if i love

If I love. . . .Of course I do, deeply, flowing, arid and flood, I do. I do flow like a river of stars to arise white mist upon dawn burnt down between the thighs lubricious, sensuous, emergent, fecund from darkness the Ohio River Valley flowing into the distant sea moaning with steam whistles, now and then remembering the childhood of me.

. . . if ever I had a near home it was there beginning at five and he who remembers lofted by dreams return near seventy-three again that young buck in the flesh nascent flesh beginning again to beg that God be real and of course God is. Not some old man like me or older by considerable time adorned in white with as mine a five o’clock shadow and beyond seemingly from a bag of white sugar jelly donuts covered . . . dare I say we birth one another renewed?

. . . arise and slumber porpoise playing the wake of time in schools or solo at time breaching the glass silent to splash or plash like the paddle wheeled towboats reflecting the moaning steam whistle trains passing in the night’s milk run across from me in Kentucky.

Who else could/would remind me of the first and only love lasting until now resurrected in dreams! the most sensuous touch her hand upon the back of my head . . . . then infant then young man . . . last seen on a portapotty in senility asleep . . . she awoke at first sight and laughed remembering the chicken I attempted to toilet train.

There across ice floes Liza bore her baby child fleeing from the slave catchers and dogs to safety where decades later I noted the iron forged manacles displayed in the hidey-hole at The John Rankin House first stop on the Underground Railroad . . . oh please . . . if now would you bury me there where my heart resides high above the river seen from near that attic of safety.

I dream and in dreaming go backward and forward in time before and after this physical life could be having been. Becoming eternal in faux death sleep otherwise discontinuous splintered restructured transparent glass flowing like God throughout time.

 . . . like god before the name was given and long after language dies.

. . . 02:22 of the myths, memories, omens and portents, recorded or not, lay moldering somewhere east of the Mississippi. The waste of myself - detritus - in landfills - the only vital part of me is this or these relationships to the tapestry woven and decorated by Creation, or The Creator, or what seems to speak to me both in the dark and light of now. At times I am the loom, others the thread, and remember that I have no special claim, yet had I had one I’d give it away to all as my heroes did.

Late to form, formerly mere impressionable clay, I took from others their disdain and remedied my pain. A form of control or preemptive damage control. . . .to presume their truth about me mine.

One should never forget God laughs, not at but with. Add there is a time of change, leaving and rebirth for everything in eternity.

What was endured is now celebrated; the dings fondled for the forged me as I am unknowing of what will become yet confident and at peace tho I am written upon the void. And who but me could adore and reverence the night.

Starless
 . . . i grow extinguished

130227 01:08 if i love
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved