June in Reflection, June in Ending

This is another month gone. My book is done. I have been hunched over various typing apparatuses since September clonking it out, and it may never be done, but it's done enough and that was June.

June was also the first of the summer sun and the realization that my long vacation is coming to a close, but not so much that I'm all done and old already, no. It's just that there is a little time left. It's been eight months since I graduated with a B.A. and it will just be a bit of time before that manifests into something more tangible.

June was being twenty-one and young all over again and the malodorous interior of public and private restrooms. Was it? No, June was city water on Superior Shores and forty-ounce brown-bottled beer on the beach.

June is, too, sitting here overlooking the Rondo farm and wondering what will come next besides winter and a graduate degree, sitting here wondering what will become of my summer breeze if not a slow spiral into old age and regrets of unfulfilled dreams.

It's not about doing something brilliant or amazing anymore, no. All our once revered industries are now in the cheap ticket entertainment business: publishing, music, theater, oh-all-you-arts. Catch a line, hook onto the YouTube-Facebook-Internet rush and make a buck while you're there, but don't contribute anything to the pool of human thought save for your post-post-modern rehash of someone else's re-configuration of a design crafted for a 8-bit machine that hooked to your TV. Then post it somewhere and sell a t-shirt and you've made a middle-class salary for five years until the project bombs and something happens when a kid comes along.

Don't let me grow too old, here. I have these days to shine, this light by myself and this light in my mind. Give me the space to grow without hindrance, or with so many blocks in the road that I become better than before with each strained step off the ground.

To whom do I direct my imperative tense? Myself. And it is because I so often forget that I am capable of so much and I so often forget that all it takes is a little bit of a rush, a spark, and some new-age media content to get the sphere accelerating in a modest trajectory.

My Wal-Mart three-dollar brown-khaki-white-hint-of-blue shorts-from-three-years-ago are ripping
at
the
crotch
seam
just
like
me
from the bottom up to the top where it all
blows
over.