Stuffy Shmitt's Dream #377

You can see a million moons from the deck past the water. The lake smells of fish and whiskey, here below the singing stars, where the small creatures scream and bellow. Black black black in the deep, tangled woods. You could get magnetized and pulled, feet first, into the vortex of this tunnel of magic and danger, Rat Fink animals watching you from behind black trees, you can’t see them but they’re there all right. With guillotine jaws and razor fingers. Can’t you hear them rumble in this dark forest of mystery, insects gnawing on your boots, and can’t you see Walkers bar all the way from Moore Street and now settling in the swamp and beckoning, so many hawks soaring and diving past you, you can feel their wing feathers on your face. Go in! Refuge, alcohol, bartender in camo, helmet covered in leaves. You’ll be ok. Get drunk, get goddamn juiced, man, take all the drugs, all the pretty colors, all the evil powder, doesn’t matter, so much anger and speed, fly past the cliffs now, so fucked up, so exhausted, over the edge faster, faster faster, to the end of it. Mad feet on the accelerator, push, push, push, man, harder, faster, fly, man, fuck it. The hydrangeas are burning. The Haitians are eating your cats. There’s no way to get these giant windows clean. Christ, the well of sorrow, the weight of the human heart. I can’t stop, man, I don’t know why. Her skin was pure as fresh snow on a New Hampshire ski slope, goose bumps on her thighs, in the jungle you swim in the heat like water, heat like burning her at the stake, heat like your Fender Twin two hours in, heat like hell. Queen Anne’s Lace gags you, bats bang against the pieces of sky above. There are floods now throwing driftwood and tree trunks up on the shore and THC beverages on the kitchen counter. Take the elevator up to the liver doctor, Lou Reed in the box with you and you ask if there are two basses on “Walk On The Wild Side” and he says “Yes” and that’s all we said and then he died of liver disease and I don’t blame him. Let’s nationalize grocery stores and appropriate money from taxpayers to spend on castration drugs for children: the shiny heads of politicians sparkle down the marble hallways of justice, it’s an empty building now, you can hear their brogues tickle the mirrored floors, mirrored so the Senators can see up Paula White’s skirt. There’s quicksand in your rocky path swallowing up lizards and bobcats. Under your emerald canopy you tread towards mirages, night clubs mostly, past a Loretta Lynn’s Ranch billboard half covered in a soggy moss and into a tricky situation involving a piano and The Mexican police with AK 47s, dressed all in black, black, black for the heat of the beaches, lawyers lying on their lounges at the still blue pool tenderize their McCallan 18 bellies with Banana Boat Sport Ultra Clinically Proven Broad Spectrum SPF 50+ Superior Endurance Water Resistant For 80 Minutes Free From Oxbenzone Octinoxate Clear Sunscreen and reading “Fifty Shades of Grey by E.L. James, flying squirrels leaping from red oaks to impossibly tall pines, you’ll need a machete to get through this shit. The Haitians are eating the school buses.