shunned. Manipulating mainstreams and insuring the mundane; they hide their dark agendas, secret plans, and ill-got gains. They covet the duplicitous, and they profit out of hand from the masses kept beneath them—they mislead! You understand...
.
I sing these songs to clear my head and dissipate the fog. The relief, perhaps illusion (?), makes for better dialogue.  Though most will nurture hubris and pretend that we're alone, it seems these folks are cowards and from that they must atone.  Pompously insentient and insouciant to the max, they're blinded by indifference and oblivious to facts.
.
I get communication from more folks who would be free, from that aggregate insulted who aspire off their knees; from folks who feel within their souls, "there must be more to life..." than is dreamt of in *philosophies* that contribute to our senseless strife...


alienview@roadrunner.com
www.AlienView.net

They really are songs. Blues songs. John and Mr. Flynn have heard them sung, forgetting that we'd all agree a better voice needs sing them... But, songs they are. And songs, most times, tell a kind of truth, don't they? I may be mistaken, but I'm not lying. How does one deliberately lie in song?  With difficulty if one is not a complete and slavering psychopath, I'd bet.

Where Do They Go?

.

.

.

Here, perforce, I'd report­ "They're here," then feel a strange relief.  For far too long they disappear like burglars or thieves. Returned, in force, they'd reappear to crawl the skies again, returning like all flying things that come back every spring.
.
True! FIVE flew by one Sunday, well before the sun came up, well before the coffee's finished from a steaming coffee cup, and wondering where they could go, for such a length of time, I ponder their pretension in these metered words, to rhyme.  Bereft of all apology and with my chin held high I report there's stuff to see... in night or daylight skies!
.
Then, I'd think that they'd "forsaken" me: these stars that tack and sail. I'd wonder that they'd gone away to fuel another's tale. Though, what could make appearance known so right up in your face, to disappear for days on end, then reappear—apace!
.
...And reappear they would indeed! Such color, speed, and light. Their paths bemused, if certain; they are dim or very bright! Too, I'd feel a satisfaction that is absent when they're gone... I'd feel this... strange "assurance" as I watched them glide along.
.
Some mornings I would see but one; then two days in a row! I'd think they're back, I'm saying, but then where, friend, did they go?  I'd think I'm not worth watching... ...so they're likely not for me! Though, what have I been seeing in these objects I "don't" see?
.
...And what indeed, I ask myself, appears before my eyes? What might these things, in ebb and flow, propitiously provide?  What must be their upside?  Why are they preferred?  Why does searching for them make me feel good—better served.
.
Well, to me they are potentials well beyond the threat of war! To me they're strong sedition from my culture's whoring bore! To me they show some promise and an answer to a song ... "Is That All There Is?" Peg Lee once asked... their answer's clear and strong.
.
"No, you're not alone at all, you—tragic—human race. Though, you facilitate corruptions to disgrace your mote in space. Adrift in sad belligerence, and complacent to the max, a sea of life surrounding you's ignored in heaps and stacks."
.
"It's you yourselves won't cure, at last, your self-imposed disease!  It's you yourselves retreating to the "safety" of your knees!  It's you yourselves denying that we fly your troubled skies, and it's you, yourselves, who's keeping us... from landing right outside."


alienview@roadrunner.com
www.AlienView.net

It's no secret that if you spend time studying a night sky (day sky too!) you'll see one.  One what?  Oh, just a flying object that you can't identify.  ...An Unidentified Flying Object.  UFO.
.
Birds, bolides, boosters and balloons—forgetting planes, don't qualify.  Things you can identify, won't. Oddly there remains a statistically significant, highly so in fact—in the 20% category!—of very clearly seen objects only bemused for identification... UAP?  That may be an unbrave dodge!  See, a UAP doesn't even have to be there... A UFO gets up your nose so far you feel knees scrubbing your chin!

I trot all my UFOs out here: http://www.alienview.net/oddobs.html
.
Seriously, the objects alluded to above are odd enough when they are there: these flying stars, hurtling their strange and unspeakable staggers and trajectories... but then, presuming the more clockwork regularity of the forecast, and so prosaic, orbiting objects objectifying a human manufacture? Where do "they" go when they go?
.
...Sometimes it was for weeks...eh?  Where?

Restore John Ford!