Yes, it is true that I could have done some things more laudably
and achieved to a greater extent than I did.

And, yes, it is also true that I could have done things more ignobly
and caused additional suffering and strife.

In the end, though, I lived my life bound by centuries of patterns;
yet, occasionally,
with an awareness
that illuminated everything in peace.

Caught in a photograph
hurrying past the cenotaph.

Incense from a solitary mass -
Rain falls and moistens the glass.
Granite walls of the city shiver,
and weep into cobblestone rivers.

The murder of time and suffocation of space
mark their deeds and make their case.
While those you meet use all their might,
to blacken their moans and muffle the light.

For fear is our cancer at the core.
And anger is the death of the sun and the earth.

Central air pumped day and night through aluminum veins.
Atmosphere robbed of its natural existence.
An artificial ether.
Dead air.

My pumpkin-colored cat once caught a rabbit feeding on rutabaga in the backyard – the rabbit ended up decapitated in the sunflower patch.
My dog once jumped the fence, headed north, and was never heard from again.
I once took a long walk in the mountains with 3 friends and came very close to a moose reclining in a vlei.
I know of a guy who once was arrested in Peru with 450 tropical frogs and a selection of unusual beetles in his luggage – he claimed he wanted to start a zoo.

These are animals that are out there.
They are out and about.
They are out in the fresh air.
They are out in god’s green earth.
They are out of the house.
They are out and out out.

Summer is not meant to be escaped from, like a lackluster neighbor or a Jehovah’s Witness.
Summer is not meant to be hidden from, like an angry dog or an irritated spouse.

Summer is, summer is,
summer is for the feel of itchy grass on the backs of the knees.
For the smell of gasoline and cut lawn.
For the sound of birds and ice-cream trucks.
For the experience of shielding your eyes from the sun as the heron flies over your head.
For walking through the dew-soaked morning lawn.
For feeling the sweat bead on your brow as you pull at the weeds in the garden.
For the satisfaction of a carbonated beverage quenching your thirst after a romp with the kids in the yard.

For how can the grass itch in your bedroom?
How can the smell of cut lawn waft through a closed window?
How can you commune with the birds through a picture-laden wall?
How can your carpet collect dew?
And how can the beverage satisfy if you were not getting hot and thirsty in the out and out out?

You, trying to sleep despite your jimmy-legs.
Me, thinking about one night in a past before your influence.
In the rented house on the north side of
Chapel Hill – fittingly, off Airport Road.
I was in bed – with a warm body, but alone.
Listening to night sounds – some soft and dangerous, some not.
Meditation would be a good word,
except that I didn’t consciously meditate yet at that time.
I was dreaming and awake; like an electron pulsated through two slits,
or the trunk of a tree seen through eyes floating on the surface of a lake.
The sound, the drone, the hum, the vibration of an aeroplane’s engine – far off;
on the cusp of inaudibility, on the fringe of awareness,
on the perimeter of consciousness.
Entering at a moment unknown and uncalculable;
only known in hindsight, in the past, after the magic of the instant has dissipated.
Only in remembrance, like the momentary and transient splendor of the
carroty and crimson sunset behind vaporous, purple and billowy wisps.
Peaceful and sad.
Telling without any shred of knowledge.

The sun, coming out from behind a cloud and screaming at the cadaver dogs.
Me, peering after those remains of the sun.

Packed in two suitcases,
leather straps worn thin as tape,
memories of extinct remorses.

So like your mother, but
needing the warmth of a fluttering apron string.

Got me some gravel, and I got me some sand.
Got me some drawings, and got me some plans.
I am a steam-shovel, steam-shovel man.
Got my steam-shovel, and I know who I am.

My steam-shovel’s color is yellow crayons.
I bet you guess what I, what I’m sayin’.
I am a steam-shovel, steam-shovel man.
Got my steam-shovel, and I know who I am.

Zombies, walking around like god-damn zombies.

I mean, has anyone noticed the crack in the plaster and
the chip in the china set?
Or are we all just too busy with our neurotic preoccupations
to notice that we are running down our lives -
winding them down;
day by day; hour by hour; week by week.

Worried about the stock market.
Obsessed by the number of dandelions in our front yard.
Wondering if that biotech rep at the networking thing was impressed.
Nagged by the thought that you forgot to make a call last week.
Hounded by the anxiety of your role in the church function.
Fretful of the outcome of your big deal.
Distracted by the war on terror, the war on cancer, the war on gang violence, the war on illiteracy, the war of emotions, the war of countries, the war of words, the war of ideas, the war of war, the war of peace.
Tormented by the dirty dishes in the sink at home – how can one concentrate with dirty dishes in the sink?

Hoping that your are doing it right.
Wishing that the dividends will pay off – down the road, of course.
Praying that retirement will be funded and healthy (then you will have the time to do everything you ever wanted to do but were too busy to do).
Anticipating hapiness – in the future, of course.

But missing the beauty of life;
day by day; hour by hour; week by week; and second by second.

[Scene change; standard 1.C]

In a time before zip codes
In a land sprawling out towards the brink of mediocrity –
            on the cusp of losing hegemony:
                        post-teeter towards [greatness – replace later, need alliteration]
                        pre-totter, but starting to stumble that way.