love is not insane

. . . expecting nothing in return or reprise but freely given.

Love is also not fanatic or zealous forgetting its origin expansive. Never killing to prove itself a passion devoid of compassion or kindness.

Judgmental terminally so.

Drama/Trauma . . . am i too much or little—noth'n at all: arrangements made for the disposal of my remains remaining willing at a moment's notice to get off the merry-go-round. Memories abound/abide: the blessings and confessed regrets those about to do what I would gladly do: die. Finding—oddly—the will to be courageous enough to allow my heart one more beat.

I sense no script or prescription available so I make up life as I breath: one breathe at a time

with undertones/frissons of concern that I wound or mortally kill the will to live as they are in others leading them astray?!

. . . and what will i do: when, or why, i am kicked to the curb beneath the wheels of a passing Escalade driving fast past; the operator oblivious/indifferent to my dismemberment or quadriplegic remains? Joyously intoxicated with a mechanical device distracted a cellular telephone/computer texting, sexting, talking about what?

Or by they: M, P, The Interlocutor?

. . . worse? by “i” myself!

Conscious always, the remains of those still here, partially . . . complete the list yourself, never forgetting Jesus sleeping beneath newspapers under an Interstate bridge alone covered in lighter fluid set ablaze. . . .much less the foe or friendly victims of war.

More drama/trauma? Or things as they are. Reverent to all—even those irreverent to themselves save for their smug gloating greed. Never fulfilled or satisfied. Their passage annotated with corpses, mutilated, molested, taking no prisoners. — or — otherwise enslaved. Unremarkable actually but so am i.

08:58 What fine madness this dispassionate acceptance? The gratitude of an old man for love's first fiery rage should be reserved for The Interlocutor—oddly or not—seen in even my assassins. Once thought love's heart is acceptance and thence from there . . . experience . . . stone cold sober my current addictions: cigarettes and coffee

. . . feint parry thrust the match continues

clanging foils or silence panting

130512 0808 love is not insane

© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

apprehend even this even that? twofer

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

it is a gift

. . . in service the dying, and those living—undecided about fears—it is a gift to serve. A gift of which I've had the privilege lifelong: up front personal face-to-face; my children, friends, parents, strangers, relatives, myself actually.

Awakened from a deep deadly dream I realize that I've lost it, the dream I mean. Discovering an essential and humiliating truth: it — is — has been — will always be: impossible for me to articulate my love commensurate with the experience. . . . a longing howling deeply within buried alive. I wonder why since by nature and choice I am not shy.

Fearing nothing, admiring no one in any jealous sense, only celebrating their Self/Soul manifest silent, quiescent or shouted. I dream, dreaming and dream that which goes Bump in The Night: my bare feet hitting the floor running to write, remember, understand, the exquisite, words, stories, questions and yes, sometimes, explicit answers; only for myself this dark crystal glowing within—organic—whole.

The scenarios, myths, omens, portents, movies, entire new vistas opening before me through doors long closed. No fear, no terror, all good. Betimes difficult understanding. Lingering long afterward mysterious yet aware their having been at all one-upon-a-time.

The Great Ones, like the one resident now, lingering, long; my naked self in moon light desert alone moving: Wandering? Wondering? The latter, floating through long darkened tubes random to see what I saw and now cannot remember details of. Only the privilege of being at all. Submitting to the sense beyond all proof of a beyond death.

A lovely death in itself. This sense—fearful—only of destroying “Had She Said Yes” a cohort beloved at first sight but impossible until now. The leaving of—submitting to—a being alone until death takes me to what? Implied or explicit a love fertile together inferred. Together or apart bonded in the flesh. A two become one.

I own nothing, save this moment, this now, these choices; yet sense this is the path across the unknowable towards the scarcely understood.

Yes and Yes, to her Yes, is mine added. Clearly amplified.

addendum: The undertoad singing through my dark memory of this dream reminds me of railroad enthusiast their: tracks to known destinations . . . my dream's destination unknowable yet within black dark walls: an underground passage, subway or sewer bourn — eejit boy — its a birth canal! Not the River Styx or Rubicon flowing.

Yes, I be a fruitcake full of nuts and rum. Oh Yes! And candied fruit, eternally fresh.

addendum/addendum or PPS

it is not by vanity or boast but to suggest that you dear reader the few attend your dreams as well discovering yourself beloved whole/holy to the interlocutor The Source of all Longing and Love.

130511 22:10 it is a gift

© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

when?!

If not you who or me why not now to be pregnant with the inevitable change giving birth to the infinite now.

Giving birth to a self is birth, life, death, resurrection, minute by second creation's evolution expanding contracting recycling. Neither contextual or situational but both blessed either way.

Music to my soul the winds of change inevitable constant, in sure certainty of resurrection in another time unknown for now unknowable before time was a memory silence.

What owns me is the illusion that I own anything. Possibly even the delusion: myself tenant, transient; since now I sense myself nothing at all . . . but what writes?

Why? Why Not?

Status Quo Ante Bellum: what was before birth, innocent of fertility . . .

. . . in context: a vision gleaned from seeing my mother in a bathing suit at the age of my witness Herself as nascent mother of me.

Add: I am in transition from one shelter to another=home. At times aggrieved, others, sans expectations, of potential delights or more joy than ever imagined. Too magnificent and beyond all longing. Having been here before on the cusp of what is next, death? Life? whatever! It will be itself regardless, not fate, maybe Karma.

The stillness I know now is flowing to another moment in time; and time, of course, in context, is irrelevant. So the only thing I bring with me is myself; possessed, owned, inhabited, incarnated or not. (laughter, guffaws, giggles, sighs but best: grinning) “Had She Said Yes” said yes expansively even now growing: Yes to Yes.

Ah, the folly of love, known at an age, near the ending of everything. . . .

yet love is all: kindness

if I were a poet, a wannabe, maybe a might: I would attempt to delight you with yourself the experience within --- a butter knife thrust through titanium

capture credit Hector Mediavilla Picturetank sapeur

130511 04:28 when

© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

grace

No human is, or can be perfect, all are fallible, yet capable of grace. I am happily so. Having my dysfunctions known. Amongst them able to choose, to use, or be used, by them mindfully. In the process losing any fear of life or death or envy of the grace in others I know. It is an estate that must be given away in measures large and small as kindness not greed. Thus gifting allows grace to grow. The only profit and accrued wealth I care about.

At that, this I know best, my dyslexia is a gift. Understanding what I can change and cannot. This life I live is like all others having a beginning-middle-and-ending; different only in my choice of narrative, coupled with attention to the interlocutor. Who I call by various names, not beckoning but seeking answers. Variously, but at the moment, merely “dipstick.” At other times: friend, lover, mistress, muse, playmate, sandbox buddy of any gender or none.

All my myths, omens, portents, personal to me, are pointless since I can find them in others defined differently. Not mutually exclusive but their gift combined with mine; potential and pregnant experienced in this moment, this now.

. . . and the other loved knowing this moment may never be again: the sky blank, black, a void devoid of stars: the emerald, brown or blue or as mine hazel what I think of as turquoise never ever to see ever again.

He preceded me bearing three or four giant bottles of root beer in the grocery line. To which or whom I remarked; “I guess you really like root beer.” No response. Then as he paid I noticed Airborne Wings upon his cap, his silence might be attributable to hearing loss given his age. So I asked, “What Division?” . . . no one and nothing is merely anything . . . remembering what he said with tears of joy in my eyes . . . in parting I said “God Bless You” . . . having no authority other than my admiration. So, we both, were blessed in a way unaccountable.

“Today is a good day to die”

What I know as “The Warrior's Creed”

has nothing to do with indifference

courage in the face of life better expresses it.

The peace I know inexplicable, ineffable, unaccountable what I know better with each passing hour eons ago is what historically attributable to Jesus and others at their end. Daily in the ordinary of their time given freely away to all in kindness thinking momentarily of Anne Frank.

Once long long ago the new day was celebrated but now each moment. Sharply focused revealed in high contrast the tapestry of time invisible timeless unending

capture credit Hector Mediavilla Picturetank

130511 02:42 grace

© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

love is not JL GRAY COMPANY

love is not telling

but being and doing

writ large upon/within fleshy consequence

suffering/fear/pleasure/joy/friendship daily renewed

unending

Formerly in times past I'd seek affirmation by divination seeking omens, portents, myths convenient to my aspirations. Not Gospel so much but nascent potential of being so for the time of discovery and then later on maybe. Unaccountably written upon the wind are answers to my temporal state also written on the wind language unspeakable obvious comprehensible just for me to hear for now. 

Long long long time ago I asked the interlocutor if being real to let me know and now it seems I must do the same in my own words and flesh.

Being white, like Spam chewed meat--previously masticated, I once saw a young man richly black and luminous asleep like an angel in bliss; an appearance? no a realization! that neither of us own but are tenant in life. And so as I held my son's sweating head praying that I die instead; I so love her that I imagine her at rest so as the young black warrior blessed at bliss and best. 

What is is best for now, for always just, is not because I say/saw/wrote it. Language and life will end but the spirit goes on and on forever loving lover of everyone.

"We come too late to say anything which has not been said already." - Aphorism 1; Variant translation: "Everything has been said, and we have come too late, now that men have been living and thinking for seven thousand years and more." 

"False greatness is unsociable and remote: conscious of its own frailty, it hides, or at least averts its face, and reveals itself only enough to create an illusion and not be recognized as the meanness that it really is. True greatness is free, kind, familiar and popular; it lets itself be touched and handled, it loses nothing by being seen at close quarters; the better one knows it, the more one admires it." - Aphorism 42 - Jean de La Bruyère 

A line/direction of integration is towards life not away from it. And I, while a fool for love, will always question; being conscious of mindfulness; buoyant or drown in the rivers flow. Dancing across the abyss sans safety net or cable. Faith can be terrifying.

(laughter)

I read then attempted to know: a relationship is best when at the end of a long and sincere conversation . . . in both M and P there is inherent: a dialog consummated. Merely a dipstick checking out personal veracity; is my argument rationalization, wishful thinking, lust or potentially worse, an act of faith? You betcha! fanny, soul and life!

I am furious about being invaded by J. L. Gray (aka www.jlgray.com or JL GRAY) monthly; entertaining myself with thoughts: Provide them with a Caribbean Cruse, to lot of them, willing a squid to eat the entire ship. Or would you believe catering a meeting all hands aboard and having an asteroid cremate them instantly? They are but infantile expressions of bludgeon/truncheon terrified anal compulsives: The Republican Party gone mad kidnapping women for breeding purposes abusing the poor for the wealthy. The specious, fecal minded will be here soon to insert their proboscis judging my weal or woe for their pleasure and I despise them. Wondering--not--why some go POSTAL or RAMPAGE. . . .Thinking of where is Chauncey Gardner, in BEING THERE, with his remote television control to simply turn J. L. Gray off; disappear them. Speaking with the minions reminds me of - Adolf Eichmann "Repentance is for little children." Like blowing bubble in an overflowing toilet. 

Obviously I'm no saint. . . .et al the lot of them: Conservatives. Regardless of brand intentions politicians rarely become, either statesmen or public servants, instead become utterly corrupt by vanity and greed. Dedicated exclusively to their pimps.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-africa-22430608 . . . the best government and supreme court money can buy.

JL GRAY COMPANY: the reincarnation of Nazi Germany internment death camps.

“He will win who knows when to fight and when not to fight.” - Sun Tzu (544 BC-496 BC)

. . . absent the right of dissent or protest revolution is inevitable. As for myself I will crucify JL Gray in the court of public opinion until my last breathe lest they cease and desist these serial rapes of my attention. Not for myself alone but all Elderly and my neighbors.

Methodology: It is my custom to peruse quotes, thus gaining both an education and inspirational. Seeking not evidence but finding, coincidentally, a dialog between what (interlocutor) and myself? Astonishing! By way of free and random/chance association discovered:

“A tyrant must put on the appearance of uncommon devotion to religion. Subjects are less apprehensive of illegal treatment from a ruler whom they consider god-fearing and pious. On the other hand, they do less easily move against him, believing that he has the gods on his side.” - Aristotle

I ask is justice possible in America? . . . with a nominal sense of temerity, since I fully and well know the ability of those in power to further molest descent. If nothing else I can cause the question to become 'in play' what is insanity and/or evil? 

“It is absurd to hold that a man ought to be ashamed of being unable to defend himself with his limbs but not of being unable to defend himself with speech and reason, when the use of reason is more distinctive of a human being than the use of his limbs.” - Aristotle

130510 0217 love is

© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

naked

what vanity this being naked in body

with had she said yes

Pamela

wondering the wattles wrinkles warts pimples on the backs of my thighs from sitting in underwear too long upon my office stool Annie doesn't say a word but she, oh God! Will she saying yes still love me?

terrified I fear rejection again for any reason

and then and then and then I laugh the little boy a man finally taking a chance again geriatric

it, this, began, flirting, and with her eyes she said I SEE YOU! And then and then again more naked souls merged and it seemed impossible and died again inside saying no don't go there for you violate her and yet naked in service to others wiping fannies both genders the dying and we?

Naked to one another in other improbable ways remaining childish in our ways souls blushing how many ways can I count the costs emotional financial improbable and yet longed for for so many reasons terrified excised from my submission no future but endurance these last days and miles in life race run no vain ambitions left

and yet and yet again we say saying yes to each other is it a lie this line of integration another life unknown terrified this joy I now know doing this the greatest joy ever spooling out the gossamer stuff knitting a soul obvious to if nothing other than myself and the interlocutor who seems to hold my head above the waters of indifference whispering say yes and yes again to each turning the fate imagined and terrified trust

at times I slump ignorant of myself the longing that the interlocutor be real thinking it must be that we grow hearts large enough to receive the yes to we as children of children born realizing the dreams true or false?

Faith it seems is experience

while Belief is clothed in someone other/else costumes tattered moldy burial clothes and we yes and yes to each other become new infants again adam and eve all over the beginning of something unimaginable trust

the

process

an

unmarked

as yet path

attraction

lust

realized

as more naked than naked can be

impossible improbable and yet possible in astonishing ways new historical hysterical terrifying and yet and yet again and again yes

the silent knowing that life does not end in death but begins something utterly new unimaginable

and

yes

we know that together

terrifying to live

more courage

than dying

yes

will all be well

yes

my/our/we trust and troth

who bonded us the dry straw and flint struck together

discovered

inflamed

130510 01:15 naked

© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved