ain't no

ain’t no jack-in-the-pulpit, pussy-toes, posey, poesy, poet (ry) writer but red poinsettia knocked silly by it: knotweed! Clubbed senseless where I growed!

Poetry that is.

“Genius will live and thrive without training, but it does not the less reward the watering–pot and pruning–knife.” ~ Margaret Fuller (born May 23)

. . . and so it goes right here in River City FOLKS gotta tellya we got troubles and we got joys! Choose which ones you gonna pay and play or pay/play attention too.

Long-long-time-ago-more-longer-than-I-wanna-remember; he was a student in my Adult Ed Photography Class — a Navy Air Commander Pilot — then friend — he and his family adopted me and I remain their child; a member of the family. He did archival matting, mounting and framing of photographs. Specifically those of Robert Mapplethorpe (One-Man Exhibition Museum of Modern Art, NY, NY, USA) and I had the dubious then – but privilege now – to have seen the originals up-close-and-personal.

Fasten your seat belt we’re going in!

Not for the faint of heart!

Pamela Joyce & M, & I believe — have faith in — am confident God — all touch me intimately within . . . maybe soon physically too RE: P? But less important than ‘fool-in round’ is the intimacy between/amongst friends. Transparent, more than naked, souls dancing, singing, poetry, prose, moaning in joy — love actually manifest. Manifold & incarnate — life inhabited absent reserve or precondition . . . and gender ain’t got nuffin’ to do with it.

Violence is the NEW PORNOGRAPHY of which—seemingly—there is never enough to slake addiction to it. While the prissy prudes of us call imagery of people acting as if they were having fun/recreational sex; PORNOGRAPHY! . . . is the video of a legless child bleeding to death — or so starved they seem pregnant pleasing?

Oh! God forgive me! . . .Or Jesus homeless asleep beneath a bridge covered with newspapers for warmth — aflame incinerated by passing 1%ers for their amusement? Roaring away in their “Fing” Escalades!

Moving right along, Upward hopefully not downward.

FOLKS! . . . I gotta tellya when Pamela Joyce wrote me last this AM she touched me in ways implied by Robert Mapplethorpe’s images of men fisting . . . initially about the sex between not between men — I was appalled. Nothing about sex or men/men/women/women disturbs me. Sex, to and for me, is celebratory: touch taken to its next level — more specific and personal.

I think now Len Hartnett (Archival Products, N. Kingstown, RI) wanted my opinion, stunned not knowing people did that — akin to discovering a related to me child was chained in the attic for want of mental health care — I was silent. But in reply, now, understand better why some only know love as pain.

She, of sorrowful eyes, after telling me she only “Liked Bad, Bad . . . Very Bad, Boys” said her dad had used her sexually from age six until that form of affection — being the only attention or expression of fondness/desire/approval/acceptance that she had any right to live/was worth the salt in her bread / so to speak — Well FOLKS gotta tellya it stopped the minute she sought him out for more publicly.

DO NOT CONFESS TO ME!

In turn I will absolve you and pat you on the fanny knowing you will heal, not by me, but between God & Yourself. As I have been healed & growing following, nearer, seen more clearly, DAY-BY-DAY . . . otherwise all bets are off: i’ll make poetry, fiction, faction, prose, screen plays whatever because it is my nature and nurture to communicate . . . anyway as writer, photograph, comedian: Imp Clown i am R.

. . . & I will bless my assassin(s) knowing there is God somewhere within them lost buried beneath zealot/fanatic like the man who with phallic sniper rifle shot the abortion doctor in his home . . . merely meaning I pray for both continually

. . . if hell bent for election to hell i’ll go knowing the reprise of my evils

. . . do most own guns for penis envy like Sports Utility Vehicles? Sortakinda merging agression/assertion in one whole idol.

Be well beloved knowing god bless/blesses you as he/she does us all

{Notes} I’ve been around the world too many times, in various conveyances, but mostly airplanes. Which I now understand are more like flying coffins than ever: buried alive, sardines packed for profit — but upon survey they are merely, to me, more like cattle cars carrying starving Jews to Nazi Internment Death Camps — yet ever much more so.

We only value, it seems, what we lose afterwards.

It is not my discomfort, distress, boredom or death I am concerned about. For in truth I’d do anything asked by either God, M, or P save cause harm, injury or death to another: Annie or ant.

I know death and suffering well thinking now of that costume jewelry people wear He wear a diaper not for modesty but for the simple fact that in death most excrete bodily fluids and solids . . . why did I think of this now . . . hugging His bleeding feet of course.

Be well and careful what you consume; any ingress

PS Pamela Joyce when you pick me up at the airport, if you run over me, and back up to do it all over, again harder; i’ll understand you like your SUV & I don’t want to walk either.

130523 MDT 07:46 ain’t no

© 2013 by Jack Spratt—All Rights Reserved