apprehend even this even that? twofer

Apprehended: I love indiscriminately. Tho betimes would strangle or bend others to another posture towards themselves. Regardless of any other consideration; silently—benignly—lovingly? Jesus said “shake the dust from your sandals . . . “ yet I carry them forward in mind and prayer hopelessly in love. Confident all will be well . . . eventually?

Knowing life's resilient fragility, yours and mine (I simply must stop this communication covert with M? & P! The Interlocutor!) work as prayer, not rote. Nor ritual choice—but actual.

Incongruous oxymoronic this to speak of face-to-face myself in life when I have more life while desecrating virgin white space across the monitor of my mind. Remembering once long ago writing in obverse white upon black same/same story lunatic eejit boy laughing slumped slumbering too stupid to live or so I was demonstrated by abuses of many kinds; we all are, abused—I mean—and imperfect too.

Two is the issue not the invisible oft silent interlocutor but another who speaks affirming what was once a chrome lawn ornament, a gazing ball immutable, shedding all love, becoming a bird bath splashed by two women I love unreasonably M&P me thinks the interlocutor as well?! 2

“Take the A Train” oh lovely Duke of Ellington—as best I recall or remember—“i ain't nothing special, nothing to see, pardon me while i disappear” evaporated in love like a jelly fish left too long upon the beach burnt by the Sun.

The act, get your mind out of your pants, of creation, is regardless of form, or forum, to enter All Creation before during and after everything experiential.

I have a friend, to whom I've promised my car, when I've left. Who once, in a great while, will change the spark plugs and/or lubricants; standing before the open yaw, hood raised like a symphony conductor gesturing the down-beat. His baton a wrench in one hand the other open in supplication.

Oh Dear God! HELP ME NOT DIE FROM LAUGHTER!

. . . or sadness too, since his mind was nominally fried: overdosed on Ritalin, for his parents convenience—common practice now. Responsible for enormous profits by gangsters dealing licit drugs. . . . those who cannot create destroy for fun and profit. The creation I advocate is within each and everyone of us.

05:08

Returning to rest I dreamt: no one raised from death, sight restored, or walking on water. Just my thesis regarding the resurrection is within all of us. Potent, available, in real time, and not Jesus alone. But all wisdom figures preach, essentially the same, teaching compassion, mercy, love and kindness. Each in saying yes can become a light, no matter how dim in the world, instead of sink hole, darkness, sucking life and light out of the universe.

06:03

As by custom I go back-and-forth between writing and quotes finding inspiration therein betimes manically focused on my own words.

Astonishingly for one so ignorant as I, it seems now that awakened is a wannabe poet, in poverty since that which I call “I” learned too well to remain indifferent to myself. Ambivalent. Indecisive. Shrugging my shoulders, pawing the ground impatiently, when asked what did you mean? Eyes rolling individually unknowing.

Literature seems divided, equable, between telling and doing; the latter causing an experience versus report or apology or argument in the former. Carol, not the first or only, to briefly infect or inflict, affirmation within me I could “write” or perhaps should. Nonetheless she said; “used do words, not tell words.”

The Wisdom books of all history are easily carried and pointed towards as ideal, or idol, but in some, turn and devour all conceits.

Virtual or near death actual, having walked away abandoning all I once considered 'me', a self absent soul, in no regard do I play with resurrection/reincarnation. No joiner and too hard a case pragmatic about Creation it seems of needs self imposed that I must prove to my solitary self the truth. For which I live or die.

. . . oddly returning to my initial 'great dream' wandering the moon light desert naked bereft of direction sighing, at time laughing or crying, yet confident convicted of direction; the narrator always returned to—in whatever guise. . . . it is always possible to be vain in false humility.

—did I mention the faint, silent, sense of: one hand clapping in applause?

. . . to raise or swat! an eagle plucked cooked and eaten

why is there no angst nor laughter just joy?

being here now

quiescent

130512 00:57 apprehend

© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

This matting dance circling feinting withdrawing. Should be exquisite; but it is what it is: a dance. Requiring the participation, responsible, two partners recumbent leaping shouting sighing still weeping and crying for joy and sorrows revealed. Tragic or divine—bliss either way.

But I lie. Since becoming avid for the affirmation: I am, I live; seen at last, as other than a dust mote—in sunlight—slowly descending into oblivion—ignoble or noble becoming nothing. Helpless happily at that.

Stillness reverent awe filled astonished

akin as like bliss ecstasy drown this vessel swamped

incapable to imagine the outcome or ending

life and love not ending but a process

sure

certain

convicted decapitated and resurrected

for a fool, a penny discarded, found as well as a pound

abandoned found . . . a widow's mite two cents tossed into the communal need

(joyous laughter at the prospect)

surrender submission quiescent

equanimity

recognition of love at last, lost or found, either way once touched always

remembered

what remembers?

There is whiplash between us in time—two hours before or after?

What, where, why is she? With M I've learned to not ask. To be jealous. Why not P?

Just thrum the hum of what is.

Otherwise suffocation—the purpose of free will is freedom

. . . an Aeolian harp resonant awaiting the next caress a vagrant wind strummed

130512 06:48 even this—even that?

© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved