I find myself unidentified, marginalized, terrified by the rhetoric of the talkin' heads. "Who will make it in America"? Not Americans. Foreign to the world around me, I pray to clay gods, ornaments of my wishes, figments of my imagination. Eyelids clinched tight, in a blink, my life is transformed; eyes open, pupils dilated, I reckon I will make it in America. A man ravaged by savage men, eager for gain. The spirit of the earth fills my coffers with a voice to speak, ears to listen, and a heart to feel. Tools of the trade, I scribe onto the hearts of other men radio-waves of universal enlightenment, only to give them the chance to face life for what it is.
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