Dream Notes

Before waking up this morning, a nine or ten year-old kid came running down an oak and Spanish moss-lined street with a burning trench coat trailing behind him. Someone said, “That Belgian firecloak rocks!” Meanwhile, birds were dropping rocks on cars while perched on the treetops, and one of them said, “All right boys, we’ve lost fifteen stone. Time to call it a day.”

“Electric bugaloo,” the boy in the Belgian firecloak replied as the birds lined up to get their cards and punch out. The houses on the street began to go wavy. Before long he was standing on top of a pile of socks, crooning “Moon River” all the while in what sounded like Dean Martin’s voice. Green indoor meteors fell from the ceiling, burning holes in the carpet. A voice said, “Wait’il the ice storm’s over; then you can drive.”

I woke up.


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