Clearing a path to the microscopic miners in my mind. Thought I was being rational here. Leaving the wallet not so bent. Not waking up next to pussy I wouldn't and shouldn't normally wake up next. Still have this residue. Persistent fog in the head.

Had to give up the cigarettes. Specks of blood in your morning cough up should signal the quitting protocols. Brush with childhood tuberculosis rendered at least one fifth of my lungs into fossils. Don't enjoy calling myself an idiot every day.

Didn't and haven't really given up the drink. The sweet sweet nectar. Professional executive class liver and kidneys live in spanky guts central. Happy drunk. Let loose down in New Orleans and St. Louis couple months back. Just repulsed over the meat market lately. And since I don't see the point in drinking alone, I just haven't supped on the sexy firewater nipple.

While I haven't smoked a spliff since December, I haven't officially handed in my Green Lantern power ring. Another financial decision somewhat. And, adding smoke to the clouds doesn't make the sky any more clear. If I want my complete creative brain at my own command I figure I should chill on the weed for the nonce.

Wouldn't mind a few acid freak outs though. Window pane never loused my clarity up. Well, ok, thinking lizards are talking to me in the park isn't exactly lucid. Not expecting to dose and write the next great screenplay while tripping. I always have at least one spectacular epiphany about myself or life in general while tripping. Might feel a little slimy afterwards, but never burnt. The brain, she does well on psychotropics it seems, clean psycotropics that is.

There's the rub. Clean. Clean drugs. I don't trust a mutherfucker. Much less some stranger telling me he's got the pure stuff. I gotta know the people I am dosing from. Gotta know they know the chemist and all will be well. Well, at least thats the orders of the new adult spanky.

Anyway, all this teetotalism may be adjusting gradually, as metabolisms are wont to do. So, I may just not notice the clarity of thought increasing. But what I have noticed is that the dreamscape has gone historical. Freaks of spanky past.

Dreamt last night of the marathon donut guy.

Every year back in the old hood of U. City there was the Memorial Day Marathon. Ma volunteered the family to help out. My sis and I were called upon to collect racer forms.

Doesn't sound so bad huh? Well, these "forms" were the vital stats of each runner. Affixed to each runner's shirt. Shirts that collected much runner sweat and funk as a marathon can generate. And therefore collected on these forms. Forms that were to be collected from runners as they crossed the finish line, numbered with their racing time, and collected on safety pins. Joy of joys.

Pinching with just the fingertips, running flapping wads of soiled sheets to the recording center. Was unfun. Ma, despite her stern tenacity, was quite unsuccessful in convincing my sis and I to spend our Memorial Day the following year at the finish line.

There was this one portly gentleman. Froth flying from his mouth. Addled with exhaustion, walked frenetically around the finishing grounds, gasping for air. He started wailing. Voice bouncing off the walls of houses surrounding Heman Park. "Where's the donuts!?!" Over and over again. Dude needed fried dough stat.

His desperate expression. "Where's the donuts!?!" Like a junky who was just promised smack. Face to face with me in my kitchen. He was walking around my apartment screaming for donuts. I was chopping spinach. He wouldn't respond to my questions of why he was in my crib. One last "where's the donuts!?!" and I woke up.

I need to put in a few requests to the dream DJ. Like bringing back past vistas of the chick who could grab onto my cock with her pussy like she was shaking hands. Or the chick that could ejaculate on my face when I ate her out. Or a parade of all the adorable feet that have given me boners before. Or else the liquor is going back in there dammit.