Lifted a Mariachi Bassline

Cars are a disgusting pox upon the earth, sure, but when it's hot out and the windows are rolled down, and my elbow is touching thick air and I feel cool, like I could wear a bandanna and get some tattoos, because I live in Califorina; so when you feed into the one-oh-one you're inside a carotid artery with a thready pulse that pumps the oilslick blood of a people undefined.

This rubber ball rhythm that goes one-two-one-two-one-two. I guess that's what it is while the sound gets bigger and a fat mexican -- greasy pony-tail, receding hairline, stained wifebeater -- saddles up alongside.  I have to keep the bassline. It's grey and caked in white-hot dust like all this concrete. Agile even though its just three notes and heavier than original sin. Black shades hide his eyes. His secrecy will suck in the sounds forever if I fail to act.

What goes on top of this rumbling, badass California earthquake? I need a melody. I'll try and catch some of these fireflies buzzing at lightspeed, contradicting, commingling.  This city breathes fast and deep and every point on the earth fills it up while it lets out a strangled, confused yell that doesn't know what it is because it speaks a thousand tongues.

I know what it is though. This is my California. This is my world and tomorrow will not be denied or foregone. The dying who want to die in place shriek terrified at the prospect of Babylon's retun, but what about the world without it? There could be a renaissance here and I wouldn't understand a word.

I'll lift this bassline but I promise I'll give it back. I promise I'll love California even if it doesn't love me on account of I'm too white and boring and I don't speak the language.