deathless prose?

I question the concept of being other than biodegradable. Seeing what was before and after the advent of man. Equivocal towards naming, claiming and imaging The Creator anthropomorphic. Which seems at best a conceit to aggrandize those who have no other way to excuse their behavior.

Utopia or dystopia seems little matter when you consider that everything dies: Mountains, monuments, continents become obscure - eventual dust. . . . to gyre and return in another form, re-manufactured in Black Holes.

Gandhi, far wiser than i, in my lexicon and pantheon, did not imply but explicitly stated: “THERE IS NO GOD HIGHER THAN TRUTH.” - or so my refrigerator magnet says to my continual chagrin until now that i have begun to validate and redefine my dreams, imaginings and sense of periodicity allowing the river of others flow through not mind but mindfulness, not conscience but consciousness.

Given the relative immensity and infinitesimal my favorite vision remains two glass funnels conjoined; the apex of an egg timer? through which passes--what?

. . . to Be Here Now: confessing/admitting/submitting all the conceits/foibles/follies remembering being the ventriloquist dummy of reporters who occasionally referred to ‘deathless prose.’ Chagrined the prostitution of our talents genuflection before the fools: The Congress of Baboons. Merely another form of criminality. I digress. What matter the characters of harum-scarum who should by all rights be scourged then gibbeted for treason against the commonweal. 

. . . but then what is life for but to act in our time?

Honey Bunny follow the money and know the fools for what they do, not what they say. Remembering they, in self-congratulatory conceit, reward themselves endlessly. Whatever you may think we are owned by “The Man” with the most money - at least in this life. Slaves one-and-all.

130303 05:47 deathless prose?
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

dreams inconvenient

She drove a pink Cadillac Eldorado convertible. And was that fine age of a woman ripe, mellow and wise; tasty in prospect. Haunting my dreams across the years. 

A different kind of woman than my mother who also drove Cadillac cars. About each there was to me a deliciously dangerous prospect. One, my mother dangerous in the extreme -- volatile. The other was like all my longing: wise, perceptive and accommodating once I knew her; being so bold was I to approach. 

Strange these dreams having me rude and wise, crude and divine. But then there were those several of The Mary who showed me not her face but accepted me as I am filled with faults imperfect and at times lecherous.

In life or death I imagine I’ll never be perfect in anyone’s eyes save mine. Since I am by nature curious about all things. A collector of not experience but of motives, even mine. Sensate? No! Sensual!! In my mind, to see is to own: possess and ravish; the common and uncommon of all that I perceive neutrally no longer wishing to own, possessing only myself. 

There are these dreams reprised unacknowledged yet by accumulation become familiar . . . that in no small measure inform me above all things I prize the commonality of mankind. By stealth and subterfuge - disguised - moving innocuous across the random rouge behavior of men finding no one place for me and happily so. Ghost that I am, touching pulses.

Moving backwards and forwards in time.

The woman of this previous, oft repeated dream, was like The Mary in a sense for she - silently or by gesture - reminded me of the commonality of all life. None captive, slave or owned save by her/him self experiencing it.

So it is not She of the bubble-gum pink ride or the many enclosures, homes/houses, I visit inhabited by women I’ve known passing onto this time of annotation but specifically now aware of those among us who self anoint greedily aggregating authority. Those I sought to give me a mirror of who I am. My cupidity and folly now lays as dust beneath my feet. Like this body that writes, soon to be blown across the desert no longer venal. 

The process of writing up one’s dreams reveals meaning by accumulation. The one great dream of my life, begun in childhood, took decades and five repetitions to understand. And at that several entries in memory to apprehend. 

Good things come to we who wait; understanding the motive and method applied to sway our lives . . . what impelles our behavior to do or not do anything at all.

As for she, of the rude pink vaginal ride, I can only say, astonishingly she was a Madam who employed me as delivery boy presenting compensation through a letter box. The front door of a convent/country club otherwise in the common landscape of our culture. Long will I remember the furtive eyes seen briefly. The smells and voices of a harem inside beyond my reach. 

Fortunately.

The keeper kept -- imprisoned.

130303 03:16 dreams inconvenient
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved