The Homesteader’s Revolt
I’m a kamikaze of vanilla kerosene suspended between the mezzanine
of lunacy and lucidity,
tripping on the cord between now and infinity.
⬤ ⬤ ⬤
I’m tired of reaping the wheat. I’m tired of milking the cows. This farm is getting old. But I don’t want the city, either, because I’m tired of pressing the buttons. I’m tired of obeying the beeps. I am tired of bowing to cameras and chasing the code-wrapped carrots in front of me. I want to break free and escape the factory, to shun all things labyrinthian, to rip off my nametag and jump over the cubicle walls like an Olympian. Isn’t it time I grab the crown and take back the throne, to feel the wonder of life again?
Why can’t I just buy a creeper van, shine its dull edges, furnish it with gaudy pillows, and roam the land like a nomadic hippie, sporting a tantalizingly tan glow and wearing clothes that are more like misplaced thongs than clothes? A thong over my chest. A thong over my breast. A thong over my bum and there we go, I’m done! I’m an Avatar now; look at my blue freckles and freak out.
I’ll be a statuesque athlete adorned in the ripples of gossamer musculature, emitting warmer vibes than a supermodel baking cookies in the womb of an active volcano. I’ll travel the world and wander its districts, shadows and secrets with my trusty cocoa patina and my elastic integumentary system, a bipedal megamind set out to binge on the liquor of light, the aquatic wine, the addictive serum of sand on the beaches of the universe, whether they be immersed in the tangibility of Earth or they be snowed in the syrup of stars, blinged up by the cherry blood of the booming sun.
I’ll spend my life overdosing on raw ambrosia (mangos and mangos, and that means more mangos), beach-bumming to the max with a such a juicy sense of self-confidence it’s thicker than the thickest wax, living my little tropical life without a single tax.
My future pet lizard, whose name shall be Eliza, will be my micro-captain of the gypsy ship as we sail the shores of the USA, collecting memories and finding friends and changing the world along the way. I’ll make my money by selling sunshine and auctioning off silver-lined clouds – in other words, I’ll sell medical marijuana, and it’ll grow like – heh, wait for it – weeds in the front passenger seat, and I’ll make sure never to be too obvious about my business when passing through illegal states. Which means we’ll just have to put on a pat of bloodless rouge, the color of bland pudding, so we don’t look too emblazoned with the physical phosphorescence of health that the faithful shamans of Mary Jane emit. We need to look like the pale clones we’re trying to be, so we’re more like mute marionettes with little to no life in their cheeks, dead enough to dandy the pleasures of the police. And when we’re past their boobytrap of anti-marijuana madness, we’ll wipe the flowerless flour off our freakishly healthy faces and go back to being butt-kicking gorillas with our gorgeous growl of swank.
My dedicated substitute doggo will fancy a tight-knit captain’s cap, official as can be and her territory will be the front passenger seat, functioning as guardian of the greenies, queen of the joints.
As for me, I’ll be a travelling apothecary advocating for peace and laying down life satisfaction like butter on the benighted face of mankind. Our evenings will be spent getting sucked into the abyss of a mandarin sunset and sipping watermelon juice. Our mornings will be spent driving to the next beach and eating breakfast on the scintillating sand, then running through the water like scissors through a sheet of dancing turquoise. And our afternoons? We’ll be hopping in the healing haze of cashmere kush, lollygagging in the laze of the afternoon hush. And during the nights, we’ll be sung to sleep by the howl of owls and the electric milk of moonlight, young enough to feel the fire brewing in our lungs but old enough to use it like the dragons do.