barking laughter coupling whoops of derision ricocheted caroming the baby poop beige halls
my lover knew exactly the nature of ribald photography depicting fellatio in a daily newspaper
once recalling an entire run The Sunday rotogravure cover depicting in detail the various and
many implementable mechanical modalities of preventing the birth unwanted children by 
inadvertent dalliances which sadly unused between us resulted in a foetus shred disposed in the
sewers of Manhattan with baby crocodiles flushed by parents from children’s circus trip grown
gargantuan inhaling entire school bus’ of children and their nannies drivers and keepers

retrospectively there had been one or two others women before whom I could naked stand their
recommendation: write! and before the last taboo of restraint mother who replied ‘you don’t need
my permission to write’ not then knowing either of us the consequence that impels words from my
loins through the speaking trumpet dad’s double stainless steal shot glass so like the image dreamed
of two glass funnels conjoined a modern version of Aeolian Gabriel's horn Maynard Ferguson ripping
brass High C above High C above that  ‘Yesterdays’ “Haven’t got the chops to do it again Jack” & he a
student of Gurdjieff and Miles who ignored me back stage Newport the image like us all gone soon U me 2 everything governed by Exxon meet and greet your posterior and kiss it goodbye two handed

frozen chocolate dipped with chopped peanuts covered banana she haply accepted free to pose
laughing bare midriff and succulent crop top squeaking really!?! irreverent, rude, salacious when
asked what was your intent I shrugged my shoulders kicked up black ink dust off the terra cotta tiles
twirling my eyes like a strippers tassels Alfred E Newman grin what me worry? Tom Wolf was her special
friend before me and when she said ‘my photographer’ by way of explaining my presence as her
taxi driver schlepper sho 'nuff honey child would you like to walk home i whispered into her pink shell ear
beneath gold brocade hair Lucy in the sky with diamonds reflected in owl glasses never in bed or ‘lay byes’

we double teamed Gloria Steinem two foxes and a dummy for which and others award showered then
the photo editor who though he’d given me a job otherwise sat upon my images with a glass eye his pants
around his ankles took me into a glass office where no one could hear other than the alcoholic chief
photographer who sat mute while he the cyclops artist tore me new orifices all over my body when
he ran out of things to accuse me of taking away his job winning awards the stupid copy boy didn’t know that
the majority were derived from stories discovered by me on the streets ‘have you essentially said everything
you wanted/needed to say? Silence then I suggested if he asked me the time of day that he should do so only in
the presence of a guild steward and never spoke to him again. Another photographer and I would speculate
the implantation of a cancerous prostate in rebuttal to his asinine presumptions the photog become a shrink

of the lover she who had two & i two about to lose both but not at that point in time she said ‘never change’
but that’s my secret name ‘chance’ its my nature said the scorpion to the frog both drown like the child who
would could can’t be born the affair magnificent died ever and always grieved she & all the women in my life
who inseminated me with words to come now here beloved like da Betsy G and 4m i a fucking terror with
camera and words am immolating my heart all over again here now be

120504 00:40

120501 2322 dreams
    To expunge earnestness and reveal an essential irreverence towards myself; excluding self deprecation--my primary self defense towards the “too stupid to live” messages received, implied, or inferred. About which it was common for me to encapsulate in the phrase “preemptive damage control.” Which, later, in it’s turn become “the dance of Avoidance.” In both cases I became mute, watchful, no, hyper vigilant for I knew the boarder between order was about to be breached. I was a mini death this short circuiting of myself.
    In the cold light of sobriety sans my typical awakening with dreams, visions and dialogs--who in their turn become a sort orgiastic slow building orgasm of confluence, apparent to me, yet irrelevant to those who might read me with indifference. I can only say that even the Bible, at times, was merely defaced byproduct on dead tree flesh.
    Writing began as an attempt to heal the insanity of grief. Not merely the lost children, the unlived life abandoned as painter, sculptor musician dancer or lover. All the things that impelled me to twitch and writhe in joy since infancy. Through the agency or device of journal keeping. My consciousness becomes focused like an ice pick thrust into the night; a lightning rod through which like Frankenstein I become vivified.
    I was then and remain an ecstatic. How else can I reconcile the hammer blows as merely justified punishment. For what? Living?
    It follows that I had my love affair with the nights alone, safely cocooned in the sanctuary of my bed. And of those nights the many pets who slept with me that I could stroke awake or in my sleep, of those blest friend I model my love for everything.
    In my dreams, various and seldom populated with terror, there remained one repeated. Always initiated in a dark subterranean passage. What slowly, with repetition, became the basement of what I only came to know fully on the fifth and last occurrence.
    Paved with large flat stones arranged in various levels, ramps, mazes, odd openings in the walls through which would be screams, cries for help a full spectrum of colored lights flashing or exploding. My cowering passage, at first was short, with each reprise came a few more feet gained. Toward the latter phases I would stroll cocky and knowing . . . in some sense the phrase “crooked ways made plain.”
    Always naked I emerged through a basement bulkhead bifurcated door which I closed behind me and walked away. At some distance I turned and saw behind my course an enormous crenelated castle with banners gently waving above the battlements. Only then did I realize myself upon a trackless desert laved by moon light.
    In recent time I’ve come to correlate my ‘great dream’ with my birth as described by mother. She claimed it was 58 or 59 hours of dry labor in Christ Hospital, a Catholic Institution. No mention was made of the whereabouts of my father. He may have been playing a gig or merely otherwise absent. I’ve only shared this with an emphatically trusted friend whose knowledge, experience and birth was equally hazardous and imperiled. The reply: “Impossible she would have died!” Resonates still.
    In the not too distant pass I had my horoscope drawn and the insistence of a gay, nudist, Episcopal priest and Jungian psychologist. It too lays waste, someplace in the wake of my journey, as are most of my journals, publications in print, words and photographs--everything up to approximately 2000. Yet I retain some sense, the sight, mostly oppositions near vertical and the message I was to “speak truth to power”, had a poets mind . . . and . . . that is all, carry on.
    My friend dismisses divination of any type with the simple statement, “put in a change order.” And then later would comment some verification the position of stars and planets influencing a general disposition or predilection.
    I had from first to last, yet I live, a child’s simple faith in love. An ineluctable force that I could love people into loving themselves . . . if not ever loving me. Since it is love given without condition or hope of repayment we give to the Origin of All Things and motives and intentions. I love, nonetheless those who cannot, will not, ever love themselves.
    Love your enemy as yourself, is a stone upon which I crumple my teeth, still, and so define love at it’s base rock foundation as simple acceptance, my enemy, my self, the right to be.
    I pivot and twirl upon the spike finally convicted that the world in we which to live must have love possible. And in my leaving let me have the courage of Dietrich Bonhoeffer to, naked, thank my keeper, forgive my executioner and then have my head torn off; hanging by wire. . . .Slumped, headless and naked upon the cold, dark, stone floor--Nazi Germany very near the end of World War II--little did I know, until recently, he conspired to assassinate Adolph Hitler.
    Or Emily Dickens: “Called Back.”
    Equally: Gandhi blessed his assassin.
    These heroes of mine, of and about them I have queried, my quest answered. We can ask all we want yet God is the final arbiter thus we must do for ourselves, in love, the only thing left--Love.
    Odd conjecture: I once saw the Jews as sheep lead to slaughter shorn their dignity, yet now I see them heroic in love, their sacrifice possibly messianic for all time. Vengeance propagates vengeance. And the end of war will be the end of our species. Let their loss be not in vain . . . never to slay again.
    I need not be RIGHT of left wondering since “vengeance is Mine, said The Lord our God.”
    Of dreams, journals, ecstasy and horror, I can only say; pay attention to the height, width, breadth and depth of what you love and/or fear.
    Perhaps, possibly, maybe, maybe not, I’ll have 1 Corinthian’s 13 tattooed upon my forehead inverso to read while shaving least I lend the impression I’ve had my face in a bag filled with sugar coated jelly donuts.

"I have seen no more evident monstrosity and miracle in the world than myself." --Michel de Montaigne

(3) 120501 08:08

virginity returns supine
Annie cradled between head and shoulder
exhausted from Mouse a game we play before slumber
fingers creeping beneath the sheet blanket duvet clawed she pounces
enticing times to gnaw with kisses that is if i don't flinch then bleed laughing hilariously
sleep inseminated by dreams, images, symbols, omens and portents, the runes and ruination of heart’s shred returned unscarred reprise childhood innocence screaming steam locomotive and diesel horns blat cars rattling late on farther the moon glowing upon river silent punctuated by fish breaching or the quite splash of paddle wheels then now hum of towboat pushing barges like the cars rattle upon tracks moving past the dominion of death’s fear there is no end only blossoming in speckle the seed of me in her as she swam the height width breadth depth of Ohio’s stream to the tracks in Kentucky crossed by slaves bearing children born in captivity the way back Att’a Boy Att’a Girl summer stock afloat self propelled another carnival of delight seeking finding strings following threads to pearls downward cleavage to suckle nurtured mammalians
Ripley nights
slept echo
never fled
i
am
gossamer word web suspend

120501 10:33 “Inch by inch I conquered the inner terrain I was born with. Bit by bit I reclaimed the swamp in which I'd languished. I gave birth to my infinite being, but I had to wrench myself out of me with forceps.”
 ― Fernando Pessoa {annotated to demonstrate the interaction between self and The All: possible}

. . . it doesn’t matter what you call god if it does no harm, seek and ye shall find (be found) . . . the call answered a truth greater than ‘God’. Should, could, would, may, can i so touch the magnificence inherent in you, all, we as i then seek within The Author of Everything sans Institutional reference or boundaries.

--Ferdinand Foch
"The most powerful weapon on earth is the human soul on fire."

photo caption: carina nebula:
A mountain of dust and gas rising in the Carina Nebula. The top of a three-light-year tall pillar of cool hydrogen is being worn away by the radiation of nearby stars, while stars within the pillar unleash jets of gas that stream from the peaks.

Job 31:32 "but no stranger had to spend the night in the street, for my door was always open to the traveler--" the image is not mine, stolen since it is fine. No. Best Blest.

120501 05:04
    Bully i was in youth for my name. During infancy I knew Hitler as a clarinet player, Joe I think, maybe Carl.
    Preceded through elementary school by Jack Frost I was frequently referred to, at first, as he not me. It is impossible among the literate, this shrinking minority oppressed by dreck and thought police, having the sir name Spratt not to be called Jack. Which is not a Christian name but a ‘nickname’ for Jacob or John. Pardon me while I weep for the what seems implicit in “John” the one Jesus said would remain.
    Oh well.
    Regrets I have for my behavior, not guilt or shame since like anger and fear, either, any or all: burdens too great to carry far in life. Worse to be so is to become possessed by them. Defining myself as other than a bully has been to acquire largess my father did not possess, at least as he would describe those who quoted, from “An Alphabet of Old Friends” what became both a Nursery Rhyme and political slander during the Tammany Hall days . . . he thought them idiots.
    Specifically. Indelibly. In a closed loop, replayed once-in-while, perchance too often, is the red headed boy whose two arms I broke in a hammer lock for his jabberer of me. Then my eternal memory the discovery he was adopted and weak regarding his own identity. In another moment of uncontrolled ferocity exploding, not for the same name calling and ridicule, I picked up a peer above my head and threw him to the ground. And wonder still as I wander towards death his consequent life afterwards. Broken? On the alter of my rage.
    Born in Cincinnati, swiftly moved to St. Louis during the beginnings of World War II the name Wolfgang Amadeus was pondered as to Germanic to use, the latter, from Latin love + god. After Mozart of course, thankfully it wasn't Jelly Roll, Satchmo or any of the other musicians and/or composers my life was suffused with then, and only now in private since I weep and dance crying for joy uncontrollable.
    The cat became Mozart and my crib partner.
    Of the many names for God I no favorites and while greeting the day, living it, internally prostrate in awe reverent.
    Faith is experience, belief is idea. . . . or thought/conceit?
    It is oddly wonderful, this writing business, since for me, though I don’t know how to do it, am presented with as many directions I could go--as in from ‘here’--as there are stars. Abiding internally is the knowing that “Christ” was applied afterwards and Jesus was is a friend brother perhaps we all are children of God? And in some sense must be the messiah to our selves, souls, what ever moves us through things that go bump in the night of our terror.
    What name does God give this tiny speck circling infinity, our nest befouled by greed upon which we reside tenant?
    Or we whose given names are a prayer of intention?

An elder Cherokee Native American was teaching his grandchildren about life. He said to them, "A fight is going on inside me...It is a terrible fight, and it is between two wolves. One wolf represents fear, anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, pride and superiority. The other wolf stands for joy, peace, love, hope, sharing, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, friendship, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. This same fight is going on inside of you and every other person too." --Cherokee

. . . savage? no. barbarians; we
spreading still a school for terrorism our National Church The Federal Reserve

obverse vision mirror like reflecting backwards intercourse between i eye aye sir
object subject conjunction confluence collide begetting one or the other 

120429 13:12

120429 07:29
    Vast as consciousness may become is superseded by infinity and the origin of itself. Otherwise, for me, this life is Hell as in wasteland--a toxic dump.
"Man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for?" --Robert Browning
    Fear constrains us now as a psychological gulag or a stalag of consumption. Our lives expended for the shepherds of greed. The midway events of which are announced by carnival barkers shouting/screaming doom unless you do as I say not as I do . . . Peter & The Wolf . . . ate him eventually.
    Momentarily my sense is that I am a stylus upon something so vast that metaphors: a grain of sand or dust mote seem in compare terrifyingly overwhelming.
    Yet in this time and place, considering human history, all that is known, becoming and discovered, there is more. We collectively are like the life span of a fruit fly compared to the nest, our once pretty blue and while marble following and orderly course ancient before time was a thought . . .
“Poetry is about the grief. Politics is about the grievance.” --Robert Frost
    My point dear friend, is that if you know how to die you will learn the value of life . . . love is a power and force that will vanquish everything eventually.
“A cynic is a man who knows the price of everything but the value of nothing.” --Oscar Wilde
    . . . have i learned nothing save that ‘man’ equals Self/Soul/without gender?
    I’ve often thought, and still think, St. Francis’s recommendation to embrace a leaper meant me. Self acceptance opens horizons beyond the far one we see.

 12428 07:08
In passing . . .
    I remarked astonishment at the number of people I know, who as children had been raped; in most instances, by their parents.
    She raised her hand, two fingers parallel, pointing upward, emerald eyes, steady in gaze unsmiling. Our now reconciled lexicon equivalent are: sexual/emotional abuse.
    Violation is not exclusively physical it is also emotional. Extreme ideals, perceptions, prejudicial conclusions and interpretations lead to extreme aggression. To correct misbehavior assertion seems more appropriate, especially when using “I” messages versus ‘YOU!” for opening negotiation.
    Another friend who, unaccountably like me, garners intimacies unsolicited. While at a topless bar he said; “Most of the girls here were abused by their fathers. Sadly I know too many men with a comparable history.
    Proverbs 13:24 is open to interpretation. Judging by the generation preceding mine, it seems that a literal conclusion was drawn and applied. By penis, stick, fist, or in cases of what we now call ADHD: Ritalin. The consequences of either, or all of the above, are to inflect a lifetime of hurt--self-perpetrating. I am especially concerned at the current accusation of desertion or malingering applied to soldiers with PTSD trauma. Were the solution to this problem a new weapons system, no expense would be spared. With sorrow I hear the position taken by those in authority to accuse, judge and condemn the victim as a coward. . . . And it is not uncommon for the conviction to be make by, and at, vast remove from the cause.
    The Rod can equally be understood as device used to measure the distance or length of things. Think, please, of scepter and crown. In any and all cases it’s use in any regard should be considered after a time-out, lengthy soul searching and mercy for both the punisher and the punished . . . or simply being held accountable for disruptions.
    Measuring the runes and ruins of my life, now forgiven and healed, I remember best the worst punishment of all: silence. I am reminded of a friend whose father used her sexually first at six. By the age twelve when, she sought his attention in the only manor of affection he ever paid her, she was abandoned to silence. In her lifelong quest for love she always sought “BAD BOYS”. . . . And it is not she alone, for I spent a few long moments in the cell with a woman who’d burned her husband alive. She didn’t say a word to prove her innocence of the conviction, a lifetime imprisoned.
    It is usually around the age of forty that we begin to feel, regardless of any other measure “success” is not enough to hide the distress fearing another forty feeling distempered. Women reach this apogee sooner than men since they mature early and out pace us, we men, ad infinitum.
    If you are mentally ill, or think you are, or suffering in silence the humiliation of abuse, it is a good time, getting better, to be so. My transparency and potentially “inappropriate” self-revelation, once was seen as indicative, a diagnostic,  of being bipolar--manic depressive. Acquisition cost me tens of thousands of dollars in medication. In retrospect; alternative remedy is available through self-investigation and lasting healing, is within your grasp.
    I sift through the hair suit of my life and discover choices I regret triggered by the simplest thing, an attempt to do penance for a crime I, at twelve, did not commit against my sister. She equally maligned at six. The result was and endless effort to acquire acceptance and love set upon hair-triggered bear trap snapping shut at any sign of disapproval. I was wired that way disembodied slavery as a victim or runaway.
    I advocate for you. What I write is a faltering attempt to sell you the best franchise of all: yourself.

120429 04:13
    Teachers who taught me best remembered, none definitive remain, yet she who ran bare foot at 11 emerald eyes seeking peaches and pears, for her persistence to encourage the deconstruction of self-contempt. Not me alone, thank The All, for such a work of art, and force of nature, it would be criminal to constrain, sequester, hoard or hide.
    Seen across the dog watch sea, a match struck glimmering become no scintillation but creation itself a shadowless light blinding amazement. The sea of loathing evaporated.
    Those who also saw an investment I can never repay though none was is expected. Taught the color of freedom saffron plumed. A Phoenix arising against restraints rent. Again, round and round about, to see those who cared as equally awesome more for their origins than their fact. Taught not the what but the why derived from only that we are unique, precious beyond the value of all measure. To be enabled passing along the gem an unfolding of more. A cosmology of no cat’s eye marbles, or pearls, so much as a milky way of them without boundaries.
    Dark mortality  be not vain.
    . . . love’s labor never deadly creating a world we would gladly give & leave behind