mk700c

"hey world! Yes, we are as ignorant as we look."

I live in a bright blue speck, with dreadlocks and dykes mixing about with the university Mass-holes who come from blue blood in both relevant senses of the word.

Last night as a town we watched our mitten turn pink and red, county by county, as the KKK voted in the West, and the pinky, and the thumb. Our town, with its big, black bodyguard to the East waited a bit before unleashing its blue-hot-precinct reports and slipping this mitten over the big, strong hand of sanity-compassion-competence.

The country, however, was already red. We lobbed our seventeen at a wavering pile of loosely stacked irrelevance, and misshapen intentions, mal-shapen beliefs.

I fell asleep on the breasts of a beatnik, but I did not dream about beats, or breasts.

This morning I walked out onto my blue street, which just yesterday had given me a fall air of crisp hope. Clusters were about getting out the vote, and once I got in line a feeling of neighborhood came over me, "Al, good to see you ... how've you been ... come by the house." I had not known until yesterday that "tight knit" was a term that applied to a town these days.

This morning I walked out onto my blue street, which just every-other-day-I-can-remember had been teeming with the dreadlocks, and the dykes, and the Democrats.

This morning I walked out into a blue funeral. The farmers market on the corner sold benches, but no pies today, no doughnuts, no cider.

It must just be the cold.

The funeral, however, spread to the indoors. There were mourners in my morning coffee shop instead of the usual marauding toddlers and their lawyer-moms on the way to check-yer-kid.

What were they mourning? The rainbow flag on the Coalition of the same color scheme was at half-mast. The eyes of the town, they eyes of the bell tower that plays New Order, the eyes of my favorite barista with the eyelashes of fire told me that they were sad for the same reason I was.

I however, did not know what it was that bothered me; I still dont know what craw is in my stuck. Our new, and old, President is certainly the root of this torture-oak, but this town wont let a tree get it down, after all this is tree town. The brick that sits on my face is that we put him there, we made the decision, but we is not I, we is not us. The brick that has been tossed, and I cant seem to duck, is the notion that there are more ignorant people in my home than I had once guessed, and Ive always assumed a bounty of boobs.

The brick thats tied to my neck is that the family I realized on November 2nd, I had to see again so soon, at a funeral. So as I sit here in the back pew, watching this new family hang their heads in a shared shame they did not earn, I have a decision to make.

Do I sit here and pout? Do I walk the isle to bow below the cross and pay my respects to a corpse thats only body was ever a soul? Do I head across the street, across the river to a different church, more free, where the homos are having a wedding in the colour white?

Or, do I grab my blue, blue neighbors and shove that casket down the stairs and into the street?

Freedom eh.