Coma

How long was your coma? Mine was forty-two years long. The answers were back there. Behind me. Waiting for me to wake up, caught up, and do something. Waiting for me to do the things I knew were right in 1968 when I was fifteen years old. I am that man now. The one I thought I was the year Elvis did his Comeback Special. Today, I am that man. Doing those things that were right back then. Those things are still right now. It is just the stuff in between that screwed things up as bad as they are now.

Things were screwed up back then too. It just would have been easier if we did what we said we were going to do back then. Those things we have to do now. The tree hugging, fuck the politicians and the machine in Washington, and who the fuck needs war things that had kids born under the red, white, and blue burn the colors in front of their parents, teachers, leaders, cops and robbers, and whoever the heck else said to just shut up and color. Those things we started and then let fizzle once we got laid regular and got a real job that paid real money.

Then they threw money at us. Money out there. On Wall Street. In Wal-Mart. They put our backs up against the wall and hit us right in our wallets. Jeans got tighter and then looser and more designer. Flowers went from in our hair to out there in those parks where bums slept at night and drugs oozed like memories that haunted us. Haunted us with “there but the grace of god” bullshit and “shit it just might be easier in those parks” conflict of purpose and place and gotta get to work cause the bills ain’t gonna pay themselves justifications. They threw money at the problem and the problem was us and the problem went away. Into a sugar and credit card induced coma that kissed the 70s hello and raped the planet with a vengeance. It never looked back. We sleep walked the rest of the century and heard Mayan whispers of a wake up call that sounded a lot like Abbie Hoffman, the Momma and Papas, and Dylan at his best. We opened our eyes and voted for a black man that felt like we did at our best. He was beat up and sent to his room with the threat of no dessert after one term.

Now the screaming has started. Luckily we are screaming louder than the idiots who want to pretend we didn’t fall asleep at the switch. Enough of us are screaming inside where we woke up first and realize that Rip Van Winkle ain’t that far from the truth. We took our eyes off the ball, let them keep their fingers on the button, and now we have to pay the piper. Peace, love, dove, motherfuckers. We got things to do. Things that feel like 1968. Only this time I will do them, am doing them, and don’t fucking care who likes it or who doesn’t. My coma was forty-two years long. My hair didn’t survive the trip but I like the whole shaved head, beard, kinda look. Maybe I should have done that in 1968. Oh, well. Better late than never.