I awoke to blinking lights and sounds that my clouded mind
gulped down; like the blacked out drunk, I saw, on 10th as he passed
the Red Door a few nights ago.
My ice cold plans patiently awaited the days heat, in the ice box of my
dreaming mind. Turning off the alarm, I walked to the kitchen and blended
them with yogurt and wine.
Blending iced plans and wine, makes sounds like the 747's I watched at the
airport. Choking past the clouds, they split the stars, showing their ass to the
city and leaving me behind.
I smoked and waited for a ride; as the wrinkles of life-torn Cats in red
crew T's took turns, loading luggage,
trading stories and teaching me the meanings of night.
When my ride came, I tore off half of the mornings disappointment and
bookmarked Pilkington's poetry with it. Driving back I thought I should
have added more wine. It probably would have made not leaving funnier.