Monday, February 11, 2019

Dreams and Stories

Who inherits the memories? There was a time, not so long ago, when I worried about what might become of my stuff once I'm outta' here. It dawns on me that it doesn't really matter. There's too much stuff in the world as it is.

The memories, now- that's another story. I feel like I tell stories that keep a part of my mom right here. My vocabulary is weighed down with archaic terms from my grandmother. I ramble on about Jamaica and Angel when nobody's around to listen.

Well, sir, I've seen Loch Ness and I've talked to Minnie Pearl. I've found myself in the middle of the mandala from Piedmont Park with the help of synthetic psilocybin. Clayton Moore gave me a Lone Ranger mask. Electric Lady still smelled new when I recorded there and my mother held me up to the bus window to shake Roy Rogers' hand. I saw the most wonderful hoochie koochie dancers that you can imagine and the experience brought me religion. I held Jimi's Marshall cabinets from the back in case he whacked them. He didn't.

To the great love of my life I revealed that I had once worked for the Russian mafia.

Ghosts have teased me and angels have sustained me. I was around for the joy of the birth of rock'n'roll and I mourned the end.

Maybe the memories are just more stuff, I don't know.

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