My last fever dream was a real doozy.
I can hardly remember it and yet still I’m reeling.
It was in Rome and I was doing like all the other Romans were doing until I wasn’t and the shit started running down my legs like an uncomfortable plot twist.
You can pretend we don’t get along.
You can continue to say you don’t do emotional attachments.
And yet your actions speak louder than your quiet words when the phone rings and it says private or unknown number.
It was pitch dark and I was listening to Darin Bulai’s soundtrack in my head.
His vinyl poetry and sonic-screaming-soapbox-sermons keep my Pope-On-a-Rope Soap bobbing and weaving and that’s a very good thing when bending over might just get me an unwelcomed poking in the nether regions of my subterranean undercard.
Let’s start back at the beginning when babies had that new car smell and your car couldn’t drive you back and forth to the medical marijuana dispensary because you discovered it was the only way to take the edge off this thing called survival of the wickedest.
My last fever dream nearly landed me in the pokey.
Not even sure what I was thinking, but before I knew it I was dressed up like a ninja and my stealth moves would have impressed both Fred and Ginger.
It was in Paris, Texas and I was doing like all the other Marlboro cowboys taking a drag off my cigarette and pretending I wasn’t afraid of dying of lung cancer or some worse malady, when all of a sudden you appeared before me like Glinda the Good Witch of the South and everything seemed like it might just work out as I had planned when I was young and free will didn’t feel like such a left handed compliment.