120718
22:13 justice for women?
She sat
before me for a lengthy time unusual in a woman's prison for a man
even a journalist. Emotionless she told me the tale of her fate, life
of endless confinement, she'd burned her husband sleeping in bed yet
alive before the embers smoldering.
Is
there justice anywhere for women in our time or before so long ago
when they ruled? To love is to give yourself completely as gift with
no recompense expected. I have known many who would. I then thought
love me for the self not a title as lover, husband, father yet in
time I came to know myself as significant as a gnat fart in a
typhoon. To them. To my parents To all others ignored transparent
taken for granted as fresh air. & to myself
If I
know and love myself I need no other to tell me so now. I've read
that this estate is somewhat like the Kingdom of God immutable,
royal, a cause, untouchable to it self sovereign: object/subject, to
no one, nothing feared – free.
And so
it followed knowing my history and hers now fixed unjustly I said
nothing while weeping for her then and in my heart though I can no
longer remember her name, only her still resigned face, placid
without raindrops falling in the reflecting pond.
A Zen
experience of submission to what?
I am
not God, not the Messiah not even a wannabe cleric or priest yet upon
hearing the voice of reason for all women not simply the Sisters
Religious to whom I owe my soul, via The Mercy Sisters of Rhode
Island and one in particular Sister Kieran Flynn at whose grave I
knelt and wept my last parting before running away again. And for
whom I bear stigmata in my heart forevermore awakened by
. . .
returning to the thread being “I am not”
At best
I might be marginally a fruit fly about God like the Holy Roman
Catholic Church adored and beloved because I so Loved Her Loving me
and teaching me what true divinity is . . . could my understanding
love be awry?
It is a
heart ever glowing larger in an attempt to never spill one drop the
precious blood bestowed in this maelstrom of murder this typhoon of
blood racing tsunami like around and around the communion of greed &
fear. I know the power of love never having had it before a virgin
ravaged by The King swooning sighing enraptured my entrails ripped
out resurrected to give birth again.
Ego-less?
If so
then why do I write when no one reads anything? I would by choice
disappear anonymous in love am I with Love itself.
Dear
Pope watch your 6=180=backside the time is now for women to be priest
too. It is impossible to walk with one leg forward into what lies
ahead.
Closing
prayer:
having
worn a cassock or two in my time of faux divinity or the lesser of
divines. Simply for the hell of it I'd remind you the transvestites
used to wear the flesh of the truly divine back then still bleeding.
Maybe I'm a curmudgeon or snark but I think popping the pimple of
your ego as grooming.
I think
Rumi does God better than anyone I've ever read or prayed to. Maybe
instead of John Jack or Jacob I like the butterfly Ali i'll call
myself Mustafa? . . . forgive me my trespass You of Many Names
Unknowable save as a self proclaimed adorable; or merely love
© 2012
by Jack Spratt All Rights Reserved
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