A Park, One Time, was but Three Steps from Memory

Man Across Casgrain

Jesus, I was just going about my business. I get a lot done–or I try to anyway, but I get blind sometimes. I don’t mean I have problems with my eyes, which actually I do, but that I forget what I am. I forget the whole business, just the whole world. It just goes on without me remembering to be the part of it that I am. Then there they came, greening down around me. A benevolent insect flutter. In their camouflage, that is, seedpod leaves. You’ve seen them, I think, the kind like little wings.


Many, which descending bring more–these are great, mixing in air like summer rain. Rhythmic rain above. Roof tinning its way into all our pittering heads. Oh, but this was last summer–I recall, maybe the summer before. (a woman said she loves such moments, and she sat there with the sun giving her beatific smile its throne, so I wouldn’t object). Taken, we all listen and march the beat on into a fountain burst back upon summer. I gotta ask myself am I a man or is a man (generally) someone who can burst away from the public summer fountain; radiating his will; like a trumpeting of his presence in the descending green? As if he stops its fluttering, but not caring that it doesn’t and not caring if it does. ‘Cause he’s simply appearing. Is a man someone who acknowledges the moment? He’s turbulent if he asks, and so he just goes on, in his going. One time, there was that one time when, picking the queen of diamonds from a gutter, drumming sprinkled from the green canopy above. Birds squacking retchedly, themselves, it was ok. Well a queen that turns leaves to insects, for revering wings noise-like and in flight, is something of a throne too. Or the reverse. I’m going about my business.

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