Oh Sweet, sweet Jesus on a unicycle do I hate being white! And once-upon-a-time middle class from Greenwich, Connecticut, USA
Do I need proof? The mementos, women, souvenirs, quarts of tears, scars
I've been there, done this, and that, can attest the greatest thing we create is ourselves.
Add.
The only competition worthy of your attention, like applause, is within. Easy for me to say but a hard earned truth . . . wandering through Rodin's studio, astonished now to remember Rilke was his secretary . . . if only the rich like the bitch who owns Walmart were to donate their theft of others lives and art, to be freely see in population centers and not Little Rock Arkansas. I might be a little less chimeric towards the vanity others; of mine, I subdue with frequent clubbing's. Sometimes to ride others to be devoured.
Decade upon decades I've wept at the sounds universal prayer, music sung in my soul; just one bar and I could name it. And now, even now I weep for the slave I was made to fulfill my fathers failures . . . friends do not enslave . . . yet he seemed so calling me moments before his death to say goodbye.
Who am I to judge he whom I am required to 'honor'? At the cusp of my seventy-third year on earth I forgive myself for loving him so blindly and adoringly. Music now speaks genius to me yet all I know to write are words. He would pay me a nickel for every orchestra voice I could differentiate; now I enter the whole and find more the will to create, not follow train tracks without terminus. Near the end he offered me the music publishing aspect of his fame and fortune saying; "It's only worth five or so thousand per year now . . . "
“No dad I've no time for it.”
Ashamed of the devotion I gave and his disregard of all that was sacred to me. Myself now rich beyond dollars and cents happily mendicant.
Turned out to pasture, to die in peace. Little chance of that given the Nazi Death Camp made by J. L. Gray Management, where I live -- another story perhaps.
Those who can do, them who cannot teach, and they who can do nothing administrate.
The world, this small abode of mine, suffocates beneath the lard posterior of incompetence parading as divinely endowed authority.
How can it be that I have met the few kind and gentle people, women and men, gigantic in compassion; while I am daily subject to fools? Can I be for them: J. L. Gray, et al, the balm those compassionate, passionately so, were for me?
Once I entertained suicide daily; knowing all the methods and practices intimately. In an idle moment I asked, to no one, for I was alone; "What can I do to be fully engaged without begging the permission of Mass Print Media to justify my further education?"
At the very least I now am self-loving enough to laugh at myself zooming amongst the stars: a flatulent party balloon farting comets; eternities lived in moments.
121104 04:40 self sorting
© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved
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