I have been telling God that I wanted to be in a hotel room all by myself on the beach, close my eyes to the wind, lay flat on the bed like a piece of gum, without a care in the world, just laying there, like Mr potatohead, watching the rainbow go by, shooting at flies pissed at the rain.
I have, for ages, I promise but it seemed to die on thin air on the transatlantic railroad.
I asked and I asked the bellman, the concierge, the fruitloop dressed like a bodyguard at the corner store to give me a sign. I begged my soul keeper to decree a heaven’s gate, a place to drip the scrambled eggs on any given omelette as I fought the alligators on the prowl. I did but no answer.
Instead, I woke from the dream, feeling more like a contessa then a princess, in a hotel somewhere in the middle of the ocean, laying flat on a palm tree, legs dangling like a yoyo, on a full belly, my heart racing like a leopard, margarita on hand, vegetable cigarette on the other, drunken stupor from a lemon juice overdose. I don’t know who was driving this joint but it surely felt like a trip to me.