I look aristocratic in my dalmatic, fringed with ermine and mink. I affect an Emperor Ming sort of mustache. I am merciless and I am soulless. Then Don Cornelius asks me to do the word scramble that spells out Parliament Funkadelic, but I run out of time because I can’t find the “C” to make “Fuck a delicate Parlmin.” I am hopeless at this game. I am kicked out of the studio onto the windy streets of the inert city.
The violet sky is suffused with a borealis green at the horizon line, and where the dark lake should be I find instead a crumpled piece of black construction paper. “But how did they get it to be so big?” I say. And as the words leave my mouth they are sucked into a vortex that drains up into a hole in the sky. And a hot dog vendor says to me, “that’s where the wheel in the sky kept on turning.” To which I respond, ” I hate Journey and I hate that the reference has snuck into this dream; although at this point I’m not sure that this won’t degenerate into a nightmare.”
“Nightmare? You ain’t seen a nightmare until you’ve had to vend hot dogs in exactly 1,362,863 dreams. That’s a fucking nightmare, bud! I have a PhD in Medieval Culture and this is what I’m stuck with. Fuck off!”
I’m now at 846 North Broad, and I hear the Seafood City jingle. A disheveled woman is standing next to me pulling on her nipples through her nightgown repeating: “Tchoupitoulas, Tchoupitoulas, Tchoupitoulas…”
A 6 foot tall crawfish walking on its tail comes up to me and says,”You must give me head.” The wind picks up and it hails. The pellets stike me in the head and ears. My ears fall off with the hail and transform into two crawfish which scurry away into a sunny yellow mouse hole in the floorboards.
And up swells “Mr. Blue Sky” by ELO as they erupt out of the mouse hole on a riser in mid-song. There is one full minute of elation. Fade out.
“You must be unintimidated by your own thoughts.”
— Nikki Giovanni