The Bureau of Dreams to be Continued by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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The Bureau of Dreams to be Continued
Page 428
front of me; five feet from the foot of the bed. I suppose it did its best. The uniformly gray sky showed no evidence of having changed its clothes in weeks. A trip to the local dry cleaner must have been delayed by the drugged fantasy of “manana” or a lack of dead presidents; likely both. A friend should tell him that he stinks. I’m not one. My damn window’s dark blemishes perform their assigned task well. The stink has been welcomed through the aging cracks. It has vaingloriously deigned to again move inside. “Thanks.”
Still, despite my soundless protestations that potty smell and its dreary source have in tandem, again given light to that which is. Hendrix is dead. Joplin is dead. Morrison is dead. The alleged “revival” of a disappeared Dylan has “rollen away the stone or stones” to turn out an inoffensive “country” album. Thank god for small favors. Lay lady, lay.
Teddy bit my oblivious hand. The little devil always seems to sense when I am not paying full attention to him. He is not altogether contented by my now more vigorous hand. Perhaps, perceiving obligation, he continues to attempt some sort of oral mayhem. I loudly said; “Teddy, cut it out, man.” He could care less. I continued to pet him, though more aware of protecting my sensitive fleshy spots.