representations

I represent no one except myself. Neither The New York Times for which or whom? I worked as a free lance photojournalist for forty years; I am told I remain upon theirs roles as still available for assignments. Nor “God” or any institutions claiming to represent Her/Him . . . never IT.

For now, while I still live, by my low esteem/estimate, I am a Pop Corn Maker in an abandoned movie theater and town, in the Southwest, busily making hot, too salty, overly buttered noise.

Happily alone. Save, of course, for Annie, my beloved companion, a cat, who like pornography never talks back or says, 'not now honey bunny I've a headache.'

However, that be as it may, I continue to be blown away and apart . . . blown up? Popping by discovery: apparently random collisions with words. My mentors and myself are old and aging aware of the trembling of life soon vacated as the darkened theater abandoned the stage and screen left dark. I remember others so loved as them whose suggested eternal vacation rendered me helpless and hysterical if not overtly at least within.

During a recent visit to the reading room randomly opening whatever fell to hand I discovered the following:

The White Lilies

As a man and woman make

a garden between them like

a bed of stars, here

they linger in the summer evening

and the evening turns

cold with their terror: it

could all end, it is capable

of devastation. All, all

can be lost, through scented air

the narrow columns

uselessly rising, and beyond,

a churning sea of poppies--

Hush, beloved. It doesn't matter to me

how many summers I live to return:

this one summer we have entered eternity.

I felt your two hands

bury me to release its splendor. - Louise Gluck

and then:

“Beauty is the purgation of superfluities.” - Michelangelo

. . . jabber guffaw slathered sigh vibrating with what energy is this

nevermore? precious life of us all so touched!

10:33 on the other hand:

"If you talk to God, you are praying; If God talks to you, you have schizophrenia. If the dead talk to you, you are a spiritualist; If you talk to the dead, you are a schizophrenic." - Thomas Szasz - Schizophrenia", p. 101

. . . add: Why I seldom date or request: "Not to ask is not be denied." - John Dryden . . . oddly the desire and ability remain even now at my age!? Better descriptor of me life long . . . it seems I love too deeply to risk and fail. The passion/compassion is, of course, outrageous; sadness unbearable.

Celibacy is a bitch, splayed as I am, vivisected. A frog, between vacant parentheses, light years apart, empty, merely a toad after all. Gee thanks mom!

Be better than well, be your best self

and true of course.

130423 07:57 representations

© 2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved