Ugly American Road Trip 2011
by Fred R Kane
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Rated "PG" by the Author.
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Political observation on the Arab Spring (Egypt in particular)
Suzie got her rocks off, and I’m getting tired.
Been driving all night- it’s what we do when I’m wired.
White noise on the radio is boring me to tears
(it’s been the same shit- the last forty-two years)
then, an angel breaks the noise out from digital space-
with a word prompting change in a far away place.
It seems, the virus caught a wave, and my world is going. Mad
transition returns- just waiting to be had. Just waiting to be had
somewhere in an alien land.
Blood written in vermillion sand
binds a code. Now the word has broken,
and shapes are shifting as the spell is spoken.
Bible Belt hides the devil on the radio.
We give it a listen while we’re doing what we know
with wicked in our eye, and a preacher in our ear.
You know, the bugs on the glass are boring me to tears.
Suzie keeps it up, though I’m spent on reflection.
Still, she’s got my gun, and it’s passing inspection,
but my heart just ain’t in it ‘cause the world has gone mad
again: Apocalypse just waiting to be had. Just waiting to be had.
We search for a place to score:
a gas station on an alien shore,
someplace to put this real to bed,
and get my favorite fantasy back in my head.
God loves a pink Cadillac
God loves a fat green stack
God loves what’s tight, and a rack
God loves how we carry own so much-
he’s callin’ us home.
She counts the stolen wallets and she palms the I Ds-
Suzie smiles at the credit card possibilities.
This last chance station is now a self serve-
get us a tank full of gas and we’ll go straighten some curves.
She’s shot gun- naked; I’m one hand on the wheel-
the other’s on the carpet: red, wet to the feel.
I pull the ride over ‘cause she’s grinding my gears,
and life behind glass is boring me to tears. Boring me to tears.
Somewhere there’s a place to crash
an alien dive- open only to cash-
some place to put our drama to bed
and kill a canticle I can’t get out of my head.
I dream of poppy fields off a Fort Knox road:
just the place to die after dropping my load.
Lose them ruby slippers, girl. Why? Just because.
Why go wishing for Kansas when
there’s no place like Oz?