Hippie Tank

By J. W. Gillie

Listen to a fantastic sixties sledgehammer melody, strummed and hummed by audacious hipster youth. Protest of white-collar values filled headlines and picket lines. Mother Earth is worshipped, and Christian GOD vetoed. While communal pot love-ins host Butterfield Blues bands, shaman chiefs chant for the rainforest cause.

As hipsters dwell in days of new, the protest lies not with Big Brother, but with the critters residing by all those lonely highways. Over hill and dale and dark town greyhound stops, the evening ghost machine is upon them.

It’s the barreling, guzzling, critter karma machine. The old hipster drives the new SUV, begged, bribed and financed by pacts with bank devils.

This is the new plague, guided effortlessly by soccer moms and weekend dads. The ones who fasted now feed the beast made by the white-collar machine.