120417 04:04

In times of parting I am suffused with grief

the moment our terminal separation

A child whose loss would be enormous;

ending the best real love ever known.

Once time remembered perceived most bereft

perchance looking into the azure ceiling saw

two children's balloons white tethered,

seeking heaven together.

. . . discovered later this date:
"Love possesses not nor will it be possessed, for love is sufficient unto love." 

"Sadness is but a wall between two gardens." --Khalil Gibran
 

. . . then remembered
"Learn the alchemy that few human beings know, that when you accept what difficulties you have been given, a door opens."
"Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it." --Rumi

Love is an astonishing experience, in that 'To Have & Have Not' is reverent to the origin of All Love. To die this moment from joy knowing this, i am quartet blest discovering there is no boundary in life and death marked. All definitions from gender to religion, or other governance, will pass away leaving Love, what we sometimes call "God."
. . . another level, this date: I have begun to curate flowers found, no longer by attribution cataloged since there is only The One who speaks through us. . . . in some sense I see us all passing vessels upon a night sea becoming Speaking Trumpets to one another on the way to oblivion; let us be kind to one another in the journey.

444px-Antelope_Canyon_Mittags

 

 

 

 

120415 12:54
    Nude bodies are engaging less so than naked souls, both seen by-the-eye seen/experienced.
    In my time, grown where planted, fortunate to survive, felicitous, the infant after me was not.
    Scrambled and flushed away--Mother nearly died--a hemorrhage, reprise the barbarians at gates of choice. She never told me. Dad did. But said she to me, he said he wanted, “The Virgin Mary (we Methodist/Baptist borne . . . Imagine?) and a whore.”
    i wonder not my love affair; sources/ideas/ideals, potent words copulating across blank all light white space

reams scrolling up/down the birth chancel seminal.
    You’d think that being old now I’d no longer keen either for fleshy intimacy or my androgynous sibling, dead before knowing either me, or i, it.
    But then too I wonder wandering these closing days, if 'she'/'he'/‘it’ doesn’t speak through me seeking the meanings of things measured & treasured? So too son and daughters much less the mother of them left long ago.
    Teeth fractured on stones, rending robe, ashes upon dust marked by the toe of Jesus before the woman taken in adultery to be stoned.
    Move over Job we’re a pair.
    Beloved sing me sighs that I may sign others equally, they are adored . . . .

“It takes courage to push yourself to places that you have never been before... to test your limits... to break through barriers. And the day came when the risk it took to remain tight inside the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” --Anais Nin

of sorts & conditions
omissions & sins of commission
awry & absent permission to judge
prejudicially a critic unclothed

Amen

. . . rewrite or molestation? 120415 21:27 The Tax Man, rapacious Bankers, and Home Land Security wait their pound of flesh; slaves are we all.

all power the 99%

I remain my mother’s lover
though long dead she remains
a figure of fixated fascination
for her ejaculatory proclamations.

In Life Class, Art Students League
glooming North Light Lit
looming white flesh of woman.
I turned to a female student and
said: “qu’est-ce-que c’est?”
oblivious the question mark?

She replied, “qu’est-ce-que c’est?”
Our volley went back-and-forth
until in frustration I asked in English;
what does it mean?

“WHAT DOES IT MEAN!”

“The temple bell stops but I still hear the sound coming out of the flowers.”--Matsuo Basho

Never intimate emotionally or physically after a lengthy dry birth
i soon learned to never ask anything of a woman
personal until now

“Guilt: the gift that keeps on giving.” --Erma Bombeck

. . . nonsensical but it made me laugh
mother & me that is, multilingual she was
i a pox of inappropriately tinctured seductiveness remain

xoj 4m

120415 11:22

http://my.opera.com/JackSpratt/blog/2012/04/15/what-does-it-mean

120415 03:20
    I am conservative in the sense of reaching back to origins and honoring them.
    Each of Mankind’s advances have convulsed, more like St. Vitas than logic, reason or compassion. Not  three forward and two back. but many. Then, a few advanced, subsumed  and buried in the sand. Mountains of vanity, cupidity and greed, beguiling and enslaving all life surrounding them; their monuments like mountains will return to sand, ashes and/or dust.
    Inevitable doom is inherent in all birth beginning at conception; biological or egotistical. If you will, these are the facts of life, not ‘Da Birds and Bees.’
    The prancing, preening, passion of ruling classes is always to rationalize selfishness. The obscenity of this posture, so actually unnatural, is it is most often, then and now, justified as “Divine Right.”
    The locus of conscious endeavor is to destroy anything that is OTHER. The institution, culture or civilization that holds and wields the most advanced weaponry is in timeless time, The King for a Day. . . . nakedly in eternity: a fruit fly.
    Who are your prophets?
    What profit do they aggregate?
    At what cost and to whom?
    In the company of those whose mission is to serve others--about to die, dying or dead--is a curious wisdom and joy. Truth is made obvious -- all life dies taking nothing with it. Those addled young people, veterans of war, who homeless wander our nation are more like Jesus than any person of rank, stature, eminence pretending to mediate between God & Man.
    Questions are more important than answers.
    Why is it the natural earth, water, wind and fire erodes vanity, destroying instead of saving.
    My faith is immutable in life, either way, absolute. Upon Sinclair, Huxley and Orwell are no more, nor less, prophetic than those the majority claim to adore.
    Irreverent?
    My reverence is total love for the origin of it all life.
    Thence to the divinity inherent in you.
    . . . Be it, the only truth that moth, rust and decay cannot not touch.

I am
what i is
a girl named Johnny
reborn this hour: Wanda June
dream angels neuter conjoined
internally eternally infinitely intimately
Sister Sun Brother Moon
Nancy boy girl Muscularity
Wanda Jack Jumping over Cat in a Hat
Wander Woman Wonder Man
Jesus Magdalen
Claire Francis
Teresa John

The child who first hugged me leaving her panties who knows where
over whom my father roared with laughter recounting her mother’s protest
Awoke me catapulted vertical
we two become One
Innocent @ four years old on a red tricycle
hot not then now dreamed reprise

 . . . could be an erector set poem?

 4m

 120413 23:34

120412 00:31
    “ . . if I speak with the tongues of Angels and have not love . . “ I am a fraud!
    Upon cats paws this dawn arose a simple truth. I was incapable of forgiving myself the pain, suffering and abandonment of those I professed to love. And who, in their way, and to the best of their ability, loved me. As for myself, until that moment, self-love was forbearance grudgingly given. Thus my “I love you” was actually  greed begging them to love me. True love will let the beloved go, to return or not. Love is what you give, a verb not a noun, unconditionally.
    In flesh and blood terms, how it works in real like, my relationships have been failures . . . in some cases attributable to me, or partially/mostly so. The forgiveness I sought and received seemed to lay the issue to rest. Add, I confess to a vanity, thinking in poetic terms, that I held those I’d hurt in my heart, mind and prayers.
    Not good enough.
    It didn’t work since I twirled, Dervish like, the nail not between my toes, but through my foot. The metaphor applies only to Sufi trainees. Think ‘spiritual training wheels.’
    Gentle as a vagrant breeze, or Annie`s request for attention, flew in this realization. As I’ve pondered it through the hours since, with little rest, I became convicted the issue was justice. And that beneath it all I simmered, enraged, blaming that which I could not change either for those I loved, others close at hand or the world. But most of all I resented deeply the injustice of it all personally.
    Ostensibly I’d transformed the process of “Being between a rock and hard place” to “Being between the hammer and anvil.’ As in swords transformed into plow shears.
    My “Nothing is for Naught” -- “Nothing is for Nothing” implies to me, the sacrifice of Jesus, was pre or foreordained; purposeful, had value, meaning and consequence. And that I would, if called, lay down my life for another similarly without expectation of applause, gratitude or affirmation. Knowing that The Author of Us and Everything intended my death to serve, at the very least to save another’s life, and nothing more.
    Another way of illustrating the same ideal is to say: “There are no accidents.”
    However I’m still laughing over: “I have noticed even people who claim everything is predestined, and that we can do nothing to change it, look before they cross the road." --Stephen Hawking
    Thank God for my sense of humor especially when applied to myself. And i do.
    Farther. My reliance upon synchronicity, using the Jungian definition, equally implies that this morning‘s revelation was from the same source of love that all the rest came, and continues, even now, to come from. Add to which my first “conversion” experience centered in an Old Testament reading about a father losing multiple sons by execution.
    Having read, yet unable at the moment to recall accurately “chapter & verse” either the Book of Jobe, or Jung's writing on its significance. I remember, and remain impaled up, Jobe’s lack of outrage; the injustice done to his children, estate and himself; his faith remanded immutable. . . . I’ve just crucified my Self!

120410 09:31
    Writing, initially, was masturbatory. Furtive gratification sought in an outhouse. Toilet paper: the lingerie section of J. C. Penny’s Catalog--always best--but more often Sears & Roebuck. With my family reunion waiting their turn in the facility. “Are you okay in there?!”
    Welcomed and forgiven now: the parental edict, “too stupid to live.” In hindsight a gift, it kept me silent in an alchemical retort/a pressure cooker. My thoughts, desires, curiosity caroming and ricocheting within a dark cave. Later redeemed as prayer echoing amongst the stars. Answered.
    Angelica Huston, in my eyes a forever Stone Fox, once mangled ‘orgasm’ as “organism” in a film set in Ireland. Research fails me regarding title and author. That said, in a linage stemming from Norse Tribes transplanted to Scotland then Ireland: Orange. I find the Irish to have a better understanding of God than most other tribes global.
    Ala:
    “God asked Adam if he wanted to stand up to pee?”
    “Yes”
    “Fine.” Then turning to Eve proclaiming, “To you I give multiple orgasms.”
    Those first writings, a photography column at the Providence Journal, were harried by commitments to: staff photography, teaching photojournalism at the University of Rhode Island, freelance assignments for a variety of National news services &/or publications and family. The latter became my preoccupation. At the time of my son’s diagnosis with Leukemia I fell blind to all else.
    To paraphrase Albert Schweitzer; 'You don’t have to be an angel to be a saint.' I am neither and aspire to nothing more than witnessing The All/The I AM. Never claiming to be a ‘nice’ person, I only pretend to be to keep myself outside the ‘cuckoo’s nest.’ I find joy writing now not merely the brief ejaculatory pleasure of ‘a happy ending.’ In seeking forgiveness from those I abused and betrayed I have begun, over and over, to seek to forgive myself.
    And now I write to the self I was, as child and adult, as well as those, who like me, stand upon the trembling cusp of death ready to seek relief: “Stop the Merry Go Round I Want To Get Off.”
    “Take up your cross” is branded upon my lips. For better or worse I am wed to this self. Damned either way? I don’t think so since I am willing to live and die for my truth . . . least I offend our brethren, all fellow travelers in this pretty blue & white nest hurtling through space . . . my brand is the Jerusalem Cross.
    Yet as before and always I remain a dust mote traversing a soon to pass shaft of light, superfluous.
    The joy of God is endless grown from a time before time was noted . . . Not a once-upon-a-time pleasure to be held immutable or egocentric.

“ 14:04

    I’ve come to distrust those who know not of chicken excrement between their toes.

    And it is she of emerald eyes, barefoot racing through peary groves, who blest then ordained me

    So odd to be adorned in her presence bejeweled each confessing an obsession with common stones worn smooth in rivers flow or erupted and graven by hands so long prehistory

Peans to those who forbore this black hole event arising a new something unknown as yet gestating . . .
is this/that/the womb of God?