Rhythms

Rhythms awakened me, the snick and thump of a manual sewing machine adapted to electricity. Childhood lullaby’s. “Now I lay me down to sleep. . . .“ Yet I awake decades latter and wonder where their labor went. Mother having had from the beginning a Singer of the new kind, no treadle. Then too she would sew by hand; fine garments for me to wear. Both Mother and Daughter were the women of my life adored. The Great Mother, my maternal grand mother, her child, my mother, both were seamstress’s leaving me with a sense of being fabric woven into garments or tapestries.

Odd I should so adore my threadbare poverty hearing the snickers of those who stole my inheritance. And from my sleep arise disquieted, but not distempered, wondering when the revolution will begin. As stated: “Love is preemptive while law is remedial.” Add, far be it from me to foment riot since I soon will depart to whatever awaits: rot, Heaven or Hell, or somewhere in between. Not sad to leave the stage of this life as it is and swiftly becoming more so; dominated by those who worship power, usury and greed. The true religion of America. Wherein the powers that be retroactively abort every life, except theirs. Those who BMW (bitch, wine and moan) about the right to life.

What life?

Factory Farmed breeding stock and canon fodder!

Fritz Eichenberg, artist and book illustrator, creator of Christ in the Bread Line, asked me shortly before his death; “Have I done anything to change the world?” To which I replied; “I don’t know about the world, but you saved my life.” Our friendship though not deep (I was then ashamed of my mixed mode between being middle-class and nominally from the seat of thieves: Greenwich, Connecticut and an “artist” who never, by his observation decorated my “home” with my work. I detailed the Christmas Eve, standing alone upon the banister of a bridge over the Inter Coastal Water Way ready to step forward to my death. Thinking of he, the Jesus and J. S. Bach. Celestial? No. I simply realized it would take more courage to step backward and live then forward and drown.

Here I am remembering his description of another Jew, not Jesus, who in concert was marched to a mass grave to be shot. The humble Jew, facing his assassins turned around and lowering his trousers baring his posterior mooned them.

So in reply to the anal retentive conservatives, of their greed, who stand upon my neck, while I yet live, I will at the very least bite their ankles . . . possibly to gnaw them into attention. As they stand upon my neck face down in the excrement they’ve made of Earth. The way of love is not riot but at worst boycott. And/Or the curmudgeonly maundering of one about to die, hopefully sooner rather than later. Filled with sadness that my bequest was stolen.

I reside upon a bridge between two Depressions; the future stolen by those whose normal is to rape, pillage and burn everything to their convenience/pleasure/amusements.

I wonder at my empathy, compassion, love for my executioners, since they were my childhood companions for a time when I resided in what I now consider the pimple upon the posterior of creation. Should I not think of them as they were then and now? With concern for them as well as those who follow.

Forgive me for begging your attention. I mean not to foment or intrude. Inflict or impose my awakening in a world of hurt annoyed by the dragon within. It is they who are insane not I. They continue the same activity expecting different results. The consequence of which is a world paved with mass graves.

The wrath to come is already upon us. No need to raise a hand against it. Since what has been sown will be reaped. I imagine, in retribution/recompense, those who gloat and smirk will be given endless loops of themselves to entertain them. Such little as I know of God’s good pleasure is enough for me.

Yet for now I remain bemused by the stripes and scars I see walking amongst us. Those who like me bought the dream of America betrayed by avarice having aborted The Bill of Rights and by smoke and mirrors perverted the Constitution.

Mendicant, I seem employed by a new perspective on what was a life, ideal, as apposed to real.

- Charles Peguy

"Love is rarer than genius itself. And friendship is rarer than love."

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© 2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved