just found this

eve of the eclipse in aiken sc from tampa by way of warm springs geogia. i rode through trumps amreica, on the backroads south and west, south and east, of atlantanineteen fifteen sixteen, .towns that didn't so much as not grow into their teens as they were left behind when the big interstates moved by. once, before bush's america brought you obama's america, you'd drive through these little towns and a shop or two would be closed in the downtowns because someone built a brandnew shop n mart at the corner cross from the cemetary but now, only the corporate survive. within ten square miles is only places for breakfast in the whole of the county is mcdonald's or piggly wiggly. we stop at both asking where's the diner, admonishing the workers what the hell, where is your loyalty to mom n pop where is a fresh egg, a cup of honest coffee and just fried bacon. when the diners of america crash, the recession's cancer grows unabated. the time is ripe for fascism, if what you mean is corporate rule, and i do. zebulon is still thriving, no visible means of support and churches, churches dot the landscape like melanoma gone rouge. there are few exception to the withering of communities along the eightyone spur. closed doors, boarded windows. in sparta, church edifices are a stark contrast with the houses that dot the small two line hiway at the edge of the oconee. villages with tree eaten structures melt into towns whose entire downtowns are burnt husks of enterprise stunted by the rise of global marketing and goods where bargaining power rests in volume and movement. so. trumps america has weed grown streets and an opiod epidemc. trumps america has weed busted brothers and mafioso fighting for turf through the courts, trumps america was ravaged by their grandfather's employers, who then escaped overseas to avoid all responsibility and uh ,taxes. trumps america knows they're fucked and wants to believe that a single man, if just crazy enough, can turn the tide of a waning empire. they feel it slipping away in real time, the manivured lawn, the thwo pint five, the someday my prince will comes. but what i want is to tell you about the hotel aiken. located on richland street. it's about three miles from the horse racing hall of fame, breeder division.it's so downtown that my third story room has a view of the street where the spaces are diagonal, like they have all the room and all the traffic of the fifties like big finned cadalacs are cuising d whiskey blvd on the way to the rye patch for a party thrown by hope. aross the way , on sthe flat roof of the two story brick building, lookes perfecr for a patio bar. which i wish you'd conjure because i cannot. my magic was all use in in the keeping it together in the car. instead eat the best cheeseburger ever at city billiards, head to the hotel's tiki bar where smoking is allowed because it's an outdoor bar, and light em if you have em. the lobby is cross between seventies plaza hotel and mc donald's dining rooms. breakfast is behind the curtain from six to ten and the elevator is out of order. always. its white metal cageforlornly painted shut and no doubt hasn't run since the original operator died in nineteen forty eight. the non smoking room is three flights up. cool air fom the lobby disappears at the first landing while the afternoon's heat is felt at the last half flight after the turn= it's ten at night. at least the room opens first time and feels cool at 80 degrees. the first thing i notice is the open desk drawer, close it, it slowly reopens. there is a ticking sound coming from above. a ceiling fan rocks precariously on ten foot pole. there are six sprinkler heads in the plaster twenty feet above us. at least they're ready for a fire. in nineteen thirty. i stumble to the bathroom but that's wrong. i haven't been drinking. the black and white tile and dark wood vainty look installed in the forties but the door and moulding are newer and falling apart. after a hot shower, the wall paper above the door outside the bathroom peels up. i stumble out of the bathroom, still not drinking. the floor is decidedly tilted, i explain. the black out curtains cover the window but a streak of streetlight penetrates where something sharp has ripped a couple of slashes.