Thank you.
It's a privilege to be here and a pleasure.
It's kind of like being reincarnated or dying.
And you know, you see, you can take a fast trip back
through your life and see all your friends
and enemies assembled by the side of the road
as you rush towards the point of light.
So thank you for coming.
I'm going to start off by reading a poem.
I've been trying to write some poems about--
privilege in some ways and sort of the mixed emotions
and the sort of mixed conditions of it,
and realizing that the glass of water you drink from
is a privilege and that people work to build the pipes that
brought the water to you.
Everything is sort of like the pyramids.
And thousands of slaves died to put it there
so you could stand on top and enjoy the evening breeze.
And so this poem is sort of about that.
It makes passing reference to the thinning ozone
layer and other ecologically correct references.
It's called "Candlelight."
Can you hear me well?
It could be better.
OK.
I'll try to read a little louder,
or maybe the mic could be turned up.
Candlelight.
Crossing the porch in the hazy dusk
to worship the moon rising like a yellow filling station
sign on the black horizon.
You feel the faint grit of ants beneath your shoes,
but keep on walking because in this world,
you have to decide what you're willing to kill.
Saving your marriage might mean dinner for two
by candlelight on steak raised on pasture chopped out
of rainforest, whose absence might mean
an atmospheric thinness 50 years from now,
above the vulnerable head of your bald grandson on vacation,
as the cells of his scalp, sauteed by solar radiation,
break down like suspects under questioning.
Still you slice the sirloin into pieces
and feed each other on silver forks,
under the approving gaze of a waiter whose purchased attention
and French name are a kind of candlelight themselves,
while in the background, the fingertips of the pianist
float over the tusks of the slaughtered elephant
without a care, as if the elephant had granted
its permission.