Sunday, July 13, 2008


In the valley of dry bones.
Among the skull and roses.
The Dead are havng a ball,
Garcia tripping on a seventh wave heaven.
I am typing these notes from the medicated interior of a hospital. Nothing else but the sanitized cocoon of an existence of those who came and are becoming. In my ward, 2 lips broken, 1 ankle redone. In my corner, I am one leg hopping to the Dead. Garcia had done a great almighty jam on his Gibson SG and tonight there's no one else I would like to go trippin with. It must be early. The day is still dark outside. The residue of morphine still swirl in my head. This is probably the closest I will ever get to the LSD days of the Dead. Can you imagine raibows and the boneless dance? It's something like that, something like being in a DEAD concert but lying in a sanitized bed. Ever wondered how Elijah rocked the dry bones in the valley? He must have been tripping or playing the Grateful Dead. I have known for a long time that even bones will rise up in days of famine. These are dry days where even Garcia has pass on. So if you got a moment to celebrate, raise a bone up. Me, Elijah and Garcia. We will survive.

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