A wake?
Put me back in the dark nothing. I don’t wanna be woke again.
Or do I?
Or am I dreaming?
What have I got to dream about anyway?
A vineyard? Gypsy jazz? Chiffon stockings and Russian red lipstick? Saturday matinees at the picture house? Boardwalk strolls? Midnight boom in the ballroom? I could dance my way to heaven. Men’s fat billfolds? Girls’ French knickers? Eating hot nuts on the deck of a grand steamer ship? Fun-house mirrors? Ferris wheel? Flying bobs? Roller coaster?
Roller coaster.
My scream could be heard all the way to heaven.
Can the dead dream? Or only remember?
And what use are dreams or memories to me? I’m no master of either. I’m right confused—where, when, why, what, who, and how now? And worse than confused, I’m weak.
I need bebop keys and a warm body.