Every evening offers
me three
choices; get drunk,
watch old westerns,
or get drunk
and watch
old westerns.

I always
choose the
best
of
both worlds.

Eastwood narrating
my world,
Morricone
supplying my
soundtrack
as I travel
from Nowhere A
to Nowhere B
on a palomino
that just
runs
runs
runs
through desert
heat and raging
rapids, imagining
the Indians behind us
and having to duck
their arrows as we
try to reach
the hills and
safety.

All from
the comfort
of
my
sofa.

It’s snowing
outside, but
not
in my
world.
In my world,
there is sunlight
and kisses
and beautiful women
who just so happen
not to be
******* gals
spreading their legs
for a coupla bucks.
These are refined
ladies, champagne
drinkers in cocktail
dresses that hug their
***** and hips.
They wear high heels,
elegant ones,
all black, none
of that garish red.

All from
the comfort
of
my
sofa.

I fall asleep,
drunk,
dreaming of revolving
circles where
parallel universes
collide and mix
together to form
a brand new
state of
consciousness.