Awoke with a certainty that all beauty, as wealth, is relative and dependent upon the eye of the beholder. Then rushing into the light this next and never to be repeated day discovering myself rebutted not refuted in what I published before retiring for the rest I sought.

I remain in free fall from hospice seeking a new configuration the wings of my attention. While doing rolls and turns breaking the barriers implied moving past the speed of light it seems now I move not at all . . . an attempting to read Annie Dillard want to remain silent the rest of eternity. Add to her Lao Tzu. Both carpet bomb my mind leaving not ruble but flower of light exploding. I sense God laughing at and with me as I attempt to define The All nakedly invisible with Post-It notes.

My free fall becomes more explicit moment by second. Seeing it is not healing others but merely creating myself. And horror of horrors I’m fulfilling, albeit unconsciously, my random rouge ideal of rewriting the Bible in today’s advertising language; sans lies, but truths available experientially. Sadly aware that so few and fewer read. However there is hope since nothing is inconsequential to God; no lie is every hidden like the child in a gingham dress dismembered and covered with lye or acid to hide the guilty from prosecution eventually. But my knowing of myself indicates even those beyond redemption have crucified themselves. The Real Deal, The Judge awaits, patient and invisible.

There is no safety, nor harbor of tranquility accept to accept it all and everything as given without resentment being robbed blind, striped naked, raped, spindled and mutilated more better kicked aside as litter to those who do so.

Of all my heroes and heroines Randy and Johanna remain the best since they blest me for a time with their presence and through that gift of unending grace I am fine thrice blest to have ever lived at all.

Of messengers I remember best she whose words, seldom, but blows, kicks and snarled stated the legend of the Stoic boy caring a fox beneath his cloak eating him as he ran to the King. Upon delivering his message the boy fell dead eating by the fox. I won’t tell you my after death experience save to say that she, mom, was god to me . . . LOL . . . fully integrating the two one male the other female and she taught me and how! To do the same. Own nothing not this body that writes nor the mind that drives it.

How to say it? I love Islam as another facet of Abraham family traditions. Each attempting to eat the other for their affirmed and truly revealed favor of God. Or should I say flavor of God?

I have an instinct for God is Good in All Things. Earned with gallons of tears, limitless rage, laughter beyond telling and scars all over my mind. Ask and you will receive more than you or I or all can contain; at least in this life we live. Dancing with The Stars? Absolutely learn to soar to fly from galaxy to others so distant none can be experienced unless in their arms.

Why merely sit at either right or left side of God? Why not merge with The All Right Now this infinite being in NOW.

121102 07:30 extraordinary

To read something grander than that which is published on the outside, The Breakfast of Champions, metaphorically, is to take you head off placing it in a microwave oven and blow it apart.

Possibly this explains the phenomenon of the born dead. Note: Not ‘still born’ but the ones who drive SUVs proudly covered in the flesh, blood and tears of National Guard’s Personnel lead by the virtual equivalent The Congress of Baboons. More or less the Old School of Favor the Idiot you know versus the interest of wisdom and commonweal of all life.

So many threads, so little time, must keep my head on target; eternity not mere entertainment. The reigns on this run-away-maverick have dissolved. Largely through the agency of prayer. Not: “Now I lay me down to sleep . . . “ so much as those thoughts posited upon the threshold of rest from which . . . I love the word trebuchet, not merely as the first instrument of siege introducing chemical mass destruction wholesale but merely forming the word itself in my mind. Then, of course, in my mouth but problematically I start grining and guffawing and sometimes, now, become weak in the knees preparatory to falling laughing down! . . . It once was being hurled from sleep into this activity of annotating my dreams: the multitude, variegated, scintillating my posterior singed from by self-propulsion ignited methane aflame zooming through the ever distant boundary of the far flung outer edges of  Creation expanding into nothing.

Factually, of and in myself, now, having no anthropomorphic image of God as man, woman, child, mineral, water of any kind. Being no longer bemused with the potential of Shape shifter etc. Fearless acknowledging the “Acts of God” not attributable to malevolent intent anywhere near the extent of our killing ourselves with waste of all kinds--the water table comes to mind for merely on example to fuel the foolish vanity of SUV s and heat McMansions upon the shores of seas. Gazing fondly at your pomposity in the darkened glass surround, upon the boundary of what you own and what owns you; reaching into the sanctuary of your supercilious accomplishments and dragging you to drown in the deep soon to die of pollution.

Boys and girls I am not talking about farting in the bathtub and igniting the bubbled gas with matches here. I refer to the fact that fracking will lead to bathing in napalm. But of course that is external; imagine an enema of flame. Or merely belching near open flames, a candle lite dinner for example and cremating your date. Not blowing him or her away but merely making of them a cinder with small inconsequential wisps of smoke idly wafting about in the vagrant thermals of the restaurant. A nearby couple celebrating their graduation from high school both in synthetic attire now in flames screaming leaping and writhing in midair. Somersaulting through the distant overlook from the nineteenth floor becoming comets falling upon the pavement below.

Move over Nostradamus. I think we’re onto something here! Another flood of sorts? Filled with soiled condoms, years and years of New York Times Sunday editions regurgitated. No floating corpses of National Guard personnel self extinguished or retroactively aborted. Born free yet dying because there is no right to life after being born. Becoming cannon fodder for scatocephalic lawyers who define life as a convenience to service their greed for more.

All institutions die of administrative fees applied to the truths once inspired; if not now, when?

What exactly did I ponder up entry the silence of rest? Well. I remember asking why M would wash out her son’s mouth with comet cleanser and then refer to another young man as calling her “mom.”

At this point in my narrative I realize that the entire planet is in hospice dying but not knowing it. Add. My anima, the feminine component of my soul really has no face; nor the illusion of Mary beneath her cowl twice visited in her pulsing pink quartz grotto. Should or could I revisit all her incarnations the nudges and tweaks. Would I know better this beast who now speaks of the end of everything laughing at the prospect.

The beauty of poverty and old age is that one gets to see God in real time. Retaining the ability to tap dance in a red striped blazer flipping your boater straw hat twirling your cane and smiling while evaporating in love. Annie, the rescue cat rubbing my ankles smiling.

I wish one and all a nice eternity though you will wish never having been born you’ll get over it maybe.


121103 02:28 something else altogether
©2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

Self Care

Have a care for what you allow or expel from your soul. Health, both physical and mental, is our responsibility; not the Doctor or Legislator’s; nearly never parents or peers.

For a rough guide, or scale, think your choice governs 90% of your health; the remaining 10% is your DNA, food chain, physics, and so on.

Each day tumbles away into darkness; my path towards the light. It is a way, my way, yet your way will be different since although we are similar, nearly equivalent if not in essence: same/same/equal. Our perceptions set us apart. Celebrate that--the you-ness of you.

Of late, considering the storm and chaos of lies promulgated by politicians who are to me, at least or best, failed ambulance chasers. Lawyers. Those despicable people who argue your meaning and value as though you were a thing, litter, or a cypher.

Lamentably while changing out of, or into street clothes at the gym, I am bashed by the noise of endless squawk; much-ado-about nothing. Tho my attention, by now, is a hardened chrome ball like a gazing ball, like a lawn ornament; lethal to touch. I do listen briefly to the snark and no speak of all that is on offer. At the moment grinning at my liberty of not having an open sewer spewing waste into my abode endlessly. Television has become brainwash; endless dreck or simply a shit storm 24/7/365.

In the hymn of silence each event becomes astonishing; a new galaxy birthing or dying.

God does not need me to be a sophist for love. Or an apologist for the 6 and 60 million slain by fascism. Or for me to draw obvious comparisons between what it was and now is evident in a political process for sale.

I remain curious about what lays in my path, easily resting in the silence and realization, my ego: road kill. That said. Why do I continue to write?

So little time remains though I might or may live another, physical twenty years or so, or at that; another ten million. Each day, moment, second is filled with richness inconceivable to me yesterday or the day before. If anything, the motive to write is more an expelling of thoughts making room for more experience. In meditation I wander around the feast, like The Last Supper. Except in the sense of myself as a photographer who once sought a “Terminal Lunch” laughing at the comparison. Bankers, stock brokers/speculators, politicians have sodomized me out of my modest retirement and thus disabled me from travel. At least physical travel. However following clues rendered by Thomas Merton, all Tibetan Monks (male and female) and Eric Hoffer I have traveled inward and found something inaccessible by travel within a tubular aluminum coffin prefaced being groped by goons who get off of making me their victim.

Sniff my library card!

I will close here with my original intention. Authority, mostly bean counters, compelled me to leave what had conceptually been my last home and effort to socialize with reality: hospice. I have no regrets and have returned to my last friend dying there several times. Remaining chagrined at the changes in personnel, atmosphere . . . having spent four or more hours in The Chicago Municipal Morgue which I found far more hospitable, I discover myself reborn free to engage whatever is next and no regrets.

I am smaller now, more mobile, better able to traverse the spine transiting the earth from Patagonia to Alaska faster than the speed of light passing through rock. More better yet I have more time to randomly read Rumi which merely makes me nothing to my delight.

121102 21:30 Care
©2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

she of weeping lubricity

Widgets and whim whams attack as if i’d rolled ecstatic nude in poison oak laughing and orgasming endlessly becoming a broth.

Fleeing then seeking an attack of normalcy I wander through the isles of $1 Stores wishing I’d have walked naked barefoot and penniless instead of fully clothed in my car with too many credit cards and so--so, many temptations I really don’t need. No way. No how.

She weeping lubricity, all feasible and fecund, smiled as I confessed my errancy.

Oh sweet Jesus my deliverer redeem me now. No rupture; rapture. Render/Rendition/Dissipater me mist evaporating in lust. Still capable but vastly distant those halcyon days of endless erections. I could bar graph what was who winning the contest to penetrate her then there ravishing her completely bewildered she looked nothing like anything but or anyone other than herself.

IN GLASSES NO LESS!

Can men be hydras? Maybe Octopuses! Perhaps squids walking? Blind groping her uterus via eyes, ears, anus, vagina all portals explored counting the seeds I could inseminate filling with the last vestiges of semen left to me so near the cancellation date dad’s last known erection at seventy two.

Could it be that inserting my penis in a food processor--i’m not really that long--but big, or so I’ve been told by a woman who’s name I cannot not now remember. Black as midnight in Chi Town who said; “Oh . . o-o-o.  O  Yeah . . . Honey I might just be able to deep throat you; she grouping me public on a nearby public beach park bench fully clothed early fall crisp day.

Death alone will slake my lust and be done forever? The Author of All Things is astonishing and mom never knew until I buried her i belonged to God.

Yet this one, childless, married, actually forty something, available? What? Was it that so attracted me to her smile, winking scintillating eyes and gentle kindness so ravishing to me. In rumpled denim and sneakers; no rape me stiletto heels. This was no fetish doll, blown up for a party or otherwise and i so terrified of women being the only male for a time and mommy said dad wanted her to be The Virgin Mary and a Whore both at one time?!

Vestal tongue anteater long and wanna be Rhinoceros horn the $1 dollar store that one would be plastered against the ceiling screaming with ecstasy she’s a Stradivarius never played before sonorous cello mellow cumin brown not fully baked or broken but taken to heaven and never returned . . . reflecting, musing, bewildered I think she did that to me just standing there in the isle for three hours me preaching creation to her.

Mistake, colossal, fall asleep pondering why St. Francis died alone in a cave? Was is St. Claire, the honey bunny never merged physically or all the vanity of those Brothers seeing who was looking most poor?

?Instant replay the Main Frame in Heaven? Did I ask for this or is it intended? OMG Chuck! She’s a carpenter too, no tutu. And me terrified of women knowing myself a girly boy meaning merely I’d rather make love with one real woman I could trust finally before it falls forever limp.

121101 11:26 she of weeping lubricity

I have changed in an exquisite blooming of a flower, never seen before, rooted in the mire and muck of my life, so oft denied until now. Atypical of me not to post upon completion. Yet knowing now, more so, from time marching forward; the only thing best about me is the self within.Not what I write. Nor my desire that another like myself will be saved. It is not the prophets of God who save us but God period. I have a sense of The Presence in all things and can no longer deny that I lust for a companion and am rude and salacious about it. Reality and prior experience indicates the anima--feminine aspect of my soul equal to animus = male; is what I long for. And it is she who waits patiently while I go through convulsions of lust occasionally . . . . Projecting Her upon the being of another Woman. More typical of now I wander away attending to food preparation, cleaning house in an attempt to make myself beautiful for Annie and She who lives within me . . . Who betimes dreamed of The Mother of God seen twice in visions, visitations, oracular; wordless, face hidden in a shadowed cowl. I am comfortable with endings and last things knowing it is well being right here and now.

Truth be told there is a neighbor who informs me better what she would or will do given the tears she shed preceding my encounter with the young woman I idealized--for a time--slaking my imaginary lust denied to be for more women than just one an embrace chaste. Yes. I did preach but significantly it was a day woven thread by thread into a tapestry I’ll not soon forget. Laughing. I then saw the maiden stretched taught upon a rack during the Inquisition; as emblematic of my writing this time. The only poetic real communion is with God; all else is collecting material as grist for the endlessly spinning miller’s stone in my mind’s envisioning.

To acknowledge all of yourself is to be able to choose appropriate behavior in the reality of life. Not by laws but autonomy. Wisdom must be earned not bought.

121102 00:09 final/final
©2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

Christmas’ Past were like playing the Mormon Tabernacle Choir doing the Messiah; falling through successive floors endlessly. Her mother, mine then dad and his new brood.

You know the feeling too well; falling down an elevator shaft; yet for me there were momentary lapses falling stopped. Why would or should such a divine commemoration be an endless nightmare. . . .the only two best remembered: Randy telling is grandmother, my mother; fists planted on each hip in his Doctor Denton’s: “ Don't you ever speak to my father in That Tone of voice. Ever!”

The other was at a time very young, uncertain where, but, paternal grandparents, present, had given me a toy farm populated with two dimensional figures plus fences and trees. I suppose in some sense it was humble--dare you to say ‘cheap’!

Between friends, mates, lovers or drive-by fornications: nudity is not the issue but naked souls blest. I was to be privileged to see my paternal grandmother nude; a memorable occasion since she defined the difference between nude and naked, having so shame of her body. Outstanding even then a fox until she died. Better and more frequently recalled her teaching me to tie my shoes. A double slipped reef knot; one lesson did the trick and more often when putting them on, seldom, shoes that tie instead of scuff. She stood there without shame or flinch; nude not smiling but her eyes saying; ‘yes’ to be so touched by grace is memorable beyond any amount of money in heaven, earth or hell forever.

For me to be now celibate is to love better all life. In denying myself the gratification of lust slaked I find myself better able to penetrate hearts, souls and minds. . . .Remembering Whitney Houston the difference between using a long lens and being up close and personal with a point-and-shoot. Fully clothed lounging in the doorway of her trailer talking to fans--I posing as one--now recall brokering a deal for Star Magazine to purchase images of her and Bobby, she in a bikini. On God! What a voice and body. The most sensitive sex organ is between our ears.

Other nominally near Christmas’ past better than most memorable. Remember Beethoven said something like; music is the best message of universal love. And she called me the night of her death to say goodbye from lung cancer, like me, a cigarette smoker. We met at the local public library. As previously stated, female librarians are oracles to me, always have will always be. When returned to Randy from Paradox I was refused access--typical of Susan--from beginning to end. She stood across the internment holding Nancy’s hand while I writhed upon the muddy December ground hysterical; a wooden Indian she selling no cigars.

Reggie (Regina) and Ralph took me in, accustomed to strays, as their son would have it of me and all who preceded me in their hospitality. Christmas' there was a Bacchanalian Celebration; I steered the eggnog which towards the end was more rum than egg. In the living room a star flashing varicolored lights obscenely joyous into the coming dawn; a new life for one and all to be well in eternity. Remember kiddies savior yourselves this Christmas for we celebrate He who died for us as well.

The Grinch Who Stole Christmas has formed a union; all Bankers of the World need not apply; they were made that way by greed. Us Tar Babies, we of color, even i a wannabe must stick together and walk outta the brier patch Bush/Cheney put us in. We Will Prevail inheriting the earth as the body of God. Or blown asunder merge meeting in the heart of God elsewhere.

Jesus did say, “The Kingdom of God is within you.” Meaning, at least for me for now; we are, or can be there, if only we are willing to vanquish our fear.

Oh yes! The reason I wept last lunch with M was hearing an aria remembering Reggie. Having read everything before she collected Harlequin Romances eating them like salty peanuts while listening to Opera. And now I celebrate all the women of my life; especially the Mother of God who upon the loom of first light, in robes black turning blue covered with stars gives virgin birth to the new and next day . . . and on very special times winks as she sets the moon goodnight.

There is artistry in all life if only you become awake to see it. Death having no dominion forever.

Happy All Saints Day on the morrow.

121031 05:29 touched by . . .
©2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

Behind me lay a multitude of thoughts recorded; recognized as folly, not vain so much as beating a dead dog to resurrect it.

As a photojournalist, for print media, I remain unbowed by the tsunami of television. Now the Internet blowing commercial broadcast off the globe.

Mr. Bill Gates, a pimple on the ass of the Internet, is ethically and morally a dog turd. Albeit a very rich one who giving a token from his amassed wealth could in truth as with all rich to tithe ten percent should. Yet could easily give ninety percent; remaining rich beyond all measure or reason.

Why would I molest Mr. Gates? Retroactively aborting his life and ‘accomplishments’ is available to me conceptually in that, were he to be my object of interest, myself no longer constrained by journalistic ethics and morals; and having been raped by people like he. Without disrespect I’d fart in his face before taking a portrait of him for any reason. He is no more or less noble than I or Annie, my companion cat. And Mr. Gates, in and of himself, is of zero interest.

The same applies to Ted Kennedy. I was given an assignment for The Providence Journal, Providence, Rhode Island. He stormed into the room filled with self-importance towing his wife; a marginally inflated sex toy on a four wheeled platform behind him. I do not know for certain, having no interest but intuition, he would screw anything with an appropriate entrance; a knothole for example. As happenstance, coincidence or felicitous synchronicity would have it I met the wife of the photographer who happen upon the ass end of Kennedy’s automobile as it sank into oblivion at Chappaquiddick. Thus my intuition affirmed.

We all have genius in us. Yet we refuse to acknowledge it; being impossible in an age of, not literacy but the blind leading the blind into perdition.

If I am bold, a terrorist, savage in my seeing; believe me it is inconvenient to prostitute my vision/version of all that I see for anyone. Gates is emblematic of the force and power of wealth to rape not only my inheritance but the products of my mind.

Actually there is nothing new in this penchant and proclivity to sodomize artist. For those who live in terror of never having enough, more is always demanded; by them, not God: The best audience in all creation.

If I find myself insignificant. It is true of my vision of eternity. The world, you, the audience, all measure of esteem or acclaim, “immortality;” will fall useless without us since the world will end; sooner or later.

The more I give away my consciousness of the divine, the more room within me to receive. To create a self is the most important effort worthy of person’s attention; not to be known but to know ourselves and the Creator approves: communes, advises, laughs and cries with you.

121029 04:48 taught

“Individual things are nothing but modifications of the attributes of God, or modes by which the attributes of God are expressed in a fixed and definite manner.” - Baruch Spinoza

Being a legend in my own mind, discovering myself a sardine in a very small fish bowl, i tend to forget no one else knows how to breath water.

An unexamined life is unworthy of being called life at all.

Yet, at that, I wonder how to sell you your own? Happiness for me is solitude, an occasional game of double deck Solitaire and a cat. I have enough: period. Such peace as I know having known it for five or more years, I recognize that I cannot collect M as either memento, souvenir or insurance that I will not back slide into the life of insanity I lived until meeting her.

Insanity, as classically defined by Albert Einstein: Repeating the same action/behavior expecting different results . . . possibly inaccurate but I refuse to look it up as in verbatim. Leading me to share that to have “collected” M as a 24/7/365 partner would have been to rehearse the same insanity of all my life: asking a woman to define me as worthy of living. Asking even that of my mother who remained silent until I buried her using the Episcopal Prayer Book Service for the Dead. Perhaps, but not now, sometime maybe, I’ll make a poem about it.

This is not about me, or God; it is about you and us; as in all of life.

As I write, fully conscious of my sister and her man’s (actually: my brother-in-law/bro) imperiled with the storm attacking The Eastern Seaboard, I do pray not so much for God’s Will for them or the millions involved but for them to have the peace and kneeling acceptance of death, destruction or whatever, why-ever it comes.

Everything has consequence. Pass me the donation plate and I might but a penny in removing all the dollars. Been there. Done That. Criminal? Of course, but I would hasten to add the days food or coffee and cigarette made from others extinguished butts was worth the humiliation. The only true democracy is storms and death. The sun shines, eventually in the case of now, upon the poor and rich equally. If Obama/Ryan/Romney sink us into perdition who am I to care or change what I have virtually no influence over or in save for my single vote?

I am astonished by my ignorance; having come thus far; believing in my prowess. As indicated: a person can glean a fabulous education via The World Wide Web -- and I find, for this reason, a swelling motive to censor it.

Mother grew to maturity, marriage, then motherhood from a hard scrabble origin. Made terrible and insane by the death of her father, at age four, by accident or suicide. Taught from an early age she was worthless in a agrarian culture; yet brilliant, in and of herself.

I think, and this is merely conjecture--a possibility: she hated me because I was male, lacking the potential of becoming the woman she longed to be. Or become. Growing from the obvious poverty of her origins into the Great Depression.

This is not about me or my mother. It is about and for all life in 2012 at the turning point between what was and will be. We are in a threshing machine being separated: the wheat from the chaff. And individually must define ourselves as worthy or unworthy of this life we live. Otherwise life itself will do so for us. In dying or after death we will look back and weep for not what we had but what we did not do for ourselves, family, community, society, culture and civilization.

As for myself, I no longer gaze at pornography masturbating. Attempting to define my anima (inner woman, ideal, The Goddess) anything to slake my lust for touch, acknowledgment, a fleeting experience of being loved. These things I have experience nominally yet ending with conditions that defined me in ways impossible to fulfill or for which I had no inclination or desire.

What I ran away from was not they who I was in relationship with. But towards where I am now. Geographical fixes don’t work. My travel itinerary was inward; not another trip around the world. Add. For me, it was best found in silence, solitude. The opportunity to wander into the desert and scream my head off in frustration over all my many failures. In my weeping finding my real strengths and desires: that no one lack the opportunity to live as I do now free of the horror of my childhood.

121030 03:33 "Don't find fault, find a remedy." - Henry Ford

The real people I know do encounter adversity with courage. Do I define myself as courageous? Uncertain. I remain gifted by the attention of both genders represented by those who listened instead of told. I must witness this is my experience with God; a dialog.

When the student is ready the Teacher will appear . . . and be willing to be, the Teacher, taught.

Regardless the means, measures or manors of your demise; depart forgiving those who raped you in all it’s many disguises. Their fate will be far worse.

Read your dreams and listen to what you see becoming well in all eternity.

121031 04:37 Adapt, improvise, prevail
©2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

teleology v. theology

M, once said, about five years ago, when or around first we met: “heal.” Later on when I queried her meaning she said; “you will.” Even later, more nearly now that I pray for her not to leave me behind, due to breast cancer and heart issues; I asked again if she said that to everyone, like; “I’ve got to leave you now ‘sweet man’.”
“Yes. . . . I tell everyone that . . . . ”
Being so madly in love, loyal with gratitude, i’d follow her about like a puppy dog; to heaven or hell or in-between . . . or merely kiss the dust we will become in death spread as ashes upon the desert.

I do, you know, love her, marginally less than The Virgin Mary.

I cannot now remember my inane reply; such a fool for her i’d be should she allow it. But surely, the idiot I am replied something like; “i see”

Since then I’ve come to acknowledge a central truth. We must heal ourselves, all miracles of Jesus aside--or--for that matter the Prophets/Saints past, present and future. . . .Could it be; that in the presence of wholeness/holiness we wick the healing of God making more potent the cure?

The difference between truth and lies; knowing that advertising is The Great Lie. Well. Whatever. So is political No Speak. What the savage in me would decry as speaking with a forked tongue. Or typical of truly evil men wearing robes of divinity, the greatest badly behaved people. Unconscionably rude. The religious who pretend to speak for God.

No jest! Did I mean pretend to be God; or God Like?

Taught to be the village idiot, moronic, stupid to the extent of not having a right to live much less give birth to my self, or cause the birth of another child. Or for that matter any child; the care of which I’ve known. Possibly better bereft, of my own, by adoption the all life and the children of god?

I admit to being imperfect, as we all are, despite the billions of dollars paid as brainwash to purchase the Supreme Court, The White House, Senate, Congress, etc. to place a White-boy in office who by utter absence of moral or ethical conduct is equivalent to the KKK. Oh dear sweet Colgate smiling Mr. Romney go frack yourself early and often; repeatedly. Least Ryan gets in office and becomes like the former Vice-President Cheney who tortured small animals to death for his glee and pleasure; then graduated to torture children and adults absent Habeas Corpus.

Oh well. Women of age, put razor blades in your vagina's. Better! Wear Claymore Mines as chastity belts; just in case another Republican or Catholic gets into office.

You know . . . if I didn’t write; I’d explode in rage over the hypocrisy of those who idolize the Bible. Instead find the Holy Spirit inspiring its being written. Or those who tampered with it to prove that women are less equal in life than men.

Ladies you are alone and must prove your value in the Cage Fight of your life. Before insertion use the razors to cut their hahas off. More better afterwards shove the evidence into his mouth make him swallow this time; no potential reattachment. The with the palm of either hand drive his nose into his KKK brain.

Be well, Be More Better! Maybe, possibly, maybe not, just be friends and forget the baby making as practice at all; ever?! Or get a pet.

Or adopt one of the forty thousand children dying daily of neglect.

. . . at least I think now, thought then, what M implied when she said, or did I misunderstand? “Save yourself!”

121027 05:07 teleology v. theology
©2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

Truth triptych

Tho an ignorant old man, I would be educated, and am well, by the quotes of others whose lives I have come to praise and admire.

"Those who educate children well are more to be honored than parents, for these only gave life, those the art of living well." - Aristotle (384 BC-322 BC)

In the case of Malala Yousufzai Vs. The Pakistani Taliban: the latter now headless and heedless of consequence, the martyrdom of a fourteen-year-old-child, defined as a female thus unworthy of education. I would argue, without apology, that America martyred Osama bin Mohammed bin Awad bin Laden; murdering his body but not his spirit.

Odd. But now with significance; I once was resident not far from where the famous portrait of George Washington was painted by Gilbert Charles Stuart (born Stewart). And from that place did I roam the world photographing the Rich, Famous, Powerful, Forceful and poor of the world. In whose eyes I came to know more about them than they--had they known--would have agreed to be witnessed by me; for a mere snapshot. I make no claims, sincere or facetious, to special powers as a recording witness of our times and the consequence of behaviors by those I have recorded; in the best camera ever created; my mind. Or should I say, mindfulness; a Buddhist phrase to best describe the divine in all life.

As all children of Abraham, Buddha, or Muhammad; and so on. You can kill our bodies but not our spirit. Said in a different, yet more significant way, you can eat us alive but never capture or contain the presence of God within us. He who pounds his/her chest loudest is a coward. Or. Merely a terrorist of a different species; a soul abandoned; with only the coin of betrayal in hand.

I would suffer any death, imagined or real, that the truth of God be revealed in life as it is potential in all creation. That which you harm or kill marks you as despicable; save in the sense it, the murder, be done for sustenance; eating the victims flesh, like manna from God, given that you live another moment. In this sense we are our own saviors. Yet, she, the girl fighting for her live has given us the opportunity to know the folly of war: the expense of more lives thrown into the maw of greed.

It is not I, as prophet or savior, who like all those before in time immemorial have said; “god is real.” Save this child who in, potentially giving her life, living or dead, has risen the ideal of truth; all life is equal. And we, as one family, need not despise/murder one diseased part to have health, safety or wealth. If you be well you must of need examine your perception.

"Do not commit the error, common among the young, of assuming that if you cannot save the whole of mankind you have failed." - Jan de Hartog

"To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering." - Roberta Flack

121027 03:02 education

Some may well wonder why I should so like to die right now.
Save for these moments tapping the characters beneath my fingers. Dad so wanted me to be a musician naming me initially Amadeus Wolfgang but changing his mind mindless that in the end, if there will ever be death of this consciousness, Jack Spratt would be more difficult than the then rabid hostility towards Germans/Germany those wonderful folks so sublime at manufacture of death one-at-time. It is a kind of racial prejudice against those who do not emulate their anal retentiveness.

Time being irrelevant to myself and God. However in recent memory I began to sense that listing to my erstwhile namesakes music, something as yet unheard, like all wonderful women, wine and song experienced more often; nine times nine trillion: always something new. 

Me thinks me protests women wanting them to be God in drag. And yet in reality all they want is equality and not to flap amongst the stars while i lachrymose lay prostrate awaiting their return.  

Speaking of the feminine principle, the anima of me, Annie, attempting to sequester my really good flip flops; not I don't wear Romney on one or Ryan on the other; but those I purchased last in Hawaii with dad. She has a rubber fetish and has eaten one heel nearly to unwearable condition. Of course being poor thanks to my shithead father giving all my due and sundry to his shithead son who so like me being a shithead as well is completely indifferent his theft of my inheritance. Moving right along, I awoke after an unusually long rest period--four hours!?--looking for Annie high-low-and-more-and-again disturbed her beauty rest sequestered in the closet where I’d attempted to hide my Romney/Ryan/Flip-Flops. . . . 

Wouldn't it be wonderful to have them plus the Nazi Pope, The Knights of Columbus, The NRA plus Romney/Ryan in a daisy-chain naked with Annie playing Yankee Doodle Dandy with their testicles? I don’t trim her claws and when impassioned she scratches me while kissing with her teeth. In no small measure but less in duration the suffering a woman will experience at the hands of the sodomites. 

Who in the name of all holiness, reason, sanity or good consciousness--merely common sense? Would bring a child into this life so soon to end -- the entire earth heaving water aflame? All to fuel the collective slavery to greed?

I love the image of my soaking in the bathtub idly smoking a cigarette self-immolating involuntarily. Mr. Exxon go frack yourself frequently. 

Actually and factually I've discovered the grace of dad sodomizing my life with his desire not that I be a musician but a merchant like himself selling the flesh of dead trees desecrated with black toxic ink. And now more often than before laugh wetting my pants remember his face holding another dollar gained from selling ‘Wee-Wee-Whistles’ (trombone like tone alteration) outside the store front in Stamford Connecticut. While the little shits stood outside practicing  for thirty minutes. 

It never ceases to astonish me what all those desirous of power and control will whore themselves out to gain the momentary gratification of scoring more. I know this factually having prostituted my eyes for the vanity of Ted Kennedy and Joan; never forgetting the ruin of such a beautiful woman he caused . . . i hope his soul remembers Chappaquiddick and he enjoys the endless napalm enema. 

How did I learn to be such an Antichrist? I would rebut each kick, blow, being thrown down stairs and/or out of the house naked in November with the door locked behind me: no tears just silence. And yet, and now, I love her more. Mom thank you for teaching me how to survive the next attack of the assholes who submerged American in The Depression.  

The people who caused this “recession” are murders and should be put to sleep. I, of course must confess complicity, so I too will wait patiently for the needle. They claim to have made America great. Yet they don’t know how to fix a screen door against the coming flood.

Think: learn how to breath volatile water instead of air. Grow gills!

121026 06:08 random

Sincerely I think Jesus resurrected in the body and life of Malala Yousufzai. I ask that you make prayers of your lives for her survival. And it is i alone, the father of daughters who left me for whatever reason and whom I know well in life or death, both blest and in the being of God. In some, personally, curious sense, I would speak for my son. Who in dying did so that his adopted biracial sister could live more freely in our love for her. Now abandoned the marriage dissolved. And she fled in disdain; her right being an adult and now a mother herself.

I have no other gifts to bestow upon the women of our time and world. Who must, in and of themselves, heal their despicable treatment as slaves to men. As male I have become aware through the kindness of woman that I adore their being as they are and want to be, not as I would have them defined by my lust: a convenience.

Without apology I will publish, concurrent with this, what I wrote before. I refuse to censure my reference to Republicans or the Holy See as Nazi’s. Who were and remain in current context dictatorial of their intellectual right taken to the extreme of abstraction from integration of all four functional perceptions of, and in life: Thinking, Feeling, Sensing, Intuition; to which I add a fifth sense: instinct.

Personally I am convicted by my apprehension of instinct as God given; the first seed of consciousness. What eats me does so in order to survive. My death and body is its subsistence. On the Richter scale of tectonic emotional shifts.

Or.

Consequent rape, or desecration, of a child’s body, or emotional consciousness of value. Meaning and purpose, are synonymous/equivalent, to rendering a child’s life as nothing but litter. Merely an inconvenience to life.

As defined by the presiding authority duly or self-elected: Parent, Religion or State. None can be allowed to dismiss any one individual for the prestige or preeminence of the authority. I trust in God. In whom I am advised that God is sacrificial of him/her/it self that we have conscious or unconscious life at all.

I ask of those who protest choice, or right to life, to consider my conviction. From personal experience, as a father, I can argue the case either way. Yet loving my wife would defer to her life and/or choice to deliver a dead child or die herself in doing so.

“Conscience is a sacred sanctuary where God alone may enter as judge.” - Felicite Robert de Lamennais . . . you do not have to be Catholic to have a catholic sensibility. Add. I would ask is there life after birth? Eaten by The Great Lioness, my mother, many times over; I know there is life after death. Do you? And what of all the other ideals of the Catholic/Protestant Social concerns?

“Inside myself is a place where I live all alone and that's where you renew your springs that never dry up.” - Pearl S. Buck

121027 00:11 resurrection
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