A knee holds the steering wheel as this shwiggity brick weed refuses to de-seed itself. The reflections of headlights bounce off puddles in the street and rise through the trees as thumb and finger distribute only the best cocaine through the fluffed buds of this peach flavored blunt. As it is passed to the back seat, teamwork blows charges into fellow toker’s mouths and coats lungs with euphoria.
A coca farmer in Medellin Colombia stares down the barrel of the AK aimed at his throat by the paramilitary soldier. This worker of the land is a satellite dish of prayer, channeling every ounce of strength towards his maker because he was extorted to pay the wrong organization of guerrillas for protection, and he knows his bones will soon be decomposing on the rainforest floor, another unreported massacre of peasent coca farmers courtesy of the FARC. He sees the coke under your fingernail and cries, Fuck you.
A 6 year old in Ciudad Juarez sprays tears over the coffin of her father, an honest police officer, the body heavy with automatic drug cartel bullets, as focused and powerful as his desire to make his streets safe. Every day he walked out of that police station, he knew los narcotraficantes didn’t give a fuck how many fathers and mothers had to be popped off, how many graveyards would be filled, how many children would live in fear of crossfire, as long as they can get that brickweed across the border, it’s all good. That little girl sees the shwag in your blunt and screams, Fuck you.
A hippie with glaucoma in Humbolt county California breaths in the Cannabis pollen of his field while the shadow of a rainstorm rolls over the countryside to distribute nitrogen loaded raindrops to the moisture retaining soil of his super garden. Worms are tickling their roots, bees are bringing pleasant surprises back to the hive, and this farming gardener deepens the wrinkles of joy that decades of smiling have earned him. He sees the home-grown dank in your bowl and coughs, Thanks dude!
No comments:
Post a Comment