Song Of The Expatriate
Che Guevara led me past the apocalyptic
by John Farrell
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.