Rode hard put up wet, 79 miles of hard road kill. Worst and Best. Run over by the hound dog bus of God . . . Why? Did I always have this mystical sense about the Once Great Greyhound Bus? In the mirror when I must shave. Difficult while laughing at my age.
Travel you say! Well folks I’ve traveled both physically and metaphysically so far; meeting so many strangers who in kindness held my heart wildly anguished, that I have no ideal the meaning of time and space. Uncertainty revisiting me in dreams of those who left me on my own even M. But that is and was my problem; to decide the meaning of Jesus walking away from me. An act of faith or dismissal?
Then thinking about it all the years, months, days, hours, moments I did submit to a woman, as goddess or merely God, it, or I was a failure. The truth of love, is love itself, not what you get but what you give. The dream I just awoke from was God feeding me into The Fargo Shredder and I came out the same way I went in. . . .At least externally. . .
Why am I laughing?
Could it be I love too hard; too much greed to be loved in return: contingent upon getting laid. But, or however, it appears now that is precisely what made me give it all up for God finally. But did I? My dreams of her, any Her, who seems welcoming, kind and feasible gets me every time.
Over the river and through the woods to grandmother's home I’d descend; be exiled, banished: whatever. The difference between she and her daughter is that my grandmother would spontaneously touch me -- and now i weep -- she’d put her hand on the back of my neck and the chimerical beast would be blissed out gone to sleep. Instantly.
Orgasms come and go, becoming eventually political, contingent upon whatever; but never were her touches ending even now. I can feel her presence while typing.
Mom and Dad come from humble places seeking the best America then offered, gave, then stolen. We all remain enslaved to ideals; what health, happiness, success and being just perfect looks like. Maya, illusion, no speak, delusional beneficence. The Big Con of America: I’ll take care of you just give me all the power and all will be well.
We survived the last lie about America; kill all the enemies, not learning a thing. It was long before Jesus, this “loving your enemy” motive. Maybe Plato or Socrates, who said “you can learn even from your enemies” and then add “the only people who know the end of war are the dead.” Buddha predates JC by how much? How many years?
Politics and Religion kill more than they heal competing for body counts in pews, slave cells or graves. Dispatched for recycle?
For all the credit cards I carry the most precious is my library card. Popes, Presidents and Kings; all naked in greed imperious. Yet still I long to be supplicant to a woman, and do occasionally dream of one specific and then, and then, I remember Mary in her grotto, silent accepting me, my attention and adoration and again I see that I am not meant to be what I am but what I can become stuffed into The Fargo Shredder again and again.
There ain’t no woman I know of including M, who I can’t be there for, should she let me be something so good. God knows I’ve tried and failed when it all became political conditional upon mood or need, or greed, or dismissal.
Worse.
Breach of trust.
Theoretically marriage is a renewable bond daily. Another way of saying the same thing: relationship must be rebuilt daily.
Nothing I say is definitive. The words I use and abuse have been stated over and over again by far more better than I ever will be. Words are important to me but then so are behaviors. I am just not a “Wham Bang Thank You Mam!” sort.
As a sophist for love and God I return to the crime scene endlessly and anonymously playing the roles; he said, she said, they did did not do whatever.
I don’t need a goddamn Doctoral Degree to be me. No dog collar, Popes Robes or Hail to the Chief all that stuff is for pansies the fearful of failure . . . Grace is participatory--collaborative. Not given to a few. We all have a genius for love.
We are all tenant/emigrants on earth owning nothing accept our choice to be or not to be generously loving with others of ourselves. There is no difference between witnessing the death of a child, as all good you wish for the future; theirs and your’s. Than seeing the Chimera eating yourself piecemeal; a finger here a nose there then a leg or two taking an entire life savagely. That’s just the food chain, physics or ‘fate.’ Could be punishment? Probably not even though the fools who lead generally will sacrifice everything but their children, wealth and sanity to be something like the real true I AM. . .
. . . always present, silent to most, the best Parent we never had . . . or acknowledged available. I am both pragmatic and ecstatic, a sophist for God. I return to my sense gleaned in Ripley Ohio USA of passing the Carnegie Library in reverence oracular.
As for women and laying with them innocently wicking their love and body heat. Well boys and girls, when creative my body heat raises by significant degrees and to touch me makes me sweat. Enough about me, how about you?
121105 05:08 Questions
I simply must stop messing with people everywhere I go. But then I’d know less than I do. We all are woven into a causal tapestry including the beginning and purpose of all creation; for good or ill. Otherwise I’d snuffle and growl in my cave and becoming finally the bridge troll I actually am inside.
Instead at $1 stores buying groceries or whatever. At times I just need to dive into the river of humanity to know what’s going on. Not the bullshit Fox TV broadcasts but the real deal where people live and who they are. . . . I’ve always been this way, transiting the world from early on until now: still in bliss where I am in this enchanting land. I tease little boys about trading shirts drawing them into conspiracies outside their normal associations imprinting them in my heart.
Laughing. I no longer need to hide my disdain for Fox News; acknowledging it as a carnival freak show for the weak of generosity. Like the rubes who what to see the woman with a beard down to her toes or the midgets wrestling alligators then eating them alive.
Seldom having the price of admission, hating crowds, what I did for a living was to swim through them upstream feeling imperiled. Now this little boy is no longer ashamed to peek into girl’s locker rooms or stick my head beneath the skirt of the elephant’s tent to see what they’re like at rest, the crowds gone.
Among the giants I’ve met, seldom, but many in retrospect, the celebrities don’t compare, were of all ages and genders. Oddly my attention always makes em’ smile glowing with gratitude. I’m like my dad, the biological one, not the Big Guy above, but maybe both; I touch people with my hands and never give it a second thought.
You know I’m not talking about myself, putting on airs I lack, but about you few who read me for yourselves. My suggestion is that you run your fingers through the hair shirt you wear and find the broken dreams lost there amongst the thorns of accusation; I know just as God created little girls in pigtails you’ll begin to love yourself.
He, to me, at the time, appeared a bear of a man in a cowboy hat. Passing in opposite directions alone I mentioned admiring it his hat! Oh Boy! Terry Gross and Charlie Rose move over I’m in the drivers seat now. It is a wonderful time to be a journalist people are so naked in crisis. A thumbnail of our conversation: He told of the rise tide of youth having no ground in truth. And of challenges to his competence and manhood--the faux courage of youth--who found themselves on their backs semi-conscious and he read to keep them there unto death or nearly so. Of such abilities, by stealth, guile and surprise ferocity, I am equally capable of but now in wisdom abandon the joy of exercising it. . . .As is true of my ability to seduce; more astonished in being seduced or charmed by women of all ages; their glory.
Of men I now know better, their realities and protests. And of women I’ve been civilized and that to me is best. Collaboration between the sexes as I wander off stage to bliss eternal. True intimacy is not physical but spiritual; the orgasms last longer.
121106 04:57 Giants
Flowing in on the tide of unconsciousness, exhaustion perhaps, definitively ennui for election time. I saw that I was not yet done growing up . . . i thought the ideal woman would follow me down my rabbit hole unbidden seeking the source of my agony; never, for a moment, giving a thought for her suffering . . . Joanna and Mother Mary have.
121106 08:56
©2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved
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