AND BURIED HIM
WHERE HE FELL
I don't respect the past; never have. All the calamities
of manhood dwell therein : campfire boys on a Civil War
field, dead and dying, right there where they fell. The
hot cannon still lurches the horses. Animals skewered
o'er the field. At least here I am safe again - my good
dog sleeps at my side. This is my own wondrous world
and I want it and I'll take it and I'll keep it too. 'Drum Taps :
Vigil Strange On the Field I Kept One Night.' My son,
my son, that is America. I am at least at a certain peace;
not crying yet but sad. Yet those, I notice, who do handle
this past - with their sacred and their reverential gloves
- they tell us nothing of today. They merely bow and
genuflect to that which was, deeming it right to tell us
too to so revere. I don't respect the past. The past
is already there.
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