Of course my parents have despaired of the possibility of grandchildren by me; but I have this fantasy of--through some odd misplacement of semen--producing a secret offspring who, like some rival bastard duke of old, finds his way to power. No one had expected anything of a fag like me; yet who is this dark corporate figure, up from the shadows, buying phone companies and satellites?

Ruthless, brooding on the randomness of his beginning, he ascends. He has no home, and the cities of the world spin like a roulette wheel in his mind. A canny player, he remains aloof.

At last, in the lonely perfection of a billionaire, he is walking some city street at night, anonymous by buildings he has financed, solitary through the hum of electricity he owns. He comes to a river which reflects a white and sheeny skyline. He sits down on a bench beside me.

I have been wandering like a disenfranchised song along the river, the polluted and lyrical waters of--what difference does it make what city? When he sits down I feel an unbearable weight that is also whimsical, a titanic flirtation, cruisiness for a continent. In reflected dimness I see that my son is handsome and unplumbably sad.

Derrick's Trip - Bastard