overwhelm

Overwhelmed easily, not me, but sometimes by the self within, now quelled by a quiet spreading sense I’m no longer here but there in another heart beating as one. Beset with quiet surprise equal confessed on both sides the flow moving us towards something new an we.

The previous we, dad and me, who at his behest passed H. L. Mencken and Kafka a bequest still altering my sense of everything valuable the smoke and mirror game long gone. Instilling the distillation of “they should be put to sleep like mad dogs.” Was I too young to handle it? As with each virgin nubile lubricious day I discover alive newness. Potentiality. Mencken's remark shrouded my self-loathing adaption to the otherwise chaos of family dysfunctions lending it form the hatred I mean.

All it now vaporous. While I move about this space, I once considered the only real home I’d ever had, I acknowledge that preciously acquired things identifying this time are like me irrelevant and trivial easily disposed of as my remains.

To be reborn, resurrected, reincarnated there in her not where for we are together in a wonderful quiet spreading flooding plain. New to name and claim.

I’ve been here before — made those choices — a hairsbreadth away from / joining the evidence — disposed of

Composing a list invisible as yet that which I carry forward or leave behind and M . . . . oh God how will I miss her looking forward to lunch today. In this time a culture of guardians junk yard dogs with truncheons mad people with guns shooting one another in frenzy I’ve been ready to leave at any moment by Escalade or pressure cooker going off in my face. What me worry about the inconsequential things like clothes & cooking pots. Ever ready to abandon all evidence that I’d ever been once-up-a-time in the universe.

Add the swelling slowly tide licking my eye brows of loves reality now.

06:42

True: I am as avid for her words and her body and so distracted in reply — sent — fell back to horizontal /

conscious my distaste for political rhetoric; the cynical slogans and trashing of language. Then arose in recognition that these last days lingering things — here — are impossible to do violently: pruning root from tree instead merely slowly dissolving. Wondering why I always had a sense of the before and after of everything contemporaneous part of infinity. A whole cloth similar to the seamless robe I once imagined Jesus wearing pummeled underwater as I attempted to land a blow in furry.

Weepy — unashamed — for the joy of now. Too huge to contain. Overwhelming any imagined future. It is a death of sorts this leaving and going elsewhere. Oddly vaporous already there.

Should you think me a comedian, a clown, you should see me somersaulting — laughing now; a boffo baboon in motley with bells a tingle jingling . . . there seem two palms lovely as psalms embracing us together we four for love.

130516 MDT 05:25 overwhelm

© 2013 by Jack Spratt—All Rights Reserved