.
. . yet once a priest always a priest; catholic not Catholic, odd for
a nominally “Christian Methodist” boy, eternally so as child to
God. Brethren with all faiths Universal knowing in anger, hate, fear,
resentment we are owned. Free, only when we forgive. Oddly, for one
so explicitly secular I have known and loved many clerics, some taken
in sin yet loving them as well.
My
sense and conviction being that what happens to us is, when seen with
love and reflection, what makes us/us. There is a justice beyond
mercy and for me it is LOVE. Yes! That four letter word, profane and
sacred, genius inherent within all life save those few biologically
limited or challenged. Unforgivable only in that those few can
comprehend/apprehend/appreciate nothing of the concept then forgiving
themselves for being human slightly skewed.
Largely
inspired by Father Denis, whose remark, “it is impossible to
disprove a negative” is dominant at the moment to my thesis. We
have no dialog politically but stasis; fanatics seeking dominance
while the world withers in neglect.
An
immigrant irresponsible tenant in life I am touched by the grace lent
by those whose last days, hours and minutes before death attended. As
well, and as deeply, by those whose lives seem an endless continuity
unbearable or celebratory. Hammered on the anvil being forged into
something I cannot define . . . seemingly . . . life happens that
way. Acknowledging my ignorance, penchant and proclivity for apostasy
makes forgiving myself possible. Thence becomes available growth.
Yet
there is something, someone, vastly more compassionate than I,
reminding me that as resident in an elder community soon to be
Arbitrarily,
Capriciously, Unreasonably inspected serially and monthly, judged and
found lacking by any means or measures and evicted . . . I am to
learn by the experience.
What
Father Denis caused to be created, now disinvest/laic , while I
remain. Conscious, myself coupled with the community, stained by
Fascism resurrected; The Third Reich incarnate. Our homes become
internment death camp. Do I protest too much or too little?
I
am fraudulent to be outraged at the infliction of such attention.
Becoming aware in micro terms the macro consequence of aborting the
Bill of Rights, preemptive war, torture, the World estate become the
playground of terror. Wondering why not random rampage? I am scarcely
able to restrain my own.
Larger
fish to fry, while this sprat becomes a cinder?
It
is astonishing what business people and politicians conclude their
rights to be.
“One
of the laws of paleontology is that an animal which must protect
itself with thick armor is degenerate. It is usually a sign that the
species is on the road to extinction.” - John Steinbeck
17:09
Of
late I have become fond of wandering about the public library and
Coas, a retailer of second-hand books, by their claim one the seven
largest in the United States. Humiliating to ponder the many who
write poetry and discover a sincere appreciation for you who read me
in any form.
At
or about this time of day I fall to curiosity/preoccupation if Pam
will write, call or telepathically arrive. Wishful thinking of
course. Obviously convicted that she is for me the one I am less
chary to name her. Thinking it not so odd knowing life and death to
nearly, clearly, daily. I moderate my sense of tomorrow as never
arriving; as we unconditional the narrative of the interlocutor. Add
I do not want to crowd her especially into something she may later
regret . . . as for myself, I'm GONZO! By she and M enabled to land
on my paws regardless the fall from whatever height. Astonishing to
love and be loved, free and finally realized, now is the be in me and
yesterday or tomorrow doesn't exist.
I,
for now, will close without naming my Nemesis, the property
management company abusing me and my neighbors. HUD regs suggest an
annual inspections while their (the unnamed Nazi's) are serial rapist
of my time and attention . . . it seems folly to irk the ire of the
specious and unworthy of my time for now. Add I seem to myself
incapable of real damage but once shamed I can be vicious.
be
the change be well beloved
130508
0557 no priest am i
©
2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved
No comments:
Post a Comment