The sun shone brilliantly for the first time in a good many days today just after I finished running 4 miles in Dreamland.  Though hovering around 60 degrees, I still feel comfortable in my summer running garb of shorts and tee-shirt even now, after the run, as I sit at a picnic table on the lower balcony of Garfield’s Monument intending to enjoy some peaceful moments by myself.

How are we to be other than we are?  I ask you that sincerely.  You were most beautifully you and I was most courageously me.  But, it seems, that wasn’t enough to spin the world any more quickly.  Hundreds and hundreds of instances of love-giving, forever-promising, never-releasing.  But the one moment that would have made firm our intensity—first meeting—never arrived.  Well beyond disappointment was the failure of that disclosure to me.  Were I prone to depression, I’d yet be being tossed by wayward currents along the bottom of the sea.

You see what I wrote above?  I felt it personally.  But it also wafted through me transparently.  As if, the life I’ve lived has been lived by many before, as well as to be lived by many yet to come.  I’m like a late fall dandelion blooming in Indian summer: individually 'me', yet no allelomorphic surprise on the road to eternity.

I should write all that I can say.  But you would be shocked.   Yes, you would be dismayed.

Who is expected to insure the light?  Who is expected to deliver all from the night?

I have killed before.  But worry not: I specialized mostly in assassinating popes only.  Or rather, they bet the farm on me being something that I wasn’t.   And the devil covered—and they lost.  Because I was never the mother-fucking chick-banger, hell-raiser, dope-slayer, idea-monger they, back yonder, made me out to be.  I was a total innocent—practically.  And it was they consequently, and not I, that kissed the ass of eternity.

Okay.  You think I rant.  You think I rave.  You think…as much as any knave.

But I know what kept me alive—as amazing as it was.  I crossed the misty, a-faerie-called-death forest-cast boundary of Christian and pagan belief.  And saw psychic the death of two pontiffs (at least!) as a form of hyper self-pagan immolation.  Yes, the catholic church, not philosophically, but organizationally was (is) an anachronistic, archaic umbilical-ification dangling its potentates like expendable segments of afterbirth or wriggling worms to be snapped up by a hungry, diving death bird flying stealth through the night.

And still I run alive amidst the dead—trembling with elation.