130101 06:00 sensuous
Sensuous, deliciously obscene, the pleasure of reading another's soul in books.
Sadly the dominate voice in our time has become canned mystery meat. The illusion of ‘WHAT’S GOOD FOR YOU!’ A confection of conceit and a concoction of profitably for one at the expense of all. Worse, it--movies and television--sucks the marrow out of our soul for momentary pleasure leaving no lasting potential of joy.
I might, or should, expand my purview to include education, news, politics . . . the list, actually, is endless. Against which I rail with accusations equally accurate of myself as those I accuse of being scatocephalic; individually and en mass. What is love? If not intimacy with another!
To make love, or have love made manifest, upon the flesh of dead trees besmirched with black ink--naked: the author’s soul splayed.
. . . 19:56
For all my memory, time has been measured by tide, train, river, highway or visions of apocalypse: Tokyo seen from one hundred miles out; a mushroom cloud of pollution above the Pacific.
Light and dark, the cycles of lunar passage marked from mountains to gleaming upon my kitchen floor. Tumbling from my exodus from hospice for copyright reasons. Chagrined and wondering what I should do with time . . . the last of everything measured by eternity in moments, days, weeks, months or years; death will not surprise me since I’ve begun in earnest to write for myself.
My dreams are prophetic only about/to/for me. I must attempt to abandon my sadness for the world I will leave behind. Life is for the living and the price is worth everything, to own yourself.
It is difficult to grow a soul, or become a person aware, in the violent sterility of our culture. Someone above and beyond “living a life of silent desperation” or mere existence. Awaiting death, avoiding all issues of conflict except threats to your/or my favorite dance of avoidance: addiction.
© 2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved
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