Champion of Years
I should like to acknowledge the grid, the company,
the equipment, and most importantly strong drink.
This is the way we find ourselves, not in the narrow adobe
shanties, but rescued from such limited attractions and
blessed with whiskey, rum, and the whir of motors.
It’s hospitable, spending time today in a radiance of power,
the automatic shutter speed that replaces my retina.
There’s no freedom in South America, none. I’m the off peak
God of the freely and only. This is the report, the freedom
Of infinitely reaching the world with the data of the too well known.
Yes, I am equipped for rough expedition of the sort you
can barely imagine. I am often wholly unsympathetic to the Orient.
I’ve already been around it and known the satisfaction of
their occasional hardships. My intent is to escape the beginning:
one to another, one to one, distortion, isolation, darkness, and
pouring liquid into our ears to remember, remember the program.
Books are fading, which offers some consolation from the period.
“The written word” – that phenomenon sure had a minor peculiarity
of years. That fad is a portion of the minority which I have left behind.
Most men of action are readily their own book and
quick to answer a question, to join the conversation with knowledge of the world.
Ignore the gentle voice, the quiet manner over matter, the twinkling,
the lurking capacity for silent resolution. I am dangerous when
held. I am caused by crime, a champion, a protector, and legend.
I am amazing enough. I am no man’s land. I am one wild, wild report.