You could deputize yourself, take the cold, stoney
hand of law as your own. Walk tall through dusty streets,
west of the Mississippi, immortalize your
name in local papers and dime novels. Maybe
shoot down big game instead—lions, zebras, German
soldiers—and write about it from across a great
expanse, wire in your manuscripts, your typed up
articles on the simple travesties of man.
Or if the cafés in Spain and Paris are still
too near, there lies a windless plain, basked in constant
siesta, untiring in its bold reflection
of your dirt-mouthed and fly-ridden Pamplona sun.
Giant steps are what you take, walking on the moon.
Big as Ernest Hemingway, walking on the moon.
No air for the temple fire, walking on the moon.
Fame can be its own desire, walking on, walking on the moon.