I spend my days reading Chinese science fiction. Between the real world and the orphan master’s son. I keep checking that there’s one in the chamber. Cause the real world leaves me throwing up and wishing it was done. Everybody’s got a reason to march, but the Fascists in the White House only laugh and pull another trigger. We all thought this was gonna be a teachable moment. But it only leaves us looking at Walmart marble head stones. And it’s time that we might reconsider, that we might really need a gun. Me too baby! You should tell them about the time I threw you down the stairs. It wasn’t inappropriate touching. It was attempted murder. No need to pick me out of a line up. I admit I was the one. Now we’re back! No longer theoretical conversations about governmental date rape. This is a better brand of duct tape and a rubber ball of rage. They said clean would make it better but I miss being filthy and the cover it provides. From the fact, I’m full of demons and they’re screaming inside. I don’t think quantum physics can save us. I’ve seen the Himalayan monks in (dembushay) watching digital porn on their enlightenment phones. Here in Ensenada, there’s bathtub meth and bathtub fentanyl. Everybody wants a bath, but no one’s getting clean. Beautiful, hippy, Afrikaner surfers waxing nostalgic about apartheid while the baboons steal my dinner from a room in Pringle bay. Me too, she said. ISIS slavery and genital mutilation and now we are here in a permanent cinder block refugee camp reading about sexual harassment on the executive level of a hipster Portland advertising agency. The cartels are so happy about legal weed in California that for 10 minutes they stop the slaughter and rape of the Juarez campaneros then they quit laughing and went back to stuffing bodies in 50 barrel drums. Perth used to be far enough. Now there’s a killing outside the window next to the beautiful gay boys and their vegan raw cheesecakes. The Kurdish rocker in the grand bazaar next to the blue mosque selling camel bone prayer beads under the alias of dead members of the New York Dolls. Can I get an amen for Johnny Thunder? Can I get an amen for Dee Dee Ramone? Can I get an amen Joe Strummer? If they could only see us now. I saw the Banksy murals on the Sharon security wall outside Jerusalem and I wonder if the arts gonna be any good when they build a copy at the Tecate’ plaza. I was hoping for a wall along the Mason-Dixon Line. But my friend Patterson said we’d be in trouble if Alabama withholds a couple of singers that could actually have some fucking soul. Because very little I hear these days has very little fucking soul. And if I could only find mine, I would sing to the sweet baby Dharma Jesus riding his elephant through the Navajo Res. I’d sing to my wife and children, so maybe they can understand just how much I love them and I’m sorry that I failed them and left a world of nasty racist monsters killing kids from St. Louis to Mosul to Bangladesh with impunity. Cops and Buddhist monks, it’s a scary world when you can’t tell the difference from the pigs and the priests. But hey, there’s a Jam Band covering another version of The Weight with mandolins and pretty girls with washboards and if we can’t have soul at least we have Lakota medicine songs sung by Rocky Mountain white kids and 20 different versions of the Black Crowes and 30 different bands playing from the Grateful Dead book as opposed to 30 virgins sacrificed to Lester Bangs. Or Haruki Murakami reciting the Book of the Dead in song. Where in God’s name did I put my soul? I’d like to give it to you baby, so you could hold it and keep it safe for a while, while I go back to searching for my sugar smacks.