Greetings from the Hill
82/88 S5/10 75%H 0726/1856
One of those slow days after prowling about
and internetting between two and four a.m.
Joe Bageant's essay, Princes of Gringolia,
festering in the brain, fat and gutless, rather
ironic that the Bitch will be President.
"Don't worry about it, oldman, you won't be
around to see the chaos, the despair, the
bankruptcies and foreclosures, the homeless,
the unemployed, closed factories, empty
office buildings, cars abandoned...Oh no,"
growls the madone, recalling scenes after
the riots and revolution long forgotten,
Harlem in "68 and the projects, Baltimore
barricaded, Watts burning, showdown Chicago,
CIA instigated student anarchy, and Tricky
didn't have eight years like the Weasle.
"Who the fuck remembers forty years ago
unless it's on History Channel," more grumbling.
Chores done; cats fed, plants watered, floors swept,
dishes done, Total milk and juice at the machine.
"Getting old sucks, can't run, lift boulders, carry
cement bags, don't even ride a bike...only have sex
at night," sighs the oldman living part time.
No fan, no breeze, the soap opera from Havana
at noon, a way back in radio time, what a life,
just recording the final days at home.
"Hofuckingho, that story, the true story
will never be told," laughed the alien visiting
with treats and some cash for the oldman.
A cuban mix and cold Molson on the front porch,
the local rags and gossip about the mayor's race,
inside dirt on crooked developers and payoffs
to the bureaufatcats, scalleywag bribes,
a cuban wife at City Hall knows all.
Blue skies and a southern breeze.
"Take care old man, be careful with that pot,
makes your legs..wobbly, Adios Amigo,"
just like in the old westerns.
A humid light breeze
in the florida keys,
under the Eternal Sun
on the Florida Horn.