Close to high noon in Dab City U.S.A.
Still seeking shade from the Rocky Mountain sun, still at the base of the All-American flagpost, still in the very center front of Union Station, still turned all upside down everything. The same old Union Station, or is it, all new and shiny, where I last got off from the the California Zephyr, some five years to the date, the year before they went all recreational in the state of Colorado.
In the state of today, there’s Ten Thousand People coming in here every month, the Steve Jobs lookalikes will keep telling you on the all new busses turning into the all new bus stations, not even counting The Hobos. But that’s only what I didn’t say.
And all of this is happening just because of the weed, I asked the Steve Jobs lookalike, who said he had taken a class on the roots of all this cannabusiness, but I couldn’t tell if he had figured it out or if it just had gotten him more confused. Nobody can tell, not even me, better to curb my attitude before it even starts building up.
Fuck Denver now, those were Shivertits’ words, not too long ago on the whatsapp chat. It’s so expensive now you will hardly recognize it. Salt Lake’s getting there. And why is that, I wanted to know, booming economy?
Business as usual, he said, rich getting richer, the housing market is fucking insane right now. Dollhouse rent went up two hundred dollars in one go. Reverse white flight. Punks move in, hipsters next, finally all the boring white kids with family money.
Dab City’s full of those oxymoronic pixies on the United Nations Day that nobody’s even heard of, the Blue and Orange, all Broncos everything, sitting on top of the pigskin world for another couple of months at least. The Matterman likes them, but he does like American Gridiron football, and if The Broncos win, it makes The Denver People happy, he says. And who was to argue with that.
There once was a big old rally down here in Mile High, long time in the ago, about the same time of the year, same spotless October sky. That was something different though, after another night of perfect strangers and dishwasher cocaine, well there are nights and there are nights.
I had found myself in front of the Matterman’s Denver house at some point in this jingle jangle morning, writing like the mad dog I was, the dust of revolution in the mile high airs and hairs. The great grand movement had been two weeks old and went from station to station, and we had been the ninety-nine percent, we were so contemporary, it could of been timeless.
It’s nowhere left to be seen, or felt, in Dab City U.S.A., where they’re kinda high on their own supply. Thousands on the streets back then, tens of thousands on the roads today, and everybody wants aslice of the devil’s pie, right. But his work is never easy, the Groot said that, so the hipsters are said to be moving into Colorado Springs now, and not by any secret tunnels, yet. Which is a hard thing to believe, both the tunnel from Denver International and the hipsters to mingle with the white meth trash. It’s convoluted on all levels, the Groot had said that too, the reservations are full of juggalos, who are to march on Washington come March.
Donald Trump is not a politician, he says, he’s a successful businessman, one of those one-percenters we had addressed back then, when we all had been the ninety-nine percent of Occupy Wall Street, Occupy Denver and Chicago and the Big Smoke.