Doing the jobby whilst influenced. Nice.

Some weasel here tried to throw a scapegoat collar on me. All while I was sleeping a horrific shift away. Poured myself into the blankets this morning. The splendid crash of insomnia hit it's mark. Four days of scattered restless twisted dream tainted sleep finally put a toll on my metabolism. Either disturbed spotty rest or complete drooling coma. No in between, when I'm between the sheets. I blame the day orb.

Vile flaming lemon drop in the sky. Cooking my thoughts. I am convinced that the filtered apricot hued light that seeps through my clinched eyelids when I dream, has a twisted plot affect on dream content. Can't even classify them as nightmares or terrors, just rumbling from my pillow and say "what the fuck was that about?".

Not much for dream analysis. Freud can get the bozack. This one little brain ditty didn't float away after waking up. Keep musing on it.

Hanging in a murky dive, sticky gritty smoke undulating in layers. Obscured yet familiar faced homies all pounding back pints with me. Inform everybody that my Ma has become a door to door Tylenol saleswoman. I looked in the mirror, temples near my eyes were visably throbbing. So I took two of my Ma's wares, which looked smoother and larger than your average gelcap. Decided that they were X, and I immediately began feeling the warm tickle fuzz of a MdMA trip. Ventured out on the streets of the L.E.S. We were looking for the town onionskin scroll posting, nailed up on a shabby leaning fence in the middle of the East Village, that announced all the club haps.

Imagined a hedge and flower divider splitting Avenue A in half. Like a dirty railtrack Park Avenue. Rummaged and kicked at the soil as I crossed the street. We were walking towards the designated dancehall. Hear a slimy shuffle across the street and through the grass of the divider. Looks like a hybrid of a flounder and a cockroach, glistening oil slick black scaly skin, weird flappy legs, and slits for breathing. Seemed like a self powered body part of a cave beast. Slapping the pavement up and down on a collision course with us. We quicken our pace, looking over my shoulder. Leaps in the air and slaps me on the shoulder.

I erupt into a sickly flourescent beaming bodega. Snatch two aerosol cans of some product, not bug killer I don't recall. Demand a lighter. Breathing heavily I make a stand off with the critter. Aim. And ingnite a stream of chemical spray, ghetto flamethrower. Toast the bugger. Withered on the sidewalk. Twirl the cans like a pair of six shooters, slam them on the counter and shout "get the big bad money in his pocket!". And wake up.

Not looking for answers.

Dawn. Not usually alive during dawn. Stumbling out of boozers, or sleep eluding me occasionally causes this to happen. Insitinctively my ego knows not to function when the sun cracks. Just benevolent for society, and keeps me from crime of passioning into the pokey.

I have noticed however that a mourning dove perches on the metal railing outiside my bedroom window, where the radiator exists right below it on the inside. Feathers puffed, gathering heat. Chillin by himself. Only guessing that it's a dude. Hanging with himself. Warming the bottoms of his quills, carefully observing my courtyard wake up. It's a comforting attachment to my apartment. My mourning dove annex.

My Ma is heavily into attracting birds in the backyard. Extremely calming watching proud sparrows hop around their mating dance. Juncos and Finches grinding away on thistle seeds. Red winged blackbirds flashing crimson as they fly away. Favorite bird obviously - the titmouse. Cured many a hangover sipping on my orange juice watching the animals frolic.

Always remember that cardinal that exploded on the grill of the Oldsmobile station wagon. Bright red poof. Instantly obliterated. We were a family of cardinal lovers. Way before we watched Lou Brock stealing second.

Yep, I'm stoned. Hooray giggle.