love @ any time . . . @ any age

. . . is an inevitable energy, sidereal, attacking unexpectedly stealth quiet in

a whisper become typhoon

Least I bore you, lending information you might wish not have heard . . . I will natter on regardless since it is love: what’s about. That which we all have genius for tho for most it is smoldering ignored within our hearts.

The Interlocutor seems to be playing a role saying, “eejit boy dance!” I lurch about spanking my hip with tambourine feet tattooed taping frantically twirling my cane propelled about as a helium filled balloon flapping across the stage.

Contrary to all former drama/traumas this has, within and about, a sense of quiet reverence even—awe. On both, or all three parts—the narrative characters within at play. Of course obviously I speak only for myself. She, as I informed her, is free to dispose of me upon next sight, shooting me if so inclined; my “Audition.” While The Interlocutor simply smiles silently—chortling—or what? Out of sight—off stage behind the curtains . . . from which, at times, I sense a Shepard’s Crook about to appear yanking me away.

Ain’t no Knight in Shinning Armor about to rescue the damsel in, or about to be, distressed . . . perhaps merely a dragon dressed in motley bells jangling on my claws.

My concern:

I sense myself, internally, too intense, as recently annotated “ferocious,” but that may be merely vanity; and an exclusively a male ideation. Reminding me that women have always been the creators of civilization and the vessels from which life is reproduced.

Ricocheting through my mind: licit, illicit, elicit and what has happened: M gave me life and P let me out of my grave . . . and open ended rut . . . no pun intended but, god help me, I just adore playing with words!

Writing has become a way of making the invisible real—silence audible . . . and at the moment I am squashed with the sense of precisely how much, why, what and whom I love. . . .where, near, far or invisible

. . . my vote is always towards love incarnate

http://www.relaxfocussucceed.com/Articles/2003010002.htm

130515 05:57 MDT love @ any time . . .

© 2013 by Jack Spratt—All Rights Reserved

tides of time

Adversarial i’ve been near eternally measuring the dragon within become intercessional. Stood on my keel upright the sea sucked from beneath me in Hatteras. Then floated by High Moon Tide. Woe turned weal astonished. Drown in profound gratitude.

A child of my time, in love with the entire pallet of vocabulary, vernacular, as well the King James of Willy Shakes; Hip Hopping in his. Afeard of myself no longer, as always a fool, for love. The tides of time by language defining what it is to live free at last. The pearl inside born of grit nurtured by slander as well as affirmations symbiotic. Greedy Needy for the latter but of the former able to subsist hard scrabble.

Too long ago to accurately remember, the periodicity and number of my prayers for Randy; my long dead son, dying at 10 years-of-age. Remembering only several details burned into my mind through touch, my hand upon his sweaty sleeping head. The wounds of my grief are healed; no longer stabbing the suppuration’s as I did, but now celebrate that they ever were, briefly, mine to steward.

Immeasurable: the height, width, breadth, depth of love—God actually. Within all my searching, finding threads of inspiration: within the voices of others. Absent my former fear they were the enemy opposition and our imagined dialogs a collective monolog. Chagrined, now my sense that they too where singing similar psalms differently to the same interlocutor.

The peace I know is possible by dialog with “Had She Said Yes” saying yes to my sincerely articulated yes to her; as and where she is. We are two time zones away from one another, for now. As we spoke last evening she began to slumber compelling memories of Randy, Johanna, Jodi all missing now . . . odd or not I thought I am both lover and father to her submerging into sleep . . . possibly defining my relationship as even keeled as it is since were she my daughter I would pray for her best but do so in any case emergent between us.

Obviously my feelings, thoughts, intuition and sense are beyond the boundaries defining appropriate relationship between two people of consenting age and mutual consent. By abstract or experience I could define and/or argue the issue in many ways. Such concerns are trivial to me having incorporated my conclusions regarding the numinous speaking through many disciplines. My sense is: love transcends all boundaries, time, this world we inhabit and all prejudicial definitions regarding gender associations.

Does my mind and soul reside in a different time zone? Yes. Of course. I speak from my dreams of time before time was measurable. And I pray I am wrong, since I sense equally, that there will be a time when time will be forgotten.

Thus this intercession for us; we all the community and family of life.

- Irena Sendler

"Every child saved with my help and the help of all the wonderful secret messengers, who today are no longer living, is the justification of my existence on this earth, and not a title to glory." http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Wikiquote:Quote_of_the_day/May#15

To close: I sense the child within the all of a woman, men as well tho men bore me generally remaining children growing old, not up, then dying. My concern regarding abortion is that we must weigh both the mother and child lending an understanding the both may be lost in law. My sense regarding the Law of Love is: Free Will. Add: I was followed by another child one year after my birth: aborted. And then later on did father a child with another woman: aborted. It follows that my concerns are well informed by experience and weighted towards the freedom of choice. Least we further enslave women who absent equality will leave us dancing upon one foot.

. . . add, please: The keeper is kept.

Muse: flame, fuel, combustion firing the wick I am.

130515 01:29 MDT tides of time

© 2013 by Jack Spratt—All Rights Reserved

pour vous

pour vous

no regret

nor apology

rationalizations disallowed

being here now heaven always knew

but doubted until seen shining through you

first a woman

then women

later life as in all

then of course God

The Thou

but

now

it is

i

refracting it all

because of you

© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

cycling between

cycling from rest to awareness within the crucible alchemical is compressed in duration and filled with many things: sparking words aflame metaphors and similes hilarious. A switch instantaneous thrown from horizontal to vertical vibrant with joy.

And of she I adore wondering will she find me well or ill company for now or longer? This reality? She inspires in me — a muse — a freedom previously unimaginable, a future where there seemed only awaiting the undertaker near or distant solitary. There are alarms where I live currently sounding in the night to which if long I hurry wrapped in whatever. I know the drill carried out on stretcher or within a black zippered bag bent-in-half the exit door.

Otherwise playing solitaire as dealt moment by moment knowing the point is not to win but play life as far as it goes and beyond. Bell Ringer or not.

Through frissons is this calm peace deeply growing glowing within whatever these moments of joy more than all moments before. Only The Audition will prove to go forward or reverse. Her final verdict these precious days yet as always the interlocutor is present my greatest audience who awakens me in joyful anticipation this I do now. Who seems to nod the distant leaf in favor of what will come. No cyclone of love just a gentle gyre the whisper seen in a dragonfly or hummingbird and ant or spider scurrying and then and now will always be the river of words gurgling within wanting out. Sometimes a flood others a tear more often gentle runnels/rills. Going on and on no longer terrified of distemper, dysfunction, short or long, dementia and then Alzheimer's lingering.

What drug is this peace? No aynodine palative but real moving forward wind in my face grinning beatifically. Leaning headlong knowing the ending is not near but a place for us together or apart life itself blessed either way. These extraodinary moments expanding as rain dropping on a still pond wrippling outwards concentric perfect.

Peace I say is within all of us.

Within inherent possible real.

Strumming wanting song

130513 22:19 MDT cycling between

© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

beloved

Floundering falling down stairs laughing as I crack my head

somersaulting across rush hour traffic, often I wonder why my

consciousness and perceptions are merely a pocket pen flash light in the vast

darkness. Something akin to a stylus scribbling across the universal darkness scrabbling

Imagine yourself in a hushed expectant theater seven seconds before the show

a pin of light illumines the curtains and a hand appears to emerge beckoning

come hither

go

no go

terror

curiosity . . .

a fool for love I race into the void

The last thought before submerging in rest unconscious

awakening aware that I owe so much to the hitherto random kindness of women whose attention was dropped as the Widow's Mite—two cents equivalent—into the bottomless well of my self loathing

depression's despair

heart subsiding into stillness

last breaths panting

a fool for love I took prisoners along the way then sensing I owned them but became owned. Enslaved to Their Authority and at that I bridled and ran leaving the mementos of love behind memories as particles carried forward guilty of the singular sin of adoring them endowing them as GOD! Women, of course, are persons sans gender as angels are and in some vast sense resent the rarefied air atop the pedestals I placed them upon.

Long removed, exiled from, the womb and mother giving birth to me, i recognize only now myself given birth by each and every woman whose initial fleeting or lasting kindness resurrected me from a previous living death

Guilty as charged scourged and gibbeted dying again for loving too much a mere mite for their task of giving birth to the all of life.

Here we go again!

Well aware long long ago time amusements began with the 'holy show' worship; a time set aside from the ordinary to acknowledge the extraordinary . . . a momentary quiet allowing the silent to be heard into which music, song and dance were cast performed however now for me for you for all of us is endless din

wall-to-wall chaos

noise abounds

distractions prevail

of which and about I obviously am a player

just another noise maker a wee-wee whistle

but there is the stillness of slumber and dream in which I see things differently

knocked unconscious with awe clubbed to reverence

Wile E. Coyote bouncing back up atop the precipice

“One who knows how to show and to accept kindness will be a friend better than any possession.”

- Sophocles

130513 03:00 beloved

© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved

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