Listeners may hear a revolutionary’ rant.
I couldn’t promise I’d deliver. I couldn’t say what you’d think. Not even I know if you’d witness a revolutionary or a rant.
What I say catches on nothing. Those words of mine form along another country and come over the Atlantic to flatten the low Blue Mountains to pick up speed along windswept plains to jump clean over the Rockies and land somewhere in the Pacific.
America has become a launch site for rockets to return us to the moon. America has conquered now till our manifests picture dead wars along pages inscribed on metal tablets 70 years after.
Our land of old glory that birthed such life! Where can I look today for the weight of wars? Where can I look for the end of liberty? These terrors gave purpose. My people have no fight. What’s worth doing if not for a fight?
What gentle life I’ve been privileged has stripped me of place. I can earn nothing. I shout whispers. I’m imprisoned by my birth.
War gives worth to words. Without we turn to love. And so untested days are occupied by wanting and wanting. What is a writer to do but wait for World War 3?