Ave Maria

By Jack Forge

A linguistic trip from the madness of sexual obsession to meaningful love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Forge
• Release date: May 25, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476147055

Jack Forge

Born John Stephen Rohde in Los Angeles, California, I focused my academic study on the liberal arts and I have striven to create worthy art most of my life.

Book preview

AVE MARIA

A Pureloined Journey to Love

A Novella

By

Jack Forge

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 John Stephen Rohde

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Prelewd

As all men are born

the sons of man

we long for cradling pious limbs

from the moment we suckle life

from the mind of God

to the moment we lie limp

in the arms of love

unaware of any

but the circle of things

knowing this

the between is but a warm wave

on which we swim

relating shores of memory

to shores of dream

Dear Doctor Frederick Meinler,

You know me as the man who loves Marias. Only Marias. Sacrilogos. All others nothing in the female swarm from cry to sigh. Maria my love. Maria my song. Maria my lifestory.

Now, to begin before I end to begin again. Words today gone tomorrow. Perhaps to make way for another better method to speak the mind. Yet, words to make today for you. To know perchance to care, to cure me of my ill. Sick I am, you tell me, so I should want the cure unless worse than the disease. And could health be happier than this glorious world in which I swim though frayed of fin in a steadily stagnating pond?

Maria, mother of the man, not the queen of heaven (more at hell) but the one who pushed this preoccupid poet onto this planet to struggle for his life (the meaning of it all). The sphere-miracle begot from Maria, by God. Any wonder Marias become my life? True, she bore me unbearable to her but I no gimpy kid fostered from the wilderness come to make her mother of my own. A plague on that idea crazier than any Mariac notion I ever entertained. Admittedly, Maria Matrix might have been the catalyst for my career--what you shrinks clinically call an obsession possession. But I ask you: Wrong to be committed (don't get any ideas) to beauty? Plato thought a great good--the rationale for love. If Papa Philo thought so, can I be far from wrong (rhetorically sic)? And one may wonder if I blame her for my actions. Well--yes, in fact, I do. But no more or less than I blame you or myself. We are all to blame for what we do--no? The evil in the devil in us all. Sounds right to me. Deep down inside where the sun never shines I can see the fire and ice, the endless horror. Can't you? Anyway, I cannot blame that poor diceased woman anymore than I blame my father, my grandparents, the neighbors, the grocer, the police, the doctor, the government, God (well, maybe) even myself. And so, you will have to examine and evaluate me for what I do without placing blame (big order for a human).

More, I can guess your next question. Incest--right?

Now, Joseph did you ever share your mother’s bed?

Naturally.

I mean besides the birthing table did you ever sleep with your mother after the nursing period?

No doctor--I don't even remember her body being naked.

Yet, I do sense a flickering reel in the dim corners of mytheatrical mind where I am lying all cozy and secure in her warm-earth-fragrant-bed: mourning light illomens the sheer nylon curtains carving S curves on her broadroom window where I am left alone right but I with my frightened animalism scense her recent warmelodorous presence--then the aroma of baconeggs tingles me awake and her jellysweet voice sirens me to the journey so I scramble out of bed and my yet furless hooves tapping the stone floor and I follow the scent all the way to the cavern kitchen where mamaria works in heat with fruit and flowers and strips of flesh to nourish my bulging--

Of course I could continue for many pages but I know you want a sucsinct account of my curios condition even though this may run to scores of liar-culled pages.

So what is in a name to shake a sphere of complayscience? This name--apparently unknown mysteries at least in my cause. That famous (to me at least) gnome creature Maria despite obvious religious cognotations has stirred enough ions to both attract and repel me like a sunspun memory chip. One or two Maria episodes as with anyone else would not have even peaked my curiosity but since many Marias have appeared in sicksession, the experiences deserve some scientropic observation. So I shall be the giddy pig (more goat) to your verbalism, dear medicater.

After Materix, my first Maria appeared--a dark beauty who sat on the far side of the third grade world. As I weekly recall that amorfuss memory of chilledhood, she not once met my repeated gaze. Nevertheloss, I was smitten. No need for encouragement from any Maria. What little I saw and heard about her cast a spell of prepubescent love: not that lustfoul hunger that claws at the body-mind-soul of an idoliscent man but a wakeful dream on which one fears to fall asleep.

She became my reason for being nine years old. I rose in the morning dewy to see her. Whenever she was absent, I was desolate and those loonly days were meaningless. I lived for her return to my distal desire. And whenever she reappeared I was evervescently elated like a warm bottle of soda shaken to excess as pop usually art. Howl!

Certainly sexuality was a motor in driving my interest and I suppose her resemblance to mother catalyzed some preconceived carnal connection. However, I felt no gentalian response to her presence, nor did I ever imagine proposing mariage. Simply I wanted to be close to her in a way I did not then but since have understood. Throughout the curse of the year I found the time unpleasant when I did not see her. But when I did, I must have stared often and long because the Catholic non who was drilling facts and figures into our soft heads flayed me on a spelling test and ordered me to take it home for a parentaglio. On the paper was written: F for making eyes at Maria Premmer.

F for love. How inauspicious!

Nunthemore, I did not lose heart. Dignity, yes. But I was not discouraged. Perhaps inspired because from that episode until now I have sought, met, loved, and lost countless Marias and only Marias, so help me God, for they are full of grace and I am only a simple singer of silly songs minus a balanced melody.

Now, you tell me--am I crazy or what? Whether or not you think so, I feel soon to be adrift in a psychotic void except for Marias floating in and out of my life like flower petals or fragrant feathers on a summer