fig. 6

I had a dream on Sunday morning, and I woke up smiling through a hangover and didn't stop. In it I was confidently walking the canyon streets of some major city. There were cafes at the bottom of international banks, and their coffee-addled shit-talking patrons quieted and stared when I passed them on the gum stained sidewalk. Wind kicked up and pushed through skyscrapers like the bulls of Pamplona. I wore an incredibly comfy shirt, and I could only read what it said from the reflection off the rear window of passing taxis. It read: Fame Won't Change Me. Money's Just A Weapon.
Music Is Clutch.

I can't help it if the things in sound I like are the dark wet corners of happyending daymares. Can I get a hand from the id? The ego is long asleep and the peanuts outside the cage are rotting in the southern sun. I couldn't help but overhear you were thinking of calling me but your hands twitched too much to operate the keys and you found yourself stuck in the middle of a warehouse of emotional pain, and strangely at a loss for speech.

My baby tells me she received a text from you about a dream you had. I didn't want the details, like always, but she supplied them and it was something about her safety. She asked for my input, but all I could tell her as I poured myself a whiskey was that "I can't even begin to think about that. I have a hard enough time sorting out my dreams without having to analyze the dreams of those who really don't have any." She took this at the value that I gave, and moved on. And the memory of the shit experienced moved with it. If you're depressed, I'm sorry. There's a gun under the bed mate. Smile!

And with teeth white with piss and cigarettes you can cleanse just about any body's soul.

The lights are dimming in the valley, cluing us in to the brown out. It's coming. I'll be in mid set. I'll be spinning something deep into something dark and fun and it's going to make me laugh when the cords go quiet. The hum of the white noise silenced by almighty PG&E. Sweet shit. Bring it about. Fair play.

We all abide by the sun. It's a matter of who and what provides the shade.