I remember the book came to me in first year.

The Diaries themselves- a gateway into

Zapatista’s head,

the Grand Kahn was revealed.

but it wasn’t some quick religious slice

I escaped over time, through nine inch nails

and a Buckley wail.

Walking home from jobs with your feet hurt.

Writing until they’d all fallen asleep.

Reading Subcommandante Marcos

for the first time was much like hearing Bl3nd last year.

Seeing him place his figurine-ready self, engineered out of a van somewhere

or holed up in some seedy spot for weeks, using the still to provide

the photo.

What is it about the person who rides so high they lose it

and the people out their in the middle of the jungle or

the turntabilist oasis, that takes them all and binds them?

Well baby,

it aint fucking Revolution,

if you can’t dance to it.

And you have to be half-crazy

to be Zapata’s Sun,

and coke-cay-ayna

is a crazy motherfuckingdrug.

Let’s do this.