postcards from the unicorn caravan
In 2018 I drove aorund the USA, suggesting to people of faith that God would still love them if they voted against Republicans in the midterm elections. Here’s my report
greg drove the giant orange bus
packed with poets, activists, pastors, authors
and the assorted magicians who make the show possible
i drove the rv, pulling the trailer with the folding chairs,
yard signs, t-shirts and sound gear,
vince rode shotgun spinning playlists
ancient sounds stolen from lost libraries
songs of irreverence from the reverend
miles vanishing while music broke everything that music can break
nick drove the pickup pulling the eleventh wonder of the modern world,
the apex twenty sixteen mobile stage (tm)
which, when we finally stopped at the market
or parking lot,
or picnic grounds,
or empty lot,
unfolded from a plain white trailer,
a transformer awakening,
a flower blooming,
a city appearing from the mists
that would host our carnival of mysteries for the evening
step inside ladies and gentlemen
prepare to be amazed
see the pro-life pundit
demand you vote for democrats
marvel as you hear a red state political activist
broken hearted at the actions of those she once admired
gaze upon the republican congressional candidate
driven by his faith to stump for anyone but trump
one redditor even demanded pictures,
quipping they'd sooner believe in
a bus load of unicorns than something
as impossible as evangelicals against trump
stalked by film crews, and the ten o'clock news
we danced little thirty second mating dances in front of them
hoping they would tell a story to friends in front of us
who we might meet somewhere down the road
yes, people came to see us,
they were,
glad we came,
glad to be there,
glad to sing our songs
glad to stand with us
glad to buy a t-shirt and take us home
never enough to make us feel like it was all worth it
never so few that we were sorry we even tried
in the morning they'd find us gone to the next town
nothing but a fading memory of how much we loved them
maybe our miracle cure was nothing more
than ditch water in orange and blue bottles, but
we were too wise to believe any of it mattered
and too much in love to let ourselves
offer less than everything, everywhere.
i have my stories, of course
funny stories, scary stories, sad stories,
i feel a strange reluctance to mention them
they are part of an incantation which is not yet complete,
a tribe that cannot be photographed without stealing their souls
it was ... pilgrimage,
to the holy place which was eternally
two hundred miles ahead of us,
a caravan powered by diesel and tears,
a raft floating down the interstate
drifting on currents made of songs and hope,
til it washed out into the pacific.
it was ... confession,
because i once was afraid enough
to belong to the mobs begging for a wall made of blood
i thought i woke up
wrote one check, was snarky on facebook
felt like that was more than most people do
so that must be enough
and now i've had two years
to regret every thing i did not do
it has become ... penance,
to keep making this quest
which i now know something about
know what equipment i will need
know who i need to have with me when i go
oh, and don't forget
vince's secret playlists