Coltrane, Where Are You?

(Listen to audio here)

Tonight:


Fiction, fact, dream, and waking life all translate to media.



"Stuffy," is the word I thought of when I walked into the auditorium.  This is after the phrase I mouthed to myself when I stumbled upon the place, which was, "holy shit!"
I saw a man in a slick suit open up his wallet, pull out a twenty, and blow his nose on The President.  Marble pillars, and on the podium, a wooden gavel, and the table next to it, a laptop computer with an embedded glowing piece of fruit.

I left the mansion after the lecture on a new three dimensional sound reproduction technique, and ended up at bar called The Big Hunt.  I remained standing as I drank my I.P.A. and watched a feather-weight boxer on the flat-screen.  He was called Kid Blast, and he taunted and roughed up his opponent.



The pliable and synthetic hand-rail that accompanied the descending escalator to the metro station rubbed against its mechanics and honked like a dissonant saxophone solo.

Coltrane, where are you?



The capitol is where money is, and the sons and daughters of money get to play there.
I'll go back tomorrow to blow some more money.

I know how to pretend,
and how to pretend not to pretend,
and so on....