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DESIGN
FOR
A UTOPIAN ZOO
The
cages will be carried by their captives,
and
their keys. Upon the signal of morning glow,
bright
for the purpose of catching eyes, everything
sings
in the key of C. All the keepers are also
kept.
Every now and then the earth is watered.
The
lector sits in a very high chair,
Dispensing
words while everyone works. (Just
as
it used to be done in Tampa.)
On
Saturday afternoon there’s a party.
Those
who fly are given permits – good
for
the duration. Uniforms are taboo.
Whoever
wants to can swim in wilderness,
taking
along a host of underwater paraphernalia.
Bells
are rung only on days when they feel like it.
Worship
is not obligatory,
but
anyone can show off his finery;
narcissism
is not discouraged.
On
Sunday afternoon there’s a party.
Climbers
are given a chance to risk bones.
A
few of the mountains are higher than you’d think.
Sometimes
the news is bad, for instance
when
the old ones lose their teeth. Swingers
are
provided with a fine selection of vines.
The
philosophers peel potatoes twice a week,
but
no one ever has to do laundry.
Awards
are given for picking out lice.
On
Monday afternoon there’s a party.
During
eclipses everything stops.
Arguments
are permitted when the moon is full.
Nocturnals
will often find bones of contention
with
those who insist on living by day.
Conflicts
are settled by arbitration.
The
resolution is a dance till dawn.
By
then all sides are too tired to fight.
Music
is always a quick solution.
On
Tuesday afternoon there’s a party.
Gardens
and orchards are by the sun.
Pruning
is done with a perfect exactitude.
The
principles of a balanced economy, “To each
according
to his needs,” as someone said,
Are
usually adhered to. Free running water
is
provided for a long list of uses.
Omnivores
have no privileged position. Everyone
takes
turns being eaten. But not before his time.
On
Wednesday afternoon there’s a party.
Bounders
are given a clear field of action.
Sometimes
a crowd will form on the sidelines.
A
large patch of earth, sprinkled with obstacles,
is
reserved for the diggers and other denizens
of
the underground scene. Scratching and licking
are
common occurrences. Light shows are given
at
certain seasons. Teachers are trained by
their
pupils , who don’t know anything either.
On
Thursday afternoon there’s a party.
When
the week’s work is done nobody is finished.
All
that hubbub is dropped like a stone.
At
sunset the lectors come down from their perches
And
mingle with poems dropped into the shrubbery.
Families
and singles are welcome to mix.
News
of the day is passed by gesture.
Those
who are tired will stay at home.
Everyone
else will head for the hills.
On
Friday night thank God there’s no party.
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