Wearing asphalt on the souls of his shoes and the blue sky on his hat he travels on diesel stained water and plastic food. He don’t know friends, just people lined up along his life like dolls on a shelf; each one a special memory.
Grit is his cologne. Whiskey and woman are props in his story, never getting enough of change he sips whatever’s available and discards the bottles without a backwards glance. The back of his hand stained with lipstick and whiskey he always waves as he walks out of the street lights glow into the shadow of tomorrow.
He ain’t afraid to work but ain’t lookin for a career, just a job to pay for his freedom. Work is good for his soul, but a job is a cage with invisible bars. Old men retire so he’ll keep using highway ramps to get on and off his journey towards forever.
The bank account in his faded back pocket is his safest investment. Buildings and people become monsters when they incorporate; so he hides from their interest. Under the radar is a shady place without tolls where he can save his sense. Who saves for their death anyway.
His family don’t bleed anymore. There are no parents or siblings, just love for the characters that make up the landscape of his journey. Settling down erodes life like a tree that fell and decayed for the benefit of the forest, and he knows the forest is voracious, but trees are beautiful.
It’s a hard, walking through life as a person and not becoming part of the forest. Holding a dollar and not becoming number is impossible. His hands are calloused from fighting title fights seeking to make him a champion.
He was nobody and nowhere his whole life. Free to be human. He walks through life staring at the titles , cultures, and borders like a sleepwalker. He has no boundaries. Wherever his heart and mind can create a dream he travels freely along enjoying each step. This is how he lives forever. They call him a rebel cause they have to label everything in their world to be safe. He don’t label himself, but the real ones don’t have to.