I fell asleep half-naked with Ray Charles singing in my ear and had a dream about walking along the side of a small river hidden in the middle of a forest that existed in the heart of a city and we walked slowly, smoking and not even speaking.
there were no telephones.
no bookshelves.
but a family portrait was beneath a pile of branches.
the trees smelled like marijuana and all the animals found that hibernating was probably the best choice.
i entered a flea-market, an old smelly garbage stash in San Antonio and admired the old records and books that had the crayon scrawls of children littered through out them and in some they have underlined the bad words and i can imagine them giggling and hiding them beneath their beds and breaking them out at school, beneath the slide--far away from the eyes of their teachers. the records were battered and there wasn't a decent one in the bunch. there were some old jazz tunes done by handicapped & homeless men given their chance at super stardom by an over-excited rich man w/no family to speak of.
no family that could have been in the portrait in the woods.
i gave them the photo in exchange for a thirty-two minute trumpet solo by a gentleman with lupus.
we were even, they said.
i wore that record down while i sat at the window and as they passed by i wondered which one i could exploit next.
and then i awoke, my dick hard, and i felt extremely guilty.
?
there were no telephones.
no bookshelves.
but a family portrait was beneath a pile of branches.
the trees smelled like marijuana and all the animals found that hibernating was probably the best choice.
i entered a flea-market, an old smelly garbage stash in San Antonio and admired the old records and books that had the crayon scrawls of children littered through out them and in some they have underlined the bad words and i can imagine them giggling and hiding them beneath their beds and breaking them out at school, beneath the slide--far away from the eyes of their teachers. the records were battered and there wasn't a decent one in the bunch. there were some old jazz tunes done by handicapped & homeless men given their chance at super stardom by an over-excited rich man w/no family to speak of.
no family that could have been in the portrait in the woods.
i gave them the photo in exchange for a thirty-two minute trumpet solo by a gentleman with lupus.
we were even, they said.
i wore that record down while i sat at the window and as they passed by i wondered which one i could exploit next.
and then i awoke, my dick hard, and i felt extremely guilty.
?
VIEW 19 of 19 COMMENTS
I tried to make my mom watch Napoleon and she turned it off within minutes, right when Uncle Rico arrived. Friggin idiot!
The Reader was playing by me but they just 86'ed it!