...the dream dreaming me
Reality bottle necked dicerning sometime around sunrise when the cock crowed the waking of the day. It was my understanding that we gave up the cock-a-doodle-doo for R@dio shack snoozes and left the farmer at the city gates, churning up fields across the way from the new sub division somewhere far away from here. I rose from my bed and fed this meager head of mine with Socartes and Quaker Outmeal because I wanted to know if we settled on what defined a table anyway. Lady GaGa played in the background telling me all about her games of telephone and bad romances. Massive exodus began by noon. Two camps stampeding out the door of my head trying to get the fuck out of the mundane. The uptight heirophants who believe right action leads to righteous living and the fallen angels who boast their wingspans even though they’ve long since been grounded by their spirits. I take a wasted ass angel to the side and say, “that’s not you flying, a$$ hole, it’s the vicodin”. I light up a cigarette and sing moral incontenence to the morally righteous cluck of my tongue. I decide to brush off the angel and the devil who wants to weigh down these sholders. I don’t care about their glory story. Both are just trying to rack up the numbers for a new toaster, I tell myself, and I set to redefine everything. I am struck by the internal clock of that damn rooster living in the inner city with me. He’s so precise, I find I can’t get away from his time bombs laid throughout the day. Someone really should set him on vibrate, maybe one beep and stop with the a-doodle-doo all together.