California Blues Part 1

One of those people that says California isn't what it used to be well it wasn't what it used to be 2 years ago when the sun grabbed you by the shirt, marched you up the hillside, showed you a golden city all lit up fluorescent and even a little grainy like in all the films you watched prior to reversing out of a driveway some gloomy cold November tearing up for love left behind 'cept You weren't here for films though or because the sun spoke in that patronizing way ya came for an idea much older from a time when you'd hack your way through brush and wilderness and a few of the ancient Other that were living peacefully along your dirt dragged wretched path, all scorched earth till you saw the coastline like God had poured a bath just for you perhaps the most intense destination on-world promises of wild, explicitly American freedom like no other living in a sun tan on the other side of Jupiter's rings you made it to an oasis all right, an oasis of imagination that stretched as far back into memory as childhood Disney castle the Boy Meets World of Topanga becoming the name of the canyon running past the window with glorious rock slides a smoky floating Lost World chance Extraterrestrial ULTRAterrestrial extraoccidental extraluminary land, puzzle city stretched to multinational corporate city stretched to arabian prince investment beach bum paradox city where the ocean chokes up gurgggwoosh woosh agggrruuuugle awrooosh fizzleeeee wroosh a dying song for it's own necropolis below and you wonder if those trash islands are the new Pangaea grouping, floating solidifying into crust rock plastic magma too sharp to make landfall but perfect for a super villain's secret sex dungeon where political elites fly in on the weekends labeled 'golf trips to Phoenix' according to their office aides holding open the ledger or spreadsheet Google calendar who would be invited were it not for their purpose as a weekly fix when the Senator is not taking 'golf trips to Phoenix' we gotta get out of this place, if it's the last thing we ever do your mind hums Eric Burdon's 1965 tune as the traffic converges in a flooded blood clot panic as you think earthquake here? while I'm stuck on this overpass? sweaty brow and red taillights all the way up and down Topanga Boy Meets World canyon (isn't this the shortcut?) girl there's a better life for me and you Time how long have you been cryogenically frozen by the riddle of a sphinx and the sitar's one note drone She looks over at you and says I'm lonely, Oh TIME, you're not lonely are you? How's it going to be with the earth spinning all these people around and we're just sitting under a palm without a word thinking "Am I lonely or do I just not like humanity?" it's hard to paint resentment when it's not your own but you know deep down all the working and getting-to-here-from-here and the nothing's ever good enough for the people on the hilltop looking down upon the fluorescent underclass with little Canon zoom monocles half bored half sedative and the alienating feeling of insignificance amongst a cosmos of couple million straining stars schmoozing with the sun and moons if only they'd like your selfie or follow-back the closeness dope, that dropout glazedover technodope, would pulse through you like high-frequency trading making billionaires in one single day; all of that zapped and zapping until you're a floating avatar that can''t explain when or how or what you've lost only that sunstroke lethargic crack just seems to become wider the more you sit cross-legged yoga breathing in and out the stench of rotting people tent city people the skid row possibilities of falling into the thigh-gap between everyone's more pressing socially engineered performance agenda "For the poor, politics seem like a more distant phenomenon and less pressing" less depressing more hopeful realities chase the dragon's tail to the oasis which salt water brined into the simulated spectral canyon that you thought you were standing triumphantly before but are now agasp crawling on hands and knees clutching sand dune drifty bones blistering chapped almost not even a person but a shape form a mirage trying to fit into the land that so does not want you to be here right now can you please get out, get out, just get out from under this (if you can) and they say the west coast is known for being bleached, so bleach the bleach-blonde haired fascists spray a smog mist around the perimeter of this glaring reality, disinfecting everything and it's true the bleach kills everything you love hold true had a mind to avoid making it all white bright shiny new smelling that chemical clean smell of hospital - nothing survived California - our California - the kale weeping it's resilience away cooked down it's woody life given up dry like the drought three long showers per day helped along in the accelerationist's wet dream of slippery midnights a million hours lost to the spinning beach ball of the Four- Oh- Five right lane collisions into bubbled strangers fantasizing their own car chase scene where roll-bars are optional finance now sign and drive sales event helicopter whirring as the searchlights beam in windows and under stairs till no shadow in the night is salvaged no tupperware for this one, it's what you ordered; Splitsville, USA with a side of apple pie for the road? "This just ain't your scene, mannnnnn" says the Hollywood fatalism in it's typical long drawn out laziness These hills used to be full of it now there's just a ghost town inside the souls of these floppy hatted hipsters weathered worn but still AWESOME, always AMAZED flipping off then on invisible financial planners AHAHAHAHAHAAAHA-WIPEOUT
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