It
was a lallapalooza of a dream, kinky, symbolic, a keeper. In the
sense of no need to annotate: GREAT! Memorable. A cerebral terminal
arrival (British euphemism for orgasm--'arrival' that is) unimaginable; a near death
experience.
Muttering
to myself, 'I simply cannot talk about this' as the coffee dripped, it
became clear the fetters are coming off; regulators discovered then
abandoned.
All
systems go--LIFT OFF!
Poetry
is best when attempting the impossible with words.
To/For 'Had She Said Yes'
thought
myself too obvious
following
you through hospice
caressing
your posterior with my avid eyes
now
I am simply rabid
.
. . could it be that I seduce myself with my fabulously frantically
imaginative mind? Yes.
Of course I can, and this is an improbable affair, she being twenty
five hundred miles distant, and me near penniless; thanks Wall Street
Thieves! Worse it was revealed to me I am terrified of women; of being
hurt yet again and again:
Never say never--ever.
(afterthought: Never ever give upon on yourself)
Incongruous,
oxymoronic, I discovered in my travels across the universe of words
that Jesus saying, “Suffer the little children to come to me”
implies: Least you see with the eyes of a child the wonder and
potential of everything.
The
issue for me is validation. Then collision with my personal bigotry,
we are terrified of contra-genders, she and I. We talk about it
openly salted with words like 'woo; and 'seduce/seduction'.
Again,
improbable: she self-excised from a long standing dysfunctional
relationship and I hopping on tippytoes, feet on fire, like a bear
being trained to dance.
What
was it the foxy astrologer said? “You push and push until she
pushes back." Oh sweet Jesus on a hang glider burning I'm in trouble.
Credible or prophetic?
Time
heals everything. WAIT!
Clinically:
Is this another invitation to dance?
The
Big Show, the dance of life.
Floating
through the flow, is a time bomb—a spiky mine twirling submerged.
Realizing that as a writer, one must conduct the narrative, or drown.
Disastrously or felicitously. Then, instantly thinking with a camera
between us, it is the choice of the revealing moment that tells the
entire story in one image. The nuns who taught me asked, on several
occasions, is the camera a shield?
No.
Not
really.
For
me it has been a crowbar. Prizing apart God and Life. Investigating.
The
saving grace, I think I have, is being a comedian; able to laugh at
myself.
TRUE!
It is not a win, lose or draw; for it is only in loss that we
appreciate what was.
“Anything
you don't understand is dangerous until you do understand it.” -
Larry Niven . . . first up on
Be
well be good to yourself: LIVE!
.
. . it ain't over until its over.
PS
Sometimes
I conclude thinking is a cancer and writing a compulsion. Knowing
that nothing is merely 'this or that', defined definitively by me,
god or anyone else. With laughter I can live with that; dancing in
the moon light head back. Crying, sighing, singing.
I
will close here, concerned that my abuse of your attention, is at an
end. Adding my sense: where I seduced myself, I was entertaining to
women who were bored, but beautiful, or had pity upon me--taking me
on as a project of transformation into their ideal man who could
never fulfill their desire.
Yet
I do, ever so much, appreciate a well turned sentence, phrase, poem.
Equal to a that twitching posterior I followed, following still. . .
.just an eejit boy for insertions. A clue.
130430
02:22 lallapalooza avid rabid
©
2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved
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