ASTROPROJECTILITY AND CUTLERY

I awoke from a dream at 7:19 AM. Ordinarily, I’d just be passing out, pills melting into my mouth.

I got sober two weeks ago, however. Ain’t it seem unseemly for me?

Indeed.

But back to the bed; I woke up and remembered the dream I had just had. I was in LA and NYC back and forth doing whatever it was, writing I presume, and I found myself driving through a neighborhood in what looked like Bel Air or Westwood in my stupid BMW.

Some asshole parked like shit and I left-side clipped his scotch colored lincoln.

Furious biblical anger.

I break into the first house I see, incidentally the same damn color as the car, Macallan 12 single malt to be exact.

I went in angry as a pit bull with untreated rabies; threw off my shirt and tried to find someone to blame with knuckles. Pitched my keys at a wall, screamed shit down the hall at two faces, walked downstairs to confront an older Asian (Cambodian or Vietnamese). Turns out they’re all Canadian and finally they ask me, “What’s wrong, bro?”

Dumbstruck. I thought this was earth.

“My car got scraped up. Fuck.

Uhm. Sorry or something.”

Now, here is the point of the story I’m relaying; I have of course remembered dreams, (very occasionally) but never bothered to speak them. This cold morning my mouth came out of sleep like a gaping tunnel producing a torrential downpour of words relating the dream, detail by detail by detail in exact exactitude to my Sophia. It was strange.

————

Last night on the roof there was a dark green late model van with dark tints with a dark-spirited looking man driving fast behind a cop with sirens. Clearly connected. I said, “He’s behind the trees.” I took a big swallow of my cigarette and watched for more action. None to be had. Now that I think about it, it makes me miss the fucking casinos. Action, I require action. At least if I don’t want to feel a corpse, cold as a fridge.

Crime interests me; not the punitive shit I’ve been dealt, my fucking red-headed lawyer fucking me at my arraignment on three and a half turn coated misdemeanors not objecting to raising the bail 249,000 dollars in cash from nothing but change. The arraignment took roughly 13 seconds and I was back in the bullpen with the rest of the boys. “Wow,” they all said, dumbfounded. Turns out my mother had the bitch raise bail to keep my ass from getting busted out by my succubus. I don’t know if any of that meets the definitive definition of irony but god damnit, it felt blasphemous. I was not amused.

I was in there during Christmas, New Years, Thanksgiving & the motherfucking playoffs the season my team finally was winning; thank god they didn’t win the bowl or I would have needed high dose lithium and ECT therapy. The guards wearing santa hats with my teams color configuration laughing and smiling and being pigs. Cunts.

The county jail; about as humorous as syphilitic insanity in my mother’s uterus.

Action, moves and scenes; at hollywood park I saw an Israeli and a skinny white man at the hold em’ table exchange a few words and the skinny was wearing a beanie that he removed which then revealed a swastika tattooed prison-style on his forehead. He leaped across the middle of the red velvet imitation with a razor blade at the Israeli and missed. No one got kicked out. They didn’t even revolve tables. This life feeds me impulses and urges that are hard to purge. I like that action, I like seeing that shit, ya know? The whole, ‘break your neck looking at car accidents’ thing they talk about. I try not to every single time but I always do – I still have yet to see a real juicy gruesome good one. I guess there is no prophylactic for degenerated behavior patterns – I called my neighbor’s woman guest a cunt when she entitled herself to humor by telling her friends and me that she smelled cigarettes and “wondered where that came from,” – “I smell cunt. I wonder who’s smelling like that.” Some poor bastard’s wife, too, hand her some humility and a tissue.

I lack the empathy, no, the decency to give two shits. I had diarrhea that day you fucking cunt. Don’t you dare attempt your pitiful wit on me or I will cunt you out. That’s how I stay out of the bullpen now.

Words.

Oh, and I dropped my decade of dropping myself in a poppy field two weeks ago.

Funny how irony works, if it does at all… cunt.

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