KEITH RICHARDS' DANDRUFF

Got off work about an hour ago, had a few hits with St. Amanda out back behind the Green Monster before I left, and then had a gin and tonic waiting for me when I got home. Now that's love. Mad Dog stopped by with a bit of Keith Richards' Dandruff in the corner of a cellophane bag. Good thing he gives this shit to me for free, because it's too damn expensive. Fifteen minutes later, I'm in the accelerated state where everything is a good idea. My teeth are icy clean--I should brush them next time like this, see how it feels. My gums and lips are glowing with frost, trembling gently in the shockwave. I lean back on the couch and pull the lucky Zippo out of my pocket, open it, relishing the metallic ring. I strike up a flame and fall into it, empty but reflecting. Karma is a lot like dust. You find it everywhere you look, but the moment you try to focus in on it, it all slides out of focus. It comes from the skies and from comets in space and from everyone you will ever meet or see, everywhere, all the time. Try as you might you can't get away from it. You can't outrun it. It's like the fallout of a bomb in the desert; rolling smoke mixed with golden smoky lampshades of fire, billowing, rolling from within in a slow-motion picture show. Dust settles everywhere. I picked up the rolled twenty and leaned forward for more.