EXT. A CITY STREET, LATE AFTERNOON IN EARLY WINTER. THE SUN — SHRUNKEN AND HARSH — HAS SET IN A COLD, CLOUDY SKY. NOW DARKNESS ARRIVES, AND WITH IT MORE CLOUDS. FINALLY, A THIN MEAGER SNOW BEGINS TO FALL.
THE MAN WALKS DOWN THE STREET. HE LOOKS DIRECTLY AT THE CAMERA.
MAN: We try to help others.
We try to help ourselves.
And we’d be able to do that —
we’d be able to success – if our actions
weren’t framed by time.
*
I see my brother one last time.
My head is throbbing from blows
(like a soldier’s head).
My brother’s gut is throbbing from surgery:
the knives that can only contain, and temporarily minimize,
the failure of his liver.
The hospital staff
don’t like my brother;
they don’t like his type.
But when they do do that, I’m angered;
they don’t like me.
Yes, my brother was an addict —
his drug sold legally by millionaires
only causes the OCCASIONAL death.
But he was also —
and this is where he and I join —
an artist … out of time.
*
We cried out,
And, in thanks,
Were thrown to the ground.
You were stuffed into a bed —
Even your bed became ground,
And your hospital, a rocket ship
To darker planets.
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