We recall fondly. We recollect. The good old days in which we titled windmills redolently and rode dusty clanging boxcars across the horizontal spread of america What a lay we said hitching our pants sticking our peckers into every gopher hole and indian eardrum we could wrestle or manage. The good old days an unrolling panoramic canvas of america painted over with screaming reds graying blues earth turning browns others colors running together like luxuries found lost. We posed as sheriffs marshaling laws to frontiers unexplored my god we were real artists then painting with the light just right to conceal any shadows creeping unwanted across borders.

From beyond history I sit here now in this boxcar a tramp with torn baggy trousers too tight vest and dustcaked bowler writing songs no one will ever sing but that’s fine just fine. A train trackless running outside of time is concerned solely with mythology. Mythology in this case being the present moment expanded upon infinitely within the mantling of lore.