I was staring at Dali’s elephants like plebeian egomania. One hundred thousand footsteps had brought me there. No one had called my phone in all that time or perhaps the battery was dead. There were phantom vibrations on my thigh. No one was calling - not that I could hear.
I began talking: to the elephants. I hope no one was looking. I was crazy. I am crazy.
But they were very high up. I couldn’t hear very well, it sounded like muttering, gurgling. Unkempt I strode closer, but, like I said, they were very high up. I think they told me what I was searching for and perhaps they were cell phone towers. Jesus fucking Christ almighty, I’m becoming Bukowski. I don’t even know if I like Bukowski. I keep reading and who knows? I hate Bukowski.
I walked beneath their legs and looked up and couldn’t see the wavelengths. They have thousands of steps more, but I don’t know the length of my own strides.
Upon entering my home I saw a bed and fell asleep. Perhaps it was not my bed. They all feel like heaven.
And the next morning, my kitchen sink was dripping something awful. The consistency of blood and the color of custard, but I had no well and drank it each time my tongue swelled up. I wanted to call you so badly to tell you that you needed to be more lovable. And in time you were going to need to need to break my heart with a rock hammer. Like The Shawshank Redemption. This must have been comparable. I can only hallucinate during commercials.
Yet, I couldn’t even see straight I was so dehydrated. I found a pitcher of Kool- Aid. It was almost impossible to say, and no one else did. I preferred the cartoonish Alice in Wonderland labels. Eat me. Drink me. The ravers have taken it upon themselves, I can see. Luckily, indeed it was Kool-Aid. I drank and fell back into a comatose sleep.
Wandering this time further away from the house I was haunted by more looming, and a touch of gnawing. I took its picture, but the Polaroid faded on contact with the ozone. I don’t understand science. Surely not reality. So it trudged on.
My knapsack began to grow heavy, even insisting I call it a knapsack. Dear sweet backpack, I claimed, why are you following me? Who’s to say? I placed my cell phone inside of it and zipped it back up. The phantoms stopped vibrating but you grew in my mind. Eat me. Drink me. I couldn’t really. The desert was unforgiving. I only had Kool-Aid.
And finally another bed. Perhaps this will end, but as time wore on I lost sight of Bukowski and there was a great many Dali’s in the distance.