Waking Finnegan

“We are such stuff as dreams are made of, and our whole life is rounded with a sleep” ~ Shakespeare

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Location: zurich, Switzerland

Wednesday, April 20, 2005

Uncle George Dream


I can no longer stand the weight of him---the fatman falling in slow motion in reverse onto me. Geddoff! His heavy heels have my sandals crucified to the floorboards, but he too is a victim in the human domino surge of hyped up spectators rushing away like lemmings from the hot dog and beer vendors towards the HOME RUN! magic sound of stitched-hide ball and ash reverberating in the standing-room only heat, and I'm suffocating from the heavy man bearing down on me---a tank-topped hulk with distending masses of pink flesh and I'm ooked out by the oozing leakage from his oversize pores and crunched acne craters pressed against my face. He's on top of me now and I'm screaming for help but the crowd is now yelling Olé!---with sudden black-on-white etched visions of Goya con Picasso serial bull killerz merry-go-rounding with dark slaughterhouses of epic Chicago meat factories. I'm gonna die now. I can't breathe. Here I wake up in a dull panic, take a piss and moments later resume my night rambling in another place when I was younger and my uncle George was driving me in his El Camino careening past the Tommy's Burger booth on Rampart and Beverly with multitudes waiting for charbroiled chopped cow 'n glumps of 'chili sauce' in waxy yellow paper with pickes on the side---the Camino muffler now scraping the asphalt screeeek! and Uncle George heading somewhere fast with fireworks sparklers lighting up my peripheral vision and now lined-up folk faces lit up like old homicide photos with spent flash-bulbs sizzling hot and I'm in driveby open-mouthed amazement. My mind is now flashing back to the earlier dream of epic Chicago meateries and Upton Sinclair protest marches on Washington mixed in with thoughts of same baseball stadium fatman's hanks sizzling on a big backyard Webber grill with p.u. scorched hairball reekage. I'm feeling sick now and imagining this would make a pregnant woman open my passenger door and wretch. More sparks flying all around and we're heading straight towards the Rampart Police Station where I once got booked as a young teen for kicking Louis R. in the nuts for no good reason. Remorse.

10 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

That was a real nightful.

6:09 AM  
Blogger finnegan said...

a really heavy one yeah.

6:53 AM  
Blogger transience said...

any dream that ends in remorse should wake up to a hefty breakfast afterwards. i would sing you to sleep, finnegan. i can sing decent.

5:19 AM  
Blogger finnegan said...

This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

6:52 AM  
Blogger finnegan said...

the dream didn't really end in remorse. that was simply my mood before heading off to work---

which might definitely have been improved by your singing.

if i eat a hefty breakfast in the mornings, i feel like going back to bed.

6:56 AM  
Blogger karma said...

you did have a lean breakfast, didn't you? :))

6:03 PM  
Blogger finnegan said...

Karma, that's hilarious. Sort of a 'lean cuisine'.

7:40 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

amazing writing---fast and furious but at the same time hypnotic and slow. I can read these over and over.

8:29 PM  
Blogger Chipman said...

Nice Job!

George

6:08 AM  
Blogger finnegan said...

thanks

6:40 AM  

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