5604. WE ARE NOT THE AUTHORS OF OUR OWN LIVES

WE ARE NOT THE 

AUTHORS OF OUR 

OWN LIVES

Not sure just what that means but who cares anyway here I am.

I'm standing at a military hill in West Point, NY looking down

and out across the river's vista before me : arrayed around me

are cannons and statues and swords and mortars and howitzers,

all that crass military junk here revered. We take our highest

esteems and place them atop a hill where we extol all the

military dead. What for? Behind me, some cadets are out

doing their runs and calisthenics. It's like a certain prison

madness I can identify with. Out in the exercise yard 

before being sentenced to death. Why I should care,

I don't know; so I don't and I won't.

-

The sun itself is pretty lovely, and the water here

sparkles far below  -  the railroad cavity where the

train lines run, the Hudson River and the barges and boats.

I'll watch everything sparkle. I'll listen to that slap of the flag.