eulogy for a hero

i remember the first time i saw movies that made life blurry and felt sensible to be alive through. made me know the way of things, the thoughts i live with. i remember being gary cooper and waltzing in the room and seing it split, i was jimmy stewart telling congress in no short order i could beat them all, outstand them , outthink them, and it would be okay for us to have heroes again, for children to have heroes not from movies and storybooks because i would have outstood the castaways and demons that make heroism trite and uselss. i was clint eastwood knighted preist painting the town red and casting out demons. but mostly i was paul newman. i was butch cassidy storming out gun in hands of a cafe, an army beofre me, reckless and etermined, bravery was only overrated in real life, this was me. i was the new real life. bolivian army before me i'd stand, arms wide fuck you to the world and middle finger higher that cheech and chong. then i was fast eddie felson, knowing and reading the minds of men and leaving them left desolate by the way, they should have known better than to think with me, play chess with me. i was standing at the mirror watching my face change to the features of his smeeling my sweat become the scent of mountain ranges. i was butch again riding the open trail to hole in the way watching carefull the treeline i would see them , couldn't miss them, sundance could hit anything. then it was madness and goodfellas came out and heroes were assholes who beat on women and shit on people's dreams. where did you go, my careful butch cassidy? where have all the dafodils gone when heroes are dead and archaic left in museums a sign by their names, no romance, no lust for life, no courage but to take and beat and mame. give me shelter with fast eddie and sundance and i'll take charge of heaven for you.

2002-09-24 | 4:17 p.m.
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