Coming to My Census
I jerked up and out of a coma-like sleep in this afternoon’s recliner, I’d been reading “The Letters of William Burroughs”, wide awake and meanwhile as well to the accompaniment of two cups of Allen’s Corvallis coffee, four bags arriving in a box in the mail today and one freshly opened and perked and heavenly, and well, the coffee I think is part of the story – these brief stories I cutely refer to as my daily weather, and which I share with y’all Mondays through Fridays.
So I’m wide awake and reading this most interesting book and quite suddenly I’m jerking up, I sense I’ve been far away, and I might be hallucinating weasels rushing around the living room and past my lifted-off-the-floor recliner feet, and is that a rapping on the door, and I have this instant thought that out there on the porch is Dick Nixon collecting our house’s information for the US Census, him having been sentenced to a couple of hundred hours of community service – for the stuff he did – and if you’re young you can look into it through the world-wide web. But, just moments later I begin to come to my senses (census) and it comes to me I may have fallen into an immediate and crazy heavily mystical sleep, from the wide-awake reading moment, and the very next thought is this is a coffee thing, which if you think about it the idea of stimulating coffee with its caffeine sending me into this coma doesn’t sound logical, but see I do have this theory that I love coffee so much – which I really do – and love being love, all strong and powerful and with great powers, the coffee crush has caused me to become entirely warmed and fuzzy’d and it is this warmth and fuzziness which has relaxed me to the point of crashing beyond any degree of unconsciousness 13 seconals ever left me in. If you can dig that.
Then again, these days I always have to take a look around, often out of the corners of my ancient eyes, to see if the ole birth certificate is laying on a breakfast counter, on the rug in the midst of rushing weasels, out there on the porch with the Tricky One, or here in the kitchen, as I clean the old grounds from the pot and can’t help but begin dreaming about the sweet brown liquid tomorrow so early in the post meditation a.m.
My birth certificate – Jokester.
See, this is me…..coming to my census.