blessed days

I love all mankind with ferocity, but several women more so, and think it not odd. For they were given in the ordinary of my days; extraordinarily.  In these more precious days, knowing them fewer, since I am no longer a child with time a seamless continuity unending. No love is ever lost to the All. For the All is its origin, Love that is.

Were I pressed to express the why of it, I'd say because they are they and I am myself, held in love by the All.

“Immature love says "I love you because I need you."

Mature love says "I need you because I love you."” - Erich Fromm

05:33

I realize it impossible to define love to anyone else. However I sense, feel, intuit and think love is, in itself experiential. Greater than boundaries, creeds, race or gender. Everywhere greater than earth, wind, water, and fire. Day-by-Day knowing it more nearly, dearly, clearly. Once bereft of it, or so I then thought, it became apparent listening to my broken heart. I clearly see it had been empty attempting to fill itself with others. Now overflowing given away freely makes room for more.

Wandering, wondering through these days, I find nothing extraordinary in me but the sense of all life having itself autonomously.

21:04

The word “glide” came to mind, ending the sentence above. Then thoughts of superlatives and violent metaphors describing all former transitions from one mode, or mood, to what followed. In this instance a state of straight and level flight suspended effortless in confidence. Accepting helplessness, being completely out of control, absent of any desire. No longing, fear nor envy. Odd for me since “normally” I would think to carom and ricochet from star to star.

Ah! Now I get it. I am loved unconditionally; suspended in it. Three Hundred feet above a pastoral idyll greening for as far as I can see . . . all the seasons, time before time, eternal . . . and all shall be well.

"That is the principal thing: not to remain with the dream, with the intention, with the being in the mood, but always forcibly to convert it into all things." - Rainer Maria Rilke

130503 04:36 MDT blessed days

© 2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved

barefoot loose dancing on shackles

poetry self-denied resident high stenciled on bars

beyond hearing inaudible frequency canary singing

silent death creeping through the mind solitary

confined

Abuse, abandonment, rejection, separation, divorce, disappeared, flung from helicopters over seas night and day by Authority or beloved is death: figurative, narrative, virtual, actual imagined, inferred, experienced.

Grieved, long long long time, immeasurable; endless. Vacancy of esteem--sucked hollow; machine gunned: run like hell—randomly from above.

Convicted. Apprehended (in both senses) executed, assassinated, buried alive in quicksand. Authority taken in laughter standing upon one's head. Stepping stones self-righteous.

Astonished!

Never did I imagine, cannot comprehend, anticipate/associate: Rebound with being just another predator/scavenger circling, or instead, being a life ring, sanctuary formed of floating upon the sea an island detritus--things cast off as waste. Clung to or terrorizing . . . either way is not OKAY.

Yet.

My spirit arises resurrected from the ashes of self-immolation—singing my thesis: Jesus' resurrection began at his feet dripping on the cross; contagious. A virus spread wide—making each of us, in turn, we all, capable of, in part, if not whole, becoming a light of any luminance in life.

I so love, I will take anything given, knowing, finally, the acknowledgment--proving I exist, as love from the other. The always beloved Thou.

"Take your life in your own hands, and what happens? A terrible thing: no one to blame." - Erica Jong

14:31

Looking backward, at first discovery and inwardly, I reacted: squat jumping into the ceiling, angling towards the corners, the door and one window of my office bedroom; crashing in to every surface attempting to understand our mutual pain.

Defying gravity residing suspended on the Middle Way, I think myself too much at times: pretentious and pontifical. Actually fraudulent. Worse: inadequate.

No milk and cookies but gorging on invisible Oreos. At least I am still able to make myself laugh with a keyboard.

"A word is not the same with one writer as with another. One tears it from his guts. The other pulls it out of his overcoat pocket." - Charles Péguy

“These, then, are my last words to you: Be not afraid of life. Believe that life is worth living, and your belief will help create that fact.” - William James

“And now you are and I am and we’re a mystery which will never happen again.” e. e. cummings

130502 09:32 MDT barefoot loose dancing on shackles

© 2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved

imagine please . . .

walking into a coin laundromat scanning banks of industrial strength windowed costume dryers some silent a few churning one with a face flashing occasionally laughing showing you eyes spinning slot machines seeking a winning combination with a one-thousand-meter gaze becalmed

Vampire pencil sharpener pencil inserted grinding points growing limbs leafs birds hopping singing spring sprung The Tree of Life leaves falling seasonal recycled in the vortex shooting live contents of Noah's Ark plastering infinity are we there yet? Isn't it time to go home!

Weal or woe personal confessional pressed against the walls of a centrifuge rocket powered become a decal replica fractality seeking event horizons vibrant scintillating no darkness all light shadowless levitated humming

would you believe tail ends intestinal moral rectitude fanatic crimes against obscenity Thought Police crashing through doors cudgeling readers for the sensuousness spreading signatures dead trees besmirched with filthy black ink spread wide gynecological Google synonymous with Foley Catheter inserted recording flashing stroboscopic heart's desire psychic longing People Want to Know awaiting  first editions persecution for self portraiture nude bath tub flaming water fracked childish pornography life sentence prosecution drive through for-profit prison solitary skeletal self frozen between forms bureaucratic Kafka-ed

Dervish skirts expanding enveloping audience walls cities nations the globe and all stars sailing beyond cosmology understanding synaptic speed invisible teleportation New Bang Creation in the beginning was the word

reprise Blitzkrieg mom and me descending new to her previously owned Cadillac nude beneath robe painting toe nails teaching me to play Gin Rummy beating me to a pulp no fiction announcing in a casual causal aside they “have a child in the attic chained to the floor” family visits . . . dear god can that happen to me? of course it can! seminal words are mobetta flora

doggerel how about you

130502 06:55 MDT imagine please . . .

© 2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved

consequential

Consequential, implied, inferred, but not an icepick in the eye. Real. Like death, of which I fear not, but dying a lingering terror; knowing the many ways I could for years and years lay helpless, dependent upon everything and everyone to live.

Curious, and mindful, of turning points, rites of passage/transition, being in somebody's movie, joyous or grievous. I wonder when, how or why did I change? Surrendering. Submitting to the winds, a dust mode upon them, inconsequential, at peace. Helpless again.

Did Gideon toss and turn, finding no peace, in his tent awaiting the verdict; his lambs wool moist or dry? As I did moments ago forgetting I'd slept like the dead, dreamless, for most the past afternoon. Surfacing slowly, with reluctance unknowing and my eyes as if in a sandbox. As the hours slithered past, knowing it best to rest, I could not until I began the therapy of writing. Wringing out thoughts yearning for birth. Relief tendered. I sought one last view for anything Had She Said Yes might send. (in retrospect and rewrite she will hence forth be known as PD or variously P as in like M, P, me)

Oh may!

5 by 5, loud and clear, she might as well have been holding my head to her breast; hand cradling the back of my head. Rarely do I write within email software or comment boxes. Unable to discern punctuation, etc. Preferring to exorcize myself on the big screen in Libre, with dictionary ninth month pregnant with arcana spelled correctly.

Write I did. Without the above aids; in reply to her “smell, touch, taste, embrace.” I used the forum provided by Opera; sending it into ether and quintessential night. Turning to rest tossing where I expected rest and so here I am again. I had been unable to find the quote I wanted to express my simple conclusion: I wish for her the very best of everything exclusive of me, if need be. The following catapulted me from horizontal to vertical: 'I don't love you because I need you, but love you as and because you are you.'

Where M keeps me, more-or-less, at arm's length physically, P (“Had She Said Yes”) said yes . . . oddly merged with me in those words. Words either tell or do. I sense myself cooked through and through, a Christmas Goose plucked biased and on the platter steaming.

In Sex Anonymous, at least one hundred “dates” are suggested/required before folly or fooling around. Ain't misbehaving yet. But with both women, equally beloved--a hairsbreadth less than myself or God—I've equivalency. Times: sad, glad, mad, lunatic, weeping or laughing. Both at the same time.

Central and critical, is the element of trust. Which I now have in all the named characters at play. Could it be The Playwright directing the narrative?

Me thinks I see the Shepard’s Crook, hovering in the curtains shadows, about to jerk me off the/this stage.

To another?

130502 01:05 MDT consequential

© 2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved

and all shall be well thrumming

Thrumming beneath my bare feet upon the bowsprit, Charlotte Jean hummed resonant with function, well trimmed, sailing herself while I euphoric stood in awe.

A moment recalled. Sensing there is some new change happening within me now. Tectonic, ineluctable, yet silent; moving beneath consciousness. Under the din and otherwise chaos of ordinary time.

Had I fallen into the bow wake, Bruce, the captain sleeping, I crew, would never have known as she sailed on. Me unconscious then drown in her wake, would have been fine with she, he and I.

And all will be well.

Be silent and listen as I must, both to myself and her, time will reveal what time wants of us.

Peace sonorous to Charlotte Jean's snoring through the Atlantic pervades and what peace I am now prevails.

And all will be well.

For both of them, those two women I love, deeply. No longer insanely greedy for love. The love I have is all any life can ask; The Master of The Dance is in charge.

Wind hums the mainsail

Peace beyond all understanding or telling

scintillating cross the sleeping sea's respiration

and all manner of things shall be well.

130501 20:39 MDT thrumming

© 2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved

lust on a leash

Granted I am older now, but my lust, tho attended by one testicle and concerns--dad's last known erection at my age, remains intense. However I lust more for the soul of a woman than her body. Impossible before Had She Said Yes expressed, differently, her former longing to articulate love with another sexually.

Remarkably I had recently expressed a desire to make love with a woman once again before I die. Avid reader of The (Beloved) Sphinx, she seemed affirmative, tho throughout our few dialogs regarding conjugal affairs she defined them as aggression.

Prehended now, revealed transparently, my angst, attempting to express and affirm love for any woman beginning with mom. Healing seldom is achieved via full frontal attack. Instead it seems, now. sidereal and subtle.

One point advantage to Jack; who once thought Anais Nin, Henry Miller and Casanova immoral characters in pornography, has learned differently reading their writing and has begun to understand the moral and ethical concerns surrounding the double-backed (sometimes!) dance inherent. Consequent.

She is/was, once and forever, a hospice nurse with whom, given the circumstance (of those about to die and their care givers) intimacy of this kind was near if not blatant. Apparently had I made love a thousand times one thousand more, I could never have know the joy of our intercourse, chaste as yet.

Pleasure, happiness, happy endings, all seem now less, and fleeting, by compare the larger openness I know with women; all joy. The angst, tears, despair, depression, despondency, reconciled and balanced with purpose, I can be whatever man I want. Free at last. Oh Lord God Almighty, FREE AT LAST!

Remarkably for a man, knowing men well, I was tremulous for the trip-wire of distrust. Not just in the 'act' but surrounding all ordinary life . . . my darkened room with the floor covered in marbles traveled. What they claimed as “stepping on eggs” with me.

If I laugh at myself now it is merely for the joy of having that root synapse welded whole. Free to write fleshy, lubricious, sweaty, anything; but most of all erotica poetic. Each of us, regardless of how evil we seem to others, including ourselves, is a gem refracting light uniquely as snowflakes, all different. To heal we must be transparently ourselves. If I speak of M and/or Had She Said Yes, I rarely mention the interlocutor who, tho overtly silent, is always present. An audience of one. One who speaks with many voices. Remaining the Author of All Things. Spoken of as by many names.

Do you think me making this up? I am not near so cleaver, wise, learned; mantled with no authority save the principality of myself. I suggest nothing but what I sense possible and inherent in all life.

"Therapy isn't curing somebody of something; it is a means of helping a person explore himself, his life, his consciousness. My purpose as a therapist is to find out what it means to be human. Every human being must have a point at which he stands against the culture, where he says, "This is me and the world be damned!" Leaders have always been the ones to stand against the society — Socrates, Christ, Freud, all the way down the line." - Rollo May

For these gifts, apprehended from the three personalities above, excluding May, I will move forward into what I don't know. But sure to make up something more that will make me laugh raucously. Silent. Listening. When face-to-face with thou/Thou. Never and no one an it.

Choice, you do have one. If you don't, life will make one or all of them up for you.

Celebrating what you make of your once, only once? precious life.

Were I never to lie with another, through the night, this embrace, I experience, is enough. Each breathe being forever respired.

“Tomorrow! - Why, tomorrow I may be Myself with yesterday's sev'n thousand years.” - Omar Khayyam

130501 03:40 MDT lust on a leash

© 2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved

must be gonna get shot at dawn or sooner

. . . or maybe later on. Why the urgency? Me or they: the Thought Police. Google for that matter. Proto-Crypto-KGB. What me worry? Socialism for The Wealthy and Communism for us poor folk. Wall-to-wall serfs; sans home, future, whose for sleeping under bridges until Wall Street takes us away making pet food of us?

All dressed up, spit shinned Buster Brown Shoes with Tag, my alter-ego and Annie turned loose from our cage making all kinds of alien vocalizations. Who is to blame? M of course and Had She Said Yes!

Better and better with each breathe.

The Funky Chicken with authors human and divine. Who knew? I was too stupid to live! And now with the Internet a writer can't hide, safely nestled in the flesh of dead trees, snoring until read. Albeit, that said, I still celebrate these days of freedom's blessed quality if not quantity.

My pantheon of all-time-favorites grows slowly, yet substantially, one-by-one. With sincere gratitude I acknowledge Tyndale and William Shakespeare; first as verbally expressed then read.

Remember Bonny and Clyde? The movie version's closed lives. Alliteration by mechanical punctuation canceled for all time. Let us hear it for THE NRA! Stitching one another for looking cross eyed, preemptive settlement of every dispute. Shoot first and forgedabout the later questions. About which I know from experience having been a photojournalist running, like the wind, away.

An obstinate man does not hold opinions, but they hold him. - Alexander Pope

Coercive power is the curse of the universe; coactive power, the enrichment and advancement of every human soul. - Mary Parker Follett

Friendships aren't perfect, and yet they are very precious. For me, not expecting perfection all in one place was a great release.

- Letty Cottin Pogrebin

130501 01:58 MDT

I am made up by the many facets of reverence, awe, will to love, within all religions, and awoke celebrator of Israel this morn. None exclusive of course since the light caroms refracted from facet to facet across the whole peace I know.

Prehensile this gentle mistress god I know pouring sips of new with in the hollowness of my skull. Least I drown suddenly with inflow. Displacing everything before and I unrecognizable to myself. Utterly expunged.

The three quotes closing yesterday, above: thoughts concatenated in anticipation of Had She Said Yes who I later called in distress. I'd not heard a word from her. Previously she'd remarked that we might heal each other of our terror of what we are: male/female--separate but oddly making a whole dysfunction. Heroically as we, she and I, learn to trust one another to no other intention than peace as we are.

There is a mocking bird rehearsing last years disturbance now.

I had begun this post to acknowledge where my lover, friend, interlocutor, muse, goddess, leader masculine had led me across the void. Welding synapses uncommon, unbelievable, all impermissible before; self censuring. Our collective author, or God, as you may have it, is gentle beyond all the wrath and furry of creation or random acts attributable to cyclones of fire which M brought to my attention yesterday: “Acts of God!”

Really?

I cringe at the making an idol of God in any form, especially our own likeness. Knowing divinity genderless or at most both. More angelic than hermaphrodite.

I think my opinion is better stated in defining myself as at war with all that is within me; no more. Sun Tzu said it differently, too lazy to look it up, I will attempt to share my sense: we must never slay our adversary but learn before during and after the dispute.

Eyes brimming I remember the closing of worship, “Go forth in (or was it: incarnating?) the peace surpassing all understanding.” At the least that is what I heard then and now. Could I say the same when having my head sawed-off with a nicked rusty butcher knife? Not certain. I'll wait to see what I feel at the moment of my death. Last words seem more significant that all that preceded them.

Integration seems traversing a new city having lived a lifetime as a dead-end.

130430 10:31 MDT must be gonna get shot a dawn or sooner

© 2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved