A Marxist Coup (Not the good kind)

On the fringes of downtown Oakland, close enough to the freeway, my window when its open in the afternoon, more often weekdays, provides a steady soundtrack of traffic, the sounds of people moving along, usually one constant, dissonant noise like a gravelly river flowing outward, right on by. Most times, there isn't one noise separated from another. Unless there's a big block engine there somewhere, or a Harley rustles by or maybe a big rig, a tow truck, but more than likely I don't notice a thing unless I'm looking outside.
What I notice more than anything, is when someone is blaring tunes with their windows down, bumping bass vibrating the walls sometimes, a guitar solo now and then, or Top 40 whathaveyou, they pass and then they're gone. Most of the time, they are faceless and only leave a trace of exhaust. But once in awhile, there is a distinction. A Peach colored Buick Regal on 20s blasting "Cutie Pie" by One Way or maybe a rusted Dodge Colt taking it to the limit with Van Halen's "Right Now" through stock speakers from 1991, proudly and sadly on a horribly consistent classic rock station. So the songs move by fast, sometimes stopping at a red light on the corner, allowing me to jam out or laugh my face off, as in the latter example, for an elongated moment or two.

Yesterday, late afternoon rush, lots of cars and trucks going home, after some Mac Dre caused me to pause and momentarily tolerate life, something else came along to assault rather than caress my brain. It was louder than anything else on the street. It was stopped at the light before I could configure who it was or why.
Richard Marx, not Groucho or Karl, the one I don't like so much, with his sappy shitsong from decades back, still staining the airwaves, probably on an easy listening station, "For a smooth ride home, here is a classic..."
I felt like it went on longer than necessary, a lingering red light or maybe they were trying to fucking park, while blasting, "Wherever you go, whatever you do, I will be right here waiting for you..." You may remember this song from a recent dentist visit or perhaps some memory of being in a car with a lame, white relative in 1989. It was so loud and so goddamn strange, completely overpowering the music I had on at a low volume, I had to take a look out the window and see who this motherfucker was. For a slight moment I hesitated my generalization, my blind hatred at a stranger, after all bad music is funny sometimes, right?
Fucking wrong. Not only is that rotting cheese unacceptable in any capacity but sure as shit, the culprit was right there waiting for me, a Prius and a ponytail were involved and I just had to shake my head and throw up a middle finger, trying to laugh, trying not to puke, I think I won the battle because it ended up being kind of funny. The light changed finally and the dickhead moved along, as did Richard Marx.

And I didn't feel bad at all about blind hatred or anything else. I went back to listening to Sabbath, turning it up now as loud as it could go. No more invasions today, I thought. I listened to "Snowblind" and lit up a blunt. And kept that window open for the rest of the day.

ghettoblasters

Migration is a funny thing, it’s the story of the world and we’re no different. For reasons known and unknown, and always sung about, some people had to walk a long way or else hitch a ride, Durango, Guerrero, Michoacan, Colorado, Poland, Colombia, Indiana, Riverside, most were forced in one way or another or else trampled, shackled, fucked and deep fried for an obese god. They keep telling me what's up, getting their stories wrong, fucking up the corroboration. Mix your blood in the sand and the train’s waiting the very next day, a new slab of something to defend to the death. Factory job or whatever the fuck. A big score up in Richmond then another exile east because west you'd drown in that cold Pacific. And then if the concrete dries it loses its urgency, it’s off to the store and she never came back, or hitchhiking, hand baskets, greyhound never wins the race, bright lights, dim bulbs, big city of abandonment and death, it’s all about migration and will always be from here on out.

A seasonal shift now, end of time again, big deals coming down to strangle and scram. I'm not talking about baseball, no not at all. I'm not thinking of pretending to be lost in a park, in the neighborhood, where the fuck did Desiree go? I remember 2 houses from the corner, where the cops beat Johnny Morales half to death. I have to move along, momentarily, where she took an ice pick to the sky and let it all come down.

I'm running scared, as the song goes, but not from anyone I know. I have to go out to the desert and knee cap my cousin because he's letting a bad element eat away my grandmother's house, food, beer, cleaning supplies, these cocksuckers are worse than the roaches. You know, sometimes it's decent to have a snake in the grass or tarantulas in the garden because they eat the rats and roaches, and if your predators get outta hand, there are always more. Owls and bobcats and sawed off shot guns, no serial, bury it out by where grandma used to take you on walks, explaining what shit was and why.

So a mission is set, a loose plan to fuck people up. If it's reckless or good, I won't know for awhile. But it won't be the same without strong drink. Goddamn this ordinary ride. I think if the truth is what they say then I'll have to tell the same tale. Whispers or screams, someone's gonna have to hear it. Even if the window opens for a clean, guttural shut the fuck up over there. Then, my work will be done for a little while.