make my bed out of wonder bread,
spread some mustard upon my head.
don’t want no onions or sauerkraut, mamma,
hold on to the bun baby, work it on out.
i’m a chilidog.
so there was this dream. this dream wherein i was driving a road car, long lean body and four doors. the colour doesn’t really matter, yet i remember something darkish and burgandy-ish. and i was driving at night through some city alleys. and my passenger was milo. yeah, that guy. my furry little snowshoe buddy. he has this thing for cars. and trucks. and tractors. anything with wheels, really. that boy loves to travel. even if the transpo is standing still on its wheels. he just digs being inside. or on. maybe he’s dreaming. i don’t know. maybe he’s living out a former life. i don’t know. maybe this is who he came back as, a long-haul trucker, living the sweet life, living on the road. i mean, really. if you knew the guy, you’d agree with me on this : he’s got an old soul and he’s got some incarnation personification quintessance thing going on.
anyway. back to the dream at hand. i was driving at night through big city alleys and milo was with me in the car. this road car. and the back doors kept popping open. and some lady came up to the car and said to me if you wouldn‘t catch-up the blankets in the doors they wouldn‘t pop open like that. i guess i forgot to mention, there was a large stack of folded blankets on the rear seat of this road car, because, where else would milo sit so that he could see out? every once in a while we got out of the road car, me ‘n‘ him, and i’d carry him where we were headed. down street-lighted sidewalks. into various all-night businesses. even into empty buildings. and then we’d get back into the car, me ‘n’ him.
‘t’was a good dream.
it’s a good life.