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
