(22 May 1968 - 4 November 2010 / Long Island, NY.)

Song Of The Expatriate

Che Guevara led me past the apocalyptic
Autumn and into the desert of Mock Arizona.

I am off again, searching for the endlessness of America.
I am the wandering expatriate that has self-liberated
and shed his mystic flesh.

Aboard a Greyhound,
sitting next to the petroleum astronauts,
below the Golden street lamps of Northern California;
watching the moon becoming heaven.

Where are we Che?

In my heart I have suffered harmonic trauma.
Beaten and abandoned in the constellation New York City.

Twilight twinkling above this Kingdom Americana.
I have landed Che, here in the Icicle Asylum of Minneapolis.
Here in the freezing darkness of a high-resolution oblivion.

There is no Kingdom, the myth of endlessness is dead.
I am in exile, New York too is dead.
All that I have lays before me in this tundra, Icicle Asylum.


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