striped shirt, from what i recall it's a rugby shirt, blue, white, burgundy... sorry america... i don't think i could predict the future in my dreams. it's grandma's house... second floor.. having gone up the half of the helix that makes up the narrator... oh yeah.. and there's a lemon tree that commemorates the successful completion of the duty given to my parents by grandma... moving on... namely .. me moving closer and closer to the bars that shield what would become the various numbers of kids to play on that outside floor entrance... well.. here's one thing.. it's taller than the second floor... for some fucked up reason.. something to do with planning to develop business space that would later be tainted by the schizo who went out of his way to stitch my brothers head back together.. long story.. his son was fucked... and i'm glad the first one was a miscarriage... that allowed for me to become first... and there's nothing like being first... specially when you're following after the big first... you know.. the big one... the disappointment.
i peer in between the black metal bars that contrast against the matching sauvignon of the walls... and even though burgundy is not sauvignon.. grapes are grapes.. and fermented they get you closer... everybody knows this... so there i am looking down at the baby lemon tree.. and before you know it .. i transcend the continuum of space... nevertheless... i assume the fetal position and in a feather like motion wave back and forth ... only to softly land ... upright... amazed... empowered... from there on addicted to the drug on the mind.
i guess i was dropped on my head... fact... no seriously.. fact... but what is the meaning of this dream.
out and about with the school kids.. i'm older at this point... if anything.. measured in time units. we are all in the pool playing.. but hey.. in what would clearly end up being a precursor to the present me... all this fun has sparked an appetite... the other kids warn me... a dog may have been luring around your bag... breathing in colonel sanders original recipe... this is in hindsight.. i could not comprehend the power of a racist from the south then... regardless.. food is good.. food is what would seem to please me... subsequently i consume the aforementioned, yet well seasoned, chickencide ... the original recipe. me being the kid i was and the fun i experienced.. i share it... what? a dog was sniffing your food yet you proceeded to eat it? what!!?? a football drops.. i guess a soccerball... it's white and blue... there's a bunk bed... that's where my brother and i sleep.. i sleep on the top... yeah.. i can be authoritative.. back to the ball.. this time as it drops only to transfer the momentum of a healthy kick.. aimed at ... what i can only assume.. judging by the accuracy.. my stomach.
i drop on my knees... it's not that it hurts.. it's that i can't breathe... and it does hurt... somehow.. blank... blank.. blank.. i could try to remember but who the fuck gives... i'm on top now.. no seriously.. i'm back on the top bunk... sleeping... i guess i cried.. i dunno... can't remember.. won't remember.. i've gotten pretty good at this thing called selective memory...
i love you mom.. and if only i could put in perspective how my dinosaur figures got in the pocket of what i guess could be the third pocket in your levi's... they were wet... you were hurt... i can't recall.. i can.. i choose not to.. see.. i told you.. selective memory is my thing. the nightmares evolve... i start developing detachment... diane fossey.. you're the devil... but why did digit have to die?
live moves on.. the senses need to be numbed... selectively... i like being lucid.. but i also like being able to float down the gap like a feather.
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