Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Dead Guy Ale? No, too obvious. Let's make it a Blue Moon.

I want to write a story in the space behind my dreams, or the space defined by dreams. There's a boardwalk, at midnight, and some creepy men. A piano recital I'm not ready for. The Professor introduces me in a language I've forgotten to understand. There's something I want to say, something I want to remember, but I slip from it into different perches and poses. An amusement park ride carries me over zombies and islands. A log cabin, two. In swamps. A bar, a dirty blonde with eyes too wide apart, but she smiles, and remembers me, and I order a beer.

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