'Hoola Hoppin' Hallejulah

A great white heron passed under the moon just before dawn.  Another morning in Paradise and the courage to drive on, or at least to the pump.  But wait.    

Pressing issues overslept between all night movies and Paid for Programs, secretly wrapped in drive-through Mc Muffins and see through napkins. If only we could get it, whatever the hell it is to own, steal, lend, bend the market, slip a fid, cash in, move to Dubai, Maine or whatever. One man’s floozy is another’s gift certificate.

America watches the screen for the prize night after night; boinked, mesmerized,, the hooting pundits shine themselves, berating, amending, frivolous laughter, a chewing unending sound byte staring down their own  cameras. The screw that might turn the tide, the real meaning of ID and the subservience of intellect, the jokester, the fool, tucked carefully between a Mercedes, cologne, the drama of drugs to keep it up, cool it down, pad the calamity, thin the mind and belly for the price of a gallon.  Intramuscular please, a song to remember, the, the election up for grabs depending upon whose hand slips up America’s skirt at the moment.

“Good Fences mean good neighbors.”  Who said that?  That integrity basked in towers and long reflecting pools between Lincoln and Washington.  If we just stood on that faithful hill, that braved spaciousness we own, or at least claim, but alas the Island in Maine has loosed the bad meat in Texas, the crippled, the superlative, the world grabbing hustlers who sell guns, say no, who play the Star Spangled Banner on their heart pumps and wave judiciously. .

TVs blink somewhere between aghast, awe and chest thumping; the children awash in flash, ready or not, all in line for the next rocket, the bombed out skulls that cooked them.  Tampons rule, a little Viagra in the medicine chest, the polar bear leaps for a chunk of ice, college students stare down dim unemployment halls, geezers roll despairing eyes and the gunning down of Kennedys, MLK, is but an echo in our hearts.
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Real life drama flashes the screen.  Who’s real?  Who’s not?  Step up to the mike.  Let’s hear the cracked tenor kid, the soprano squirrel.  Beat each other senseless with bamboo sticks on a strange rehearsed island.  Click it.  Text it, phone it, bleed on the floor, gamble the rest, fall in love with your own particular discontent.  A cure?

Ask them.  They talk about change.  Watch the candidates march the stage from Oshkosh to Hawaii, the University of Ding Bunny to the Pre-School of Lulu—They are freedom.  You know.  Like that.  Wasn’t it the famous astronaut Edgar Mitchell who said, that one of the first things you discover when you enter outer space, “God is not up.”  
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