We recall fondly. We recollect. The good old days in which we titled windmills redolently and rode clanging dusty boxcars across the glaring horizontal spread of america. What a lay we said hitching up 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 mudpacked browns other colors running together like luxuries found lost. We posed as stiff hipped 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 abandoned boxcar a tramp with torn baggy trousers too tight calico vest dustcaked bowler writing songs no one will ever sing or listen to but that’s fine just fine. A train trackless running outside of time is concerned solely with mythology. Mythology in this case being the preset moment expended upon infinitely within the mantling of lore.
Photograph by Josef Sudek