Hello, MC Oroville?
We know this ain’t the Openline. The gold veins what? We know you can see the O from Google. About ten miles from the nearest paved road we found an old concrete bridge that crossed North Honcut Creek. We found a child’s grave from 1855. Alpaca or mohair in the bears left month to month. We know how to plug along between cannery checks. We know to nick the tire from a ropeswing and hustle to the Forebay, glug to Mike Jones and Alan Jackson and maybe get some ass. We know the old mens’ summer tennis, Meryle’s cigars. We know a man and a woman have stretched some very long jumper cables between two cars stolen from a wrecking yard. We posted Big Lem’s BBQ rap on YouTube. We buried Ishi’s sister under the DMV. We saw Reagan bless this dam. We sucked California’s dick, and glimmer oh glimmer this award-winning lake. Squawfish, lamprey, pupfish and sculpins. Roach and chub. We scrub the memorial by The Depot for those who ditched their shit via train. We don’t carry sluices. We wipe our heads fuzzy at the Keg Room. We spend it all at Feather Falls. Social security, Section 8. Is this where you blow on the needle? Get your brick or driveway cleaner. Lye. Cheap starter fluid (Wal-Mart, always). Inhalers? Bezenedrex! Vicks won’t work. Coffee filters, new socks, sawed-off lightbulb. Please no smoking in the same room. We pray to the ghosts of Olives. Easy off the guardrails we leap. I recorded these country songs into my cell phone. I never held my friends at gunpoint in the bandroom, but I did buy all the sunglasses in the hospital’s thrift store. You got Oroville down to gurp, but shit, yo. Gotta hock this out while the line’s hot. Pay in almonds. Smell that rice burn. Scoops got its hot dogs and TJ his coffee. The punkz got their glowstickz and ranchers their chew. We mark the Hmong new year. We let the hippies run mouth on community radio. Lo the Inn out there! Lo the AM-PM! Hella props to PG&E and Pigg’s Liquors! Lo the bowling alley and the bowling alleys hulled! MC Oroville, say hello to my scraggly ass angels. If you can keep track of this shit I’ll buy you a case of Pale Ales, but we gotta promise not to say Chico. All we say is the glug life. You gotta keep that plugging along / plug it along / plug it alone. If they call you, don’t play tidy. Yodel that Feather River now. Plumas ahoy. Snort the resin off that fiddle. Hella yokel shit. Really we’re just here until the levy breaks.