
“ Like most of the others, I was a seeker, a mover, a malcontent, and at times a stupid hell-raiser. I was never idle long enough to do much thinking, but I felt somehow that my instincts were right. I shared a vagrant optimism that some of us were making real progress, that we had taken an honest road, and that the best of us would inevitably make it over the top. At the same time, I shared a dark suspicion that the life we were leading was a lost cause, that we were all actors, kidding ourselves along on a senseless odyssey. It was the tension between these two poles — a restless idealism on one hand and a sense of impending doom on the other — that kept me going.” -Hunter S. Thompson (The Rum Diary)
I
Your glass was always full, as was your spirit
your road never ending, mad speeds and wild scenes
you called it “The Proud Highway” and so it was, so it is still
for those who choose to follow that blurred specter, with high
red eyes, stoned in the night, real rock & roll on the radio, a loaded pipe
a moon so loud, so bright; wind in your hair, a cold beer, wailing, chanting mad
perfect, real…the stars are chasing you like lawmen do outlaws on heavy metal
horses and extremely fast red chariots—a low roar under the hood and you’re
Laughing wild & free! Suddenly your invisible, your too good, too real
for those dull eyes to see and too honest and too alive for those false ears to hear
they get lost and engulfed in your words that are spun like spider silk, but more
like steel cables that tighten with every swift sentence, every crazed verse,
and every pure paragraph of truth. O holy eternal wisdom…a hieroglyph echoing in this generation
as they did in yours of the past, and on into the ever approaching future of forever
And beneath it all, the wild man exterior, the rock star, and true southern gentlemen there is a man, a man of truth, courage, and love; a man of exceptional character, a man who knew himself
only as well as he knew his country. A man of candor, of an unorthodox belief in the real–
a man of quality; a man of taste. A man who could recognize beauty in the ugly spaces
filling in what we know as life; a man who knew who and what he was;
a man in touch with his soul, who could manifest in others, their own proclamation of what
the soul is, where the spirit dwells. You knew all along that you were not to be held
nor would ever be enslaved by those dullards and their makeshift minds, you knew you could
live the dream, in the fanciful realm, that lay between this reality, and the next
that is the veil of secret domain, you could be king of your plate and king of your fate
your magic was never conforming, never giving in, never letting up, never slowing down
for you knew if you did, the vultures would be waiting, you knew the hyena was there
with saliva dripping from an eager maw. you knew you could never look back
not to Louisville, not to the east and New York, you knew it was the west
he knew to find the fortress in the mountain valley, just beyond that Continental Divide
you had the instinct of the keen mongoose, and your writing was, and is killing every cobra from here
to India and beyond, you have been taking these snakes down for, one-by-one, shouting, calling
to us from the universe, firing arrows of ink and vivid memory, with time meaning nothing
Now they celebrate your work, your words, and your life with jovial festivals, huge banners with
drawn on odes by friends who miss your wild ways
They brought an entire city to your namesake, and revel in your spirit, the best way they know
how and I was there, and I am home now, knowing you were not there, but here, somehow waiting
sitting with old Hemingway and Fitzgerald, and all those old saintly ghost who believed, who
knew that the secret of life is in our hands, “with the right kind of eyes”; the right kind of understanding
if you could only except the truth of it all, and know why you are here, and desire to share
Your freedom with the rest, if they want it or not.
Can you hear your calling yet America? Do you have the courage as he did, to pick up and fight,
with sword and shield? The mighty pen, and talent of truth?
America salutes you brave warrior! Draped in red, white, and blue honor, valor, a hero was born
in Louisville, and drove across this land fighting for our freedoms! He died defending us! He died
trying to bring down the evil of this world while lifting up all that is great in this great country
he made it his mission to change the face of this mild landscape of lost dreams
he gave all, so that you, the American dreamer would be able to one day seize upon that dream!
He tore down the barriers, he brought the light, then…he took flight, like a flash of lightening
with that clap of thunder, he was gone. Now, he is omnipotent. His words louder than ever before
His work more valuable; his message loud and clear. Men and women of America
be free, be great, be true…be Americans, and be proud. And for that, we thank you.
II
Why do we attempt to measure something that truly cannot be measured?
As it is with time, trying to measure eternity seems foolish
yet we commit ourselves to this pursuit of folly with such vigor
as we do with trying to define men with titles, that eventually become cliché
We focus on the aspects of a mans actions alone, rather than the spirit of knowledge
he is attempting to capture and convey with beauty and reverence; with truth and veneration
Has mankind lost the ability to read between the lines?
Have we become so superficial; so lost in the decay of entertainment?
Reverting back to infancy, via mass hysteria of TV hypnotism?
Or are we really just that def, dumb, and blind?
Some men simply defy all standards to such extent that he cannot be believed
or understood as a loving human being, or patriot
his exploits far outweigh his merit as an artist, or truth seeker—
they love to gossip, these weary masses, who are forced to live vicariously
though these fighting warriors, who are not entertaining them
but fighting a fight they themselves have not the courage to fight
they live in a true “fear and loathing” for they know nothing else
they are born into it, into a form of mock slavery
Their great victories are mocked in cartoon strips in the morning paper
they’re made into idiotic caricatures, and demonized publicly
by the enemy, and by those too numb to feel anymore what is real
and these great men are thrust into seclusion and hiding, for those who they fight for
inevitably turn their backs, and walk away whistling over their crooked
shoulders, as if they had never heard of their once shining hero
Such is the case with the greatest warrior of them all, one of the “True of the tribe”
one of the strangest men, strange because he was misunderstood, strange because
“They” said so, but he was not strange but so far ahead of these times
that he has truly only been glimpse by a select few, he is still just a flaming comet
streaking across this dim sky of American understanding, the fools standing, pointing
with mouths agape, saying “oooooh” and “aaaaah” a stream of drool heading for the chin
in this sense, has he been born? Had he died long ago; only knowing his
residual, reoccurring spirit? Is the past, present, and future all entwined in one existence that is eternity?
And what did we gather in the end—if there were such a thing in eternity’s roaming spirit—of this life and or the next? What knowledge did we gain, and what use is it, in this profane modern life?
And now, after these past two decades the great patriot is gone, but not forgotten.
In his words we find truth, as sharp as it was then, it is now, and I use it
to strike my enemy down, pierce his side, spill his black blood on this toxic ground
I take this quill and inkwell, and use it well, to rise above this wall, to climb this mountain
and waiting for me there, a magnificent, blue eyed snow leopard, pacing
it’s long tail flowing behind it, in a steady breeze, it’s hard to breath up here
and by its side, I see the figures of men, walking up to greet me
I’ve seen them all before, in a million pages, and a billion words
they are giants aloft in the clouds…they say nothing, moving
in silence, speaking a pure language – telepathic communion
They are thanking me for making the journey, they are welcoming me
to their cloud shrouded domain, for the near impossible journey
of living soul, where men die in failure of doubt, I sustained;
I carried on as they did in the brutal wind of skepticism
The fight they say, has just begun…
III
Raoul Duke lurking in the vast, vicious labyrinth of Vegas, Doctor Gonzo below
the lofty neon lights, whistles, bells, half naked, drunken nymphs dancing just inside
wild college boys, pretending to be men puking in the dark corridors of the American Nightmare
slot machine music, ringing loss after loss—good-bye mortgage; good-bye life savings
The convertible is beginning to deteriorate, red shark, white shark, white whale, Ahab! “Ah, get
out of the way, you filthy fucking swine! Can’t you see I’m trying to drive here.” meanwhile
the needle is pushing 70 mph along the strip, at that speed, all images at either side becomes one
multicolored stain, like a running Pollack painting, you can only hope no obliterated idiot wonders
blindly into the street…god what a mess that would be as million dollar hotels reach for a
panicked sky, and open their great mouths to receive hoards of desperate degenerates, too paranoid
to think straight, they are all just ready to start throwing their money into the corrupt cauldrons, the bottomless pits of despair and death, yes, that is what the are buying, large quantities of death for sale
Death of the American dream, death to great idealism, death to truth and freedom, death to reality
Vegas will allow you to cast reality aside for nights of raw fantasy and days of hangover doldrums
And the great patriot said, “ Jesus! Bad waves of paranoia, madness, fear and loathing, intolerable vibrations in this place. Get out! The weasels were closing in. I could smell the ugly brutes.”
It is time to go…
IV
Where to now great patriot? How is the universe treating you, or rather, how are you treating the universe? How was that last trip, that last “great leap of faith” as you liked to say?
Was it instant arrival into the unknown? Or were you jettisoned out into the cosmos, taking one last wild ride through all time, and through all space, finding that all you knew was true?
Does your spirit guard us now in our wavering folly today? Can you look down upon us and see how the fear has come flooding back in? Do you see how we’ve been reconditioned since your abrupt departure, great patriot?
Can you feel just how bad it’s gotten down here? God damn, if only you were here today, what a fight you’d be waging, but I assure you, no one blames you for leaving! No, in fact, they just christened the land of your birth “Gonzoville” The remaining warriors are ensuring your legend, old wiry hero, ole great echo of words through the unimaginable eternity of man:
Words are our weapon
hope our shield
life our victory’s
beautiful reward
truth our ultimate
goal…you had all
and you gave them to us
to fight on, and fight we do
in the name of
the great patriot,
Hunter S. Thompson
C. A. Oliver
2014 – 2016