Dawn comes too soon and these little
feet are walking in the chill. Spring
seems good on paper, but it's not here
until....the heat pipes are turned off, the
windows can send air, and I am again
a happy man, walking. I watched a
movie once, I remember, called by
that idea : 'Dead Man Walking.' I'm
the opposite for sure. 'Dead Man
Walking' is the honorific call-out
that prisoners do - they all stand at
their cell doors, staring out in a sort
of perverse respect for one of their
kind going down to his death. The
last walk along the walkway, past
the cells, to his execution. 'Dead Man
Walking,' someone calls out. Never
made much sense to me, but I can
get it - despair makes for strange
bedfellows. Anyway, move on.
I set the stage a long time back for
what I myself have engineered as a
sorry life, a sort of nothing for the
ending of nothing, Now I'm not
proud of that and that's too bad,
but that's the way it's gone. Nothing
to do now. 'Rue the flue,' like the
chimney says to the grate.
And it wasn't always that way.
There was a time when even I
held some promise, to myself.
But then it went. The bleeding
land of the bleating lamb, in its
way; it was my story. 'They're
gonn'a ruin you, kid.' I wish
someone had told me that a
long time ago. But I see it all
now : I was water, running
everywhere, while they were
all in their boxes, contained.
It's pretty simple, though
I hate to cast blame.