When the Levee Breaks

It’s 1:40am in the morning the night that Donald Trump won the election. The presidential candidate that spewed nothing but historical hate speech and bigoted hate speech through his entire presidential campaign.
“It’s a joke,” they said.
Unless you’re gay.
Unless you’re Muslim.
Unless you' have a real  issue of where we're headed and contemplating it just gives you a heart ache and a head ache to think of it.
Unless you’re Latino.
“I just got out of this prison cell,” Mercury said, we’re all singing now.
Meet somebody to love.
Meet somebody to love. 

It’s hard when you grew up on love and compassion for the conditions for others.
Is it?
What a time to be American, they all said.
What a day to get fired from your shit seasonal job.
Unless you couldn’t handle it.
David Bowie knew the pressure. 

It’s a terror knowing what this world is about. 

Will tomorrow give us a clue what this world is about?

No.
There’s better things out there than this. There has to be.
Watching good friends scream “let me out.” How many do you know, do you listen?

Not enough. 

There is never enough.
It’s hard being told that the world is rainbows and compromises, and butterflies, and that’s all. Sadly millions and missed targets will come into play.
What has happened in the last twenty four hours?
Beer and pretending that what we’ve let happened isn’t happening happen.
The mother is crying.
You have the power.

What power?

The power of voodoo.
Who do?

You do?

You do.

Back to the Magic Tree House

I remember riding on the backs of beautifully spirited boys motor bicycles. It was India, it was Rishikesh. The banks of the River Ganga to our right, the highway soared up high into the vibrantly green mountainside.

I remember seeing temples both below us and up above. On our way 20 miles north for a few bottles of that Old Monk, the finest of Indian rums to make the dry holy city of Rishikesh a little wet for the evening.
Popped off the back of his bike and all the town boys starred like the the town boys did no matter where I was.
On our way back with the booze I remember the motor bike boy yelling as we turned the corner before Rishikesh, “Hide the bottles, no fines for me today.” We spent the rest of the evening in the magical tree house laid next to the river. We drank till the sound of the monkey’s didn’t spook us anymore. We drank till we dipped in the beloved river of Ganga under the moonlight on that warm summer night and become old monks ourselves losing count of how many times we submerged under the cool flowing waters.

I remember it like was a dream from yesterday. Was it? No, I have the scars and glowing memory of being there.

Now I’m awake and worn in the ends of some middle of nowhere in Alaska. The days are blurred but now with less hash and less Old Monk. Beer turns bitter and the whiskey makes you angry. From up here you see all the things come and go everywhere else. Impermanence use to feel so much more uplifting. Yet still there is no where else I’d rather be. Everywhere else down there in the ‘lower’ states seems rotten, crude, and withered beyond its stretching capacity.

Still there is no where I’d rather be than here just trying to get back there. To my land of milk and honey and beautiful things. Of bright glowing wander and mystery.
Still there is no where I’d rather be than here. Just wanting to get back to there. 

AK 2

Sometimes you’re wake up and you’re 23 years old. How many of those 23 year olds wake up middle of fucking no where Alaska. Literally, most people have never heard of where you are and if they have it’s because they want to fuck under the ‘aurora’ northern lights to produce the most intelligent son. And this in only the 2nd time you've woken in the middle of nowhere Alaska, just more north this time.
It’s 6 degrees on the reg, 35 is a treat in disguise. Everything re-awakens as if it were Spring, but Winter hasn’t even begun. The fresh snow melts like the ravens are returning in mass.
This is why we’re all so confused here. Stuck between hibernation and rutting season. +2 Alaskan points if you know what rutting season even means. You’re guess it bout right. The fiddle feels your frustration. 35 isn’t even the beginning of what’s grown before in these dead months, or what’s to come. Hallelujah bye and bye you won’t be able to fly away. Just let the next one buy you a brew to see how far down they have to wait for the next, you don’t even ask them to fall in line.
That touch on every girls waist, the unwanted one but not nudged away one, that each has felt and known, but who doesn’t like a free beer kind. The ones who offer, ‘I just want to buy you a beer’ is the first line but the true intentions are hidden under that newly frozen snow line.
First time I met you it wounded my heart. 
The banjo is the only thing that makes us feel the valued few much of anything.
Look at these nails I carry on my hand. Kept up with intention.
Gospel sounds more real in the dead degrees. Like sick loving lines.
I was serious before your attention and intentions broke and became clear. Like ice with all the fish trapped under there.