Jack Spratt

can hardly I call it a game or play these moments at awakening when as in the now distant past I’d play Bible Bingo random selection greeting the new day the impact is similar yet the results often strange in difference between now becoming a new eternity lived in a day and sleep a death welcomed without expectation of resurrection again

events of these past several days irrevocably changed me lessening my romantic ideation to something harder less squishy and in my random encounter with quotes collected or new to me I find affirmation of questions and resolutions asked yesterday and long before only more consciously emphatic

it is enough to orchestrate the elements intention to completion in anything we do all is a self portrait anyway rendered yet it oft seems that we hurl our first new born into the night well hearing no splash the sound of one hand is silence best applause derived comes from within yet in another time or conjunction confluence intercourse with another is affirmation of both the origin of love and random mention

providence or divine inspiration seems pretentious but is not all life so the fact of free will alone should give us pause to kneel or fall prostrate in supplication the gifts denied or accepted responsibly for others that they not merely exist but thrive in these brief moments between the beginning and end of infinity

do i capitalize or punctuate these prancing words or like Einstein stand a fool grinning before God in the end who is no White Man with Gold Tooth grinning amused flashing from behind a vast snow white beard an antique Santa Claus playfully

indubitability reading came first orgasm second finally in closing days ecstasy playing with words
father was a marvelous fencing master who having run me through the heart with ‘you have diarrhea of the mouth’ early and often followed with ‘a monkey with a word processor could write a novel,’ and by extrapolation poetry epic or doggerel and between God and Man indifferent to self lays silence as death when last I after many similar verbatim's asked why ‘I didn’t know any better.’ . . . the critic? he loved to mutilate words as i did and do mangled

. . . no, like Lincoln the silence his address at Gettysburg miss thought a prayer The Sound of One Hand echoing . . . “Oh love will make a dog howl in rhyme.” - John Fletcher

120510 03:46 final 08:41