JD cruised along the sidewinding two lane at a reasonably irresponsible pace. His illegal recreation vehicle rattled the occupants of his mind. The closer he edged to death the more disenchanted he felt about the meaning of life. He held no wish for any of it ending, grappling instead onto the deepest desire for it to begin.
JD wasn’t at all unspiritual. He was a full-on rainbow kid full of feathers and crystalline energy, he’d even been invited to attend a Sun Dance last year, he believed in the cosmical powers-that-be and felt their influence hugging his every turn.
But what was he really doing with his life?
Could a bedsheet in the wind be all that JD was here for?
JD thought no. It was time for him to embark on a bridge to somewhere. Had no clue where, or how, but he knew from the bowels of his gut that something had to give. Unless that was just the tacos.
JD knew how to live in the moment, how to give into the universe while cherishing the comfort he felt rambling along through his own inner workings, though he did find it peculiar that his internal monologue was always in third person.
*******
DJ was putting the finishing touches on converting the flimsy three-quarter greenhouse frame into a proper rez-style structure, you gotta work with what you got when you ain’t got much. He always excelled in precarious positions due to his innate ability to figure it out, somewhat of a superpower until he started running around with natives who all seem to possess a medicine pouch full of old Indian tricks. Just as he tamped the final crutch and settled into a moment of zen he
looked up to see the speedwagon bouncing across the field on three wheels worth of loose lugnuts.
Long hair and crunchy jam tunes flowed with the wind, the sandal-clad Jesus Dude stepped into the sunset spotlight, was it possibly possible that DJ had been out-hippied by some egoless altar? Doubtful, but it did encourage an instantaneous brotherhood that promised rogue detour throughout their simulcast adventure.
Wildly apparent that Farmer Greenthumb was too tame for an advanced level of nomadism, the wanderers combined forces and pockets to find themselves out of gas ten miles down the road with twice as many pennies as either normally carried.
*******
JD hadn’t sworn off money altogether like his new riding partner had. Aspired to, maybe, definitely thought highly of the low-income lifestyle and didn’t believe in compromising his own autonomy for the sake of a salary, but was willing to touch a polluted paycheck if an honest day’s handout fell into his lap.
JD’s cardboard read something fairly standard, the empty gas can at his feet insinuated an unsharpied agreement to flee town, within ten minutes a local gentleman shared concern that nobody out here’s ever gonna stop to help you out, so he started them off with a paradoxical fifty and away they went.
*******
DJ considered the complexities of cross-country travel when your home can’t be carried on your back. He preferred a sign of directionlessness, but found himself lost in the gray area of a newfound accomplice who also can’t afford the rising cost of capitalism. He definitely wasn’t going to ask anyone for cash, that was a given, but was giving him a gift of gas exempt from audit or an even deeper extraction from shallow pockets of crumpled receipts? He was totally fine with shotgunning a
gas-guzzler, he’d even pump it if that was the price of a free ride, so what difference did it make if his pitstop sponsor’s name wasn’t on the lease?
They’d accepted giftcards to facilitate the mass exodus of Standing Rock, another petroleum paradox but felt ethically prehensible as the donations poured in from supporters of the movement, folks who would be there if they could but couldn’t, so they shared some of that capital privilege that kept them tethered and were more than honored to help the frontline workers of a cause they believed in.
So then what was the problem here? Perhaps the lack of aligning our cause and effect, are we to be freedom fighters or a charity case, the only surefire solution to solving the world’s problems is to get up and do something, so maybe we’ll all feel better if we steer this convoy towards a brighter tomorrow.
But tonight we find our fellas on a Friday in Fargo, a neon moon lights up downtown and we might as well spread some unplugged propaganda, he might not sell his soul for a fiddle of gold but he’ll damn sure play you a song for a cigarette.
*******
JD didn’t start the fire. Cheesesteaks were burning and the crowd was turning. Seemed like a good place to post up.
JD had been playing guitar for few years as he found a voice for translating his own inward trajectory. When you’re plugged into the festival circuit long enough osmosis alone practically breeds induction into the traveling band of hippies.
His travelmate claimed keys, a harder sell on the street though he insists he’s manifested one before, luckily JD packs a shell and tucked in his acoustic bass for a backup plan.
JD called chords and covered the sidewalk with spectacle, dance party ensued as coed cuties made moves, windowshop philosophers stop in to discuss psychedelia, probably just the pants, a generous collection of singles flood the open case file, enough trash for a tankful and loose cigs to get them there.
Symbiotic gathering for brainwaves and sausage dogs, hope the new customers were worth the repeat setlist, musta done
alright seeing as how he handed out sandwiches to tonight’s entertainment, said they seemed like good people, not like the drunk Indians always trying to dig old food out of the garbage.
*******
DJ pondered the paraphernalia of industrial music, he’d sold out once in his life already, engineer for hire regardless of his belief in the creator, passionless projects to pay the bills while going broke on everything that meant anything at all. A low-budget production even way back then, though he still got strung out on the bottom-line every once in a while. Hadn’t touched the stuff in years, barely dabbled in colonized music when passing through, still had a sweet spot for deep pockets but it was pretty much all about Sun Dance songs nowadays.
The drum. The heartbeat of the Earth. The rhythm of our sacred Unci Maka. It engulfs your body and synchronizes you to her planetary pulse. Schumann resonates the cosmic bass. A worldwide harmony that the concrete world is dead set on drowning out, overcrowded dissonance of untuned amateurs who’ve convinced themselves to be savants but continuously prove to be much more the idiots.
These songs open up chakras and connect you to a more dependable navigator, especially when traversing broken time signatures, walking in prayer is the easiest way to get through it and hanging onto them initiates autopilot as they guide you home safe. There’s deep power in these songs, why else do you think they were made illegal, ban the language and prayer and debilitate a people who are clearly more connected to this land than us, so now trade the gift of alcoholism for disconnection from the Earth and prepare a blindfold generation to spread grievance of the drunk homeless Indians. And don’t even get him started on his food waste philosophies again.
*******
JD pulled off for a barefoot walk on the beach while his cohort dove further into the deep end, hillscaped lakeside
caused pause in the strict itinerary, neither's maiden meander and both knew how to chill impeccably. The other one took off in search of vittles, pizza was the plan, an often tossed leftover either stashed in the bush or mismade and left unsliced. And it’s just pizza. Customarily eaten cold, even for breakfast, sight unseen and non-refrigerated for days. One piece left is a tasty snack, an unopened box even better, but here this guy shows back up with a giant cardboard full of three whole pies, cooked no more than twenty seconds too long, no cutter aboard so they tore on in.
JD was ready to skedaddle but his advertising campaign hadn’t shown any returns, his projection of good faith wasn’t what this demographic wanted to hear, and neither was Green Jeans with the barefoot fingerpicking, so he pulled a sharpie from his full-size pocket and scribbled out a B-side.
*******
TRUMP 2020
God, Guns
and Freedom
*******
DJ applauded his contemporary as two minutes later he returned from an oversized pickup window with a crisp one hundred dollar bill, fucking ridiculous. Also got a tip that the Hells Angels were headed to Seattle to shut down the fully autonomous zone that had sprung up there amid the recent surge of unrest, thanks guy, think you just helped us settle on a destination for this fantastic voyage. Now we’ve solved the conflict of interest and somehow stepped it up a notch as we syphon fuel from the other side’s fire.
DJ had a Water Protector pal who had been in the CHAZ
since the beginning, had incredible stories of compassionate community that had accumulated organically once removed from the jurisdiction of overarching authoritarians. The Earth froths with resurgence upon the first removal of invasive rule,
now where’d he put that book about cooking up anarchy for dinner?
*******
JD wanted to stop in Bozeman on the way, maybe for a day or two, a set location on his list of must-sees and probably a good place to run lines for the new analog social network. A progressive enough mountain town to merit multiple street musicians and a pretty decent natural food store, he went in for some good old-fashioned consumerism while his back alley counterpart reflected on the direction of the dumpster.
JD had to admit he’d been outserved this round, Mister Fancy Pants returned with more than he could carry of the most bioavailable nutrition, vivid vegetables that had been in bins dedicated to zen and the art of food waste, a cornucopia of unspoiled compost at most bruised but perfectly compatible with the RV’s retro-activist kitchen. Then again for dinner he cruised the strip while JD blessed the streets with his good time antics and free-range vocabulary, walked up all smiles and strut with a handful of recovered takeouts and a single glance exchanged with a smoking hot skateboard dancer, JD’s words not his. Plus they still had pizza.
JD and the Salingers hit up the music shop down the drag, instruments not albums, played around but mainly got into a depthy discussion on activism and expanded worldviews with an old-timer traveling fella living the vanlife, he was more on the money end of the sliding scale, but way into what the boys were about and interested in life beyond the barricade.
JD chatted up the heady crystal hippie on the corner and got word that the Angels were a rumor, the nazis were the ones going out to agitate, meanwhile the copilot ran across a hitchhiking couple with a doggo, you know you’re dressed to impress when streetfolk offer you snacks. They just needed a hotel to recover from their own life story, had the moolah but no IDs, and neither did he, but JD did.
But why don’t you guys just hop in with us? We’re on our way to do some rad shit to save the free world, nearly had them
logged in but they were heading East, paths were crossing here but for a sliver of time, no parallel plotline for Raggedy Ann and Andy but two characters like them are sure to pop back up down the road. They also drew out a map to buried treasure.
*******
DJ found the pair fascinatingly familiar, drawn to their indescribable presence by a gravitational charisma of genuine self-actualization, they weren’t simply aware of their best self, they were owning it, they were what any sane person would aspire to be. Hitching for now, back to the van in a few months, you sure we can’t talk you into joining us?
They just came from Washington, they’d been sponging outside a dispensary and collected a recreational cocktail of leafy green medley then bopped over through Idaho, where there just so happened to be a Rainbow Gathering gathering and threats of profilers at state borders keeping out the riffraff, and somehow he got arrested for some alleged allegation, for like five days while she fended for herself through the rain without word from him, then when they caught up it was still storming and paranoia stashed the honeypot under the bridge while the young lovers huddlecuddled until a ride opened up and in all the thrill of extraction from the panhandle the last thing on their mind was the first thing on his.
DJ burned-in the satellite image of the most awesome geocache ever, an adult scavenger hunt with moderate risk outweighed by several grams of sweet reward. Get off of the interstate here, double back under the bridge, right there at the end of the concrete wall, up under those pine needles there, no a little over that way, just a little deeper, that’s it.
DJ pulled out the biggest small jar of the best good stuff and skipped all the way back to the RV, debated blazing one but both sides argued for removing themselves from Dodge at the edge of the legal limit. One exit down they partook for the first time the whole trip in a riverside escapade, DJ stumbled on a stoned rock that looked just like a mountainside sunrise with a technicolor rainbow, pretty psychedelic bro.
*******
JD woke refreshed and ready for activities, the new guy seemed born that way, it got a little dicey when they ran out of gas on a blind curve but a samaritan crazier than them went into beastmode and got them sorted out. Coulda been a sign, but so could the free refill, still felt charged up about getting into something when two hours out they got the call to abort mission. The autonomous zone had been raided, the news is assumed to only share a skewed story but they got word from boots on the ground. Don’t come, it’s a shit show here, only agents and infiltrators left, repeat, do not come.
*******
DJ took most advice into consideration with an unhealthy dose of sodium, but he trusted Water Protectors, at least the ones he trusted. The Rosebuddies, blessed to be a part of the tight-knit crew that didn’t lose itself in the urban sprawl of Oceti, a closed-circuit connection that can never be faked or rewritten, a built-in alliance and unspoken bond that seems unbreakable in the face of whichever of the various organized irresistibles they may happen to find themselves called.
DJ conceded his dream of autonomy and passed the map to his running mate, still a month out til Sun Dance so might as well stop into Water Protector Headquarters West, just in time for a sweat and a session but then the caravan’s gonna mosey on along solo. Hard to be sad when it was all so fun and both pretty sure that next time this will feel like just yesterday.
*******
“Hey brother, good to see you again, feels like just yesterday,” exclaims JD as he climbs out of his hatchback story.
“Hell yeah it does,” agreed DJ. “We’re interconnected me and you, welcome to UnSheltered Earth.”
“This place is so dope dude. I pulled in late last night off those sketchy directions you gave me, two miles down a dark dirt road on the rez was pretty accurate. I picked up that lime you needed too.”
“Word, come meet the crew,” DJ toured as the bustling hive stirred the morning coffee. “Yo, this is my buddy JD, you got Shaman, Mike, Critter, Spiff, Auntie Fa and Rocksy, she’s pretty much in charge just makes me do all the work.”
“You got that right, bout time to get to it, innit?” I jabbed.
Finally quiet enough to hear myself think, and here I thought I went on and on but these guys’ originality just wouldn’t quit.
Not that I have too much of anything to complain about these days, surrounded by agates and cute boys, who can cook. And the new guy brought a bagful of jars full of an eco-friendly hybrid, half natural remedy, half social lubricant, and half for unwinding the yoyos, what, it was a big bag.
Managed to eat pretty well too, always, plus I scored us a truckload of surplus donations from Pine Ridge where I help out a lot, mainly just a bunch of healthy shit, seven cases of granola and lentil chips and jasmine green tea and twenty pounds of crunchy croutons in case we get a salad spinner, our inventory only confined by a lack of structured settlement.
Wounded Knee really, that’s where I do most of my work, I’m just here visiting for summer vacation. A community still struggling with generational trauma handed down from the eponymous massacre that left an entire village in shambles, and then again in turmoil during the 1973 AIM occupation over insufferable reservation conditions. It might be easy to read about such a tragic situation but it damn sure ain’t easy to live there, broken families piled into bedroom floors, drugs and alcohol and violence dull the sense of one’s own agency.
I dream of one day building a community center and safe space for the children, maybe something like this thing. That’s part of DJ’s whole plan with this project, he might be as fit as a fiddle of gold but he can’t keep it up forever, his vision is of more people like me coming who also carry a parallel drive to reestablish their own community. He claims that after just a month of building these things anyone semi-capable can be as
knowledgeable about the process as he was when he started, rules most of us out but keep on dreaming. Other interested tribes can send crewmembers to train and ideally the folks who end up living here develop their own balance of work and play, constructing a social setting and building a foundation of home for your people is how it’s meant to be, and sharing the rich experience of living might even be a workshop people pay money to build.
It’s definitely less about filling your pockets out here, I don’t even think he’s got any, much more fulfilling to feel the sense of purpose and ability to do something about it with the exquisite simplicity of this whole project. I mean it’s a lot of work, a lot, but it’s the same easy steps the whole way through, no special tools or expert certifications and the bottom line doesn’t skyrocket as you top it all off. It’s virtually the most realistic Minecraft game on the free market, a fully immersive workout of all six senses wrapped neatly into an all-inclusive frontline retreat.
“Almost forget about all this hard work when you put it like that, almost,” JD reluctantly admits as he takes another coffee can of dirt from me, dumping it into the bottomless pit DJ has scrunched up on his tube chute, an unstitched roll of the same bag material for a continuously good time, then he tosses down the empty into the wheelbarrow as I’ve got a refill ready on deck. CG and the Shaman mixing a second load, Spiff screening clay while Auntie’s screening spliffs, a Creedence Clearwater montage expresses the pineal gland and conveys days gone by of getting it done.
Chords change as our cast crosses the bridge to set up tonight’s sweat, buttes and beauty for the rest of the tuned-in commute and realization that this is the life. This moment right here, this one, this is what makes living worth dying for.
*******
“It’s a good day for it,” echoed DJ, “What more beautiful day than today could I possibly wish for?”
“It’s not too windy?” asks JD.
“Nah, this it’n even that bad for out here, the fire should be fine where it’s at, the only tricky part is covering the lodge.
Layers of blankets and canvas that want to blow in the wind, but we gotta weave them all together into a patchwork capable of withstanding the elements from the other side. The trick is not to fight the breeze, see which way it’s blowing and adapt, we have to get it together no matter the weather so might as well develop tools and techniques over time that facilitate a smoother experience. A helper in the flow wants the wind to open the sails of each page, seemingly effortless as the prayer flags unfold and wrap themselves into a tight cocoon, but the effort was in the grasp of the moment. This way of life can seem tough out here on these windy plains, but each little step is within reach, and if you don’t get too caught up on what the end looks like you might find time to enjoy all of this.”
“What in the world kinda cockamamie bullstuff are you filling that kid’s head with now?” chirped Stickman, known also as a purveyor of round rocks and other fine stones but that character arc was already played out. “Don’t listen but to half the words this man tells you, he ain’t but the best firekeep this side of Antarctica, now could I possibly interest you in one of these hand-selected segments of ironwood?”
*******
JD has to admit that this place is pretty incredible, the whole thing, and all the people, hand-selected segments of a spectrum off any chart he’d been previously privy to, and he’d been around. He finds himself deeply invested in the most minor of details as he soaks in every second look. Stickman yammers on about the history and future of living in the now.
JD’s actively entranced by the nuance of the flickering flame as intentions click and he feels his perspective settle into the present tense.
*******
I couldn’t agree more so I settled for equal. Seven votes for the river officially overruled whatever other plans DJ had for this page. Gentle currents pull you along the sandy smooth bottom as buffalo berries and wild grapes dangle flashbacks of Eden uncaged, exotic grilled bolognas and golden bricks of government cheese sizzle in the sun and a crumpled picnic table should make a halfway decent door frame.
Then DJ lost his glasses to the water during a highstakes footrace with an adolescent shark, prayed a good one and fumbled through the rapids to find them circling his feet, one-armed bandit broke free but should be able to repair the disarmed situation with yet another piece of barbed wire, this pair’s only seen about twenty years worth of departed party pants float by.
Ring Thunder powwow, a small family gathering but big enough for Indian tacos. The Js and the Ds and Critter rode together but split up for a secret mission, thunder ringed the skyline as dry lightening blew across the heavens, sideways streaks frozen in place made headlights obsolete. We should get back to camp but Critter’s still out there, halfway down the never ending gravel road someone needs help, a kola seated on the shoulder, drunk or something, see if there's anything we can do... Oh shit, it’s Critter.
“I finally got me that rattlesnake,” he gruffs through the passenger window. Pinned to the ground under a three-can minicooler is the lucky victim, he grabs its tail and slings it a good one with a wild-eyed “Hiya” for extended measurement, lightening cracks the whip and curls it all up neatly into the cooler. He declines a ride back to camp as an unknown car pulls up and carts him off to market, the boys weewee all the way home and the next day’s recount reveals that two miles down the road CG asked to stop, “I really oughta check and make sure this thing’s dead.”
*******
“Well, I oughta know, ought’n I?” Mr Gitter defended.
“And you weren’t even there anyway, you were already off in
Warshington DC trying to free Leonard Peltier, why are you even still here?”
“Indian time,” I tossed the blanket excuse and made like a nascar turn.
“Without her though the rest of us really gotta step it up,”
postured DJ as he sunk into the RV’s couch for a snack and a smoke. “But we do have all those high school kids coming in for a few days, probably have this thing done by week’s end.”
“If it’s all the same to you boss,” spoke the Shaman, “I’m thinking I might take off for the days you’re flush with help, puberty never really was my thing.”
“Um, sure, hang on let me check, hey JD, you think we’ll be able to manage without Shaman’s help, oh yeah, huh. Yeah bud, I think we’ll be alright without you.”
“Here they come now,” announces JD, a four car pileup of repurposed supplies and newly manufactured donations that the junior seniors had diligently gathered, even managed a beat-up kitchen tent to slack off in. Eleven kids, nine of them girls, hardworking farm girls that put the football players to shame, takes a special kind of parent to trust their teenager to a rezful of dirty hippies, and an even specialer educator to take them.
Hottest days of the year, a hundred and three by noon, took sixteen of them to make up for me not being there, really pushed the workflow to the max and opened the bottlenecks, more wheelbarrows, got the same day’s row done but finished early enough for the old cold river and sweat routine. What a radical group of youth to share this way of life with, hopefully something they carry forward with them throughout their own exploration of inward-bound expansion. Nearly makes you want to open an adventure camp of free labor, that is until you remember that the chaperones can’t wait for the students to leave.
“Yeah I should be back sometime tonight if you can meet us at that creepy parking lot on the outskirts of town. Such an awesome and productive trip to DC, got to sing and drum on the Black Votes Matter stage, had a personal powwow with Bernie himself, even the district attorney in Leonard’s original
case was speaking about how the evidence just wasn’t there.
This has got to be the year that they finally admit they fucked up and release him, either that or it’s about time we take matters into our own hands and bust him out of there the old fashioned way.”
*******
JD mulls over the implications of political incarceration as he pulls into the seemingly abandoned pitstop on the edge of a long dark straightaway. It’s hard to imagine this goodtime gang committing themselves to something that would possibly harm anyone, yet he knows their war stories and watchlists, priorities of the state may outweigh the people but their toes have firmly dug a line in the sand pile. Active pacifists at best but still rather capable of gumming up the machine, enough of a nuisance to be worthy of unwarranted derailment under the laughable guise of securing the homeland.
JD reflects on the headlights in the rearview, they don’t make this empty lot in the middle of nowhere any less sketchy, somewhat wishing he had backed in as he sees two questions estimating his midsize.
*******
“Hey, you guys over there,” they shouted from beyond the blindside, DJ oblivious to anyone but a friend turned to face the powwow music, “I knew it, see I told you that was him, I’d recognize that grimey old hat anywhere.”
Can’t swing a dead snake around here without smacking a drummer. Relatives hop out to evacuate and roll up a hug, threads tighten on the star quilt as it puts itself together and another centerpiece snaps into place. Wait, that’s our bus, the boys hoop and holler and flag the parade down as I offload our platform to resume the recount.
“So then they wanted me to take one of the singers back to the tour bus for a pregame, so there we are, three puffs to the dragon and we see blue lights, fuck we’re getting busted, and
then more blue lights, definitely busted, so we surrender ourselves to the never getting outcome and realize that fuck no we’re not getting busted, it’s just the president, so we fall over ourselves in a fume of fury as we wave our end of the world signs like there ain’t no tomorrow, I think they called that guy Stickman or something dumb like that.”
It’s so good to be back down to Earthcamp, makes it way easier to get lost in the work out there when you have a place like this to come back to. This is what we’re fighting for, not to break off the key of an already defunct catastrophe, that’ll fall away on its own as we flip the switch into the next phase of enlightened existence. A more than monolithic step forward of archaic technology paves the way for a return to our roots, the geometry of our sacred egg born in rebellion of cataclysmic change, firequake resistant and bulletproof, and is this all you guys wrote while I was gone?
“Well hell, we got the window put in, didn’t we?” DJ
trickled through the slatview breezeway of a throne fit for a two-time outhouse-of-the-month winner. A prestigious pallet seussary built to obscure the hidden agenda of a crapshoot business plan while also offering ample unobstruction for stink-eyed surveillance, a waste product masterpiece entered through a recycled rez door complete with an upturned flag and everything, a virtue signal of distress alright.
Most everything out here is cobbled together with the invisible threads of cosmic collection. Mister McPlaidFace has a keen sense for catching breaks in the web as he laps up abundance wherever he steps his bare foot, well-acquainted with construction dumpsters and last minute turnoffs but more often it seems to just show up out here the day he needs it, and if it doesn’t then maybe today’s not that day. No money made in America-resistant doors here, or windows, or any of the other accouterments involved in primitive luxury, stacks of items whose purpose is unknown but sure to fit into the puzzle somewhere and a rather respectable pile of reclaimed barn wood, the good stuff, back when a wooden nickel was worth something. And all sawn by hand remember, really makes you
consider each cut as the clever procrastinator figures a way out of forcing a blueprint and lets the lumber speak for itself.
*******
“Wait. What’s going on? How are you to perceive this personified state of mind? A spellbound sorcery inhabits the rings of my overstory, careful what you wish for as long gone acorns grow a life of their own.
I still remember my seed sewing days, it was like the whole world was inside me waiting to explode into the whole world, every bit of my own evolution tightly wound among the inherited strands of my grandmother’s good looks. She was something alright, majestic, held space for the little ones while constantly dropping knowledge on our thick skulls. The rest of the outside community cherished her, she gave everything she had to provide a good life for all of us, even the earliest of the two-leggeds revered her with song and dance as they feasted around her dinner table.
Then the bad men came. They were different than the others. They looked at her lifetime through a microscope of mechanical infatuation, reduced her to a monetary figure in a material world and two by two they mowed down an entire generation of elders. Seemed to do it all with little thought of anyone but themselves, though somehow still a modicum of intention as the crosscut team committed a day’s hard labor for their offense.
We kept her memory alive as long as we possibly could, an outpouring of gratitude swept across the forest floor as we sacrificed ourselves to hang onto our roots, but eventually we were left to reassemble a resemblance of a fractured version of the only life we’d ever known. We did the best we could amid the waves of agricultural genocide that seemed determined to undermine everything we stood for, every onslaught of growth progressed our downfall as ancient wisdom was traded for antique furniture, my own death song rattled the canopy as the flanneled calvary tred heavily across the timberland.
Mindless expansion of engineered marvels by marbleless egomaniacs promised a more efficient millwork. With today’s technology of terror the soldiers need not second guess their authority, equipped with the tools to shred through a faceless population limb by limb and home in time for takeout. Who cares if they inadvertently remove a vital organ in the process, ScienceMan has his knee on an iron lung, damaged collateral left breathless in the street. The lack of forethought required to continuously convert ecology into economy has perpetrated the perpetuation of this crumbling cookie-cutter society, one incapable of even sheltering its own from the inevitable fallout.
Efficient indeed.
Unaware about the true cost of living, the printed pulp emphasizes the rising price of logging receipts as the settler descended do-it-yourselfers complain of the costly overhead extracted to ecocide an entire village, so tell me again how many scraps of paper a planet borrowed from our children is worth.”
*******
“Good one,” DJ raved about Critter’s onomatopoeiatic performance, “I know we waste fewer scraps out here by not working near as smart as they did.”
“Or as hard,” I poked from my boycott of the mandatory union safety meeting, “Always careful, never safe. I’ll take a break when I die, which I’ve conveniently scheduled for right after this wheelbarrow load if you boys don’t help me sling it up there.”
“What better day than today?” mumbled DJ.
“Your lo-fi worksite ain’t too good at keeping your secrets Mister Grown-Man Pants, now get your ass up there and I’m gonna zing you a real good one.”
*******
JD marveled at the cohortic charisma of his newfound dirtbag buddies. Unassuming covers with a depth of character
worthy of words intangible to this author, the best he could do was co-host for a few pages and stretch JD’s last sentence to the end of the chapter.