Dream # 026

We were in an orchard picking coffee cherries. They grew large and thick on the branches, and to collect them we used big baskets made out of extra-strength weed, the kind Krip likes to grow in his nose.  There  was an astronaut robot walking up and down the gutters that lined the little roads, watering our plants, the dirt on his bubble cap hiding his frozen
grin from plain sight.

Then after hours, Glenn, his friend Myra, I and another boy whose name I didn't care enough to remember, had dinner at a garden cafe that had giant fireflies for light, that  served cucumbers on brown bacon as appetizers. We were talking about the state of our plantation, what were we going to do about the workers who kept stealing our magic beans to make into lust-inducing drinks for their frigid wives.

Myrza was there too, dining at another table with her sosyal friends. She waved at us from across the room, then we saw it - a small, brightly plumed rooster had lodged itself on the side of her right breast. She didn't seem to notice, but it was crowing quite  happily.

Happy birthday, Glenn!