A monarch butterfly floated down from the purple haze attaching itself to my shoulder. He spoke to me in Mandarin: his accent heavy with marmalade inflections. I listened; his orange citrus breath smelled like Febreze—antimicrobial scented. The news he spoke of saddened me. I told this to the butterfly, but he laughed.

Sad news makes me hungry. I retreated into my hovel craving a strawberry Pop-Tart—no icing. Unplugging my toaster, I popped in the Pop-Tart, imagining the toaster’s burning orange-red glow psychically bake the pastry I craved. Cat Stevens accompanied me, singing Father and Son in Yiddish. Lynyrd Skynyrd, already there, refused to listen, opting to search for Yusuf Islam amongst the free birds. It was Steven Demetre Georgiou who discovered I was out of peanut butter. I told them all about the monarch butterfly’s sad news. Cat Stevens went verklempt; ZZ Top pulled their heads out of the Texas sand and boogied out of the kitchen in search of some tush.

Still waiting on my strawberry Pop-Tart—no icing, I excused myself and dove into Monet’s Garden At Giverny enjoying the olfactory overload of water lilies dipped in absinthe. Monet smiled at me—it was impressionistic. “Personne n'est un artiste à moins qu'il ne porte son image dans sa tête avant de les peindre, et est sûr de sa méthode et de la composition,” he said. I smiled back, but didn’t understand. I asked Cartouche to decipher his French; she told me Georges Clemenceau would not stand by the black sheet covering Monet’s coffin. "No! No black for Monet!" she said, painting me a picture with subliminal intent—oils not pastels. At the same time, I heard Cat Stevens in the kitchen insist that the universe was meschuge. Little Willie agreed, but kept sniffing his Converse High Tops—sans Odor Eaters. Tom Petty laughed. Little Willie got pissed at Tom Petty. Tom refused to back down and this saddened me more. I hate it when people fight.

Another monarch butterfly returned, this time accompanied by a hummingbird. The hummingbird was fluent in Mandarin—also Peruvian-Peyote. Sad news translates well in Peruvian-Peyote. But I told the hummingbird that I understood Mandarin: I also confessed to sipping hummingbird juice—it tasted like Hawaiian Punch. The hummingbird told me she preferred Tang. Unimpressed, Buzz Aldrin interrupted the hummingbird: he stated that Tang was not used on his lunar landing mission. This saddened me much more. So, I powered up my MacBook intending to Skype Lucinda Williams—she soothes me. But the connection was poor, so she emailed me a song in G flat—A sharp—chantusing Mothership was going to fly me to Lake Charles just as soon as she fueled up with laughter. David Bowie along with Major Tom confirmed Mothership’s flight plan. Steven Tyler, always the cynic, just warned me that Jamie got a gun. I took precautions, still burdened with sadness.

Thank God… Lois called me from Peoria with a weather update: She said it was going to rain in Michigan. The sky overheard Lois; it began to cry a copious amount of tears. The purple haze darkened to black pissing off Clemenceau—Cartouche didn’t need to interpret; she continued painting with song as thunder cracked the atmosphere allowing for much confusion to fill the river swirling through my living room. I was tempted to swim with the punkinseeds: their orange colors reminded of the monarch butterflies. I stripped to my boxer-briefs, but before I lept into the green lapping waters, Paul Simon reminded of the bridge over troubled water. I told him the water was not troubled, just confused. Art Garfunkel laughed; he was eating my strawberry Pop-Tart—no icing. I told Cat Stevens to inform my buddy Keb Mo that was the last fair deal gone down. “ Vats dos Keb Mo?” he asked. Before I could answer, Mothership arrived, not to take me to Louisiana, but to drop off Louise from Oxnard and her part time husband-Clint Howard-look-alike Floyd. I was beyond sad: I was bummed—Art Garfunkel scoffed my Pop-Tart—no icing. The blues were indeed indigo. 

Louise from Oxnard was cool enough, but her legs needed a weed whacker. On the other hand, Floyd was just whacked; he offered me a sip of his watermelon Crystal Light; I smelled Hubba Bubba sour green apple with a hint of tobacco juice. John Mellancamp ordered him to walk on; Floyd told him he sucked in a cool James Dean voice. Louise said Floyd heard many things like that in a love song; he was the kind of man who liked to dream about tomorrow today.

Furiously beyond sad, I wadded into the river, letting its concurrent current sweep me southbound. I just needed to get away—I considered taking the midnight train to Georgia.

Outside the rain played a mandolin; Josie stared at me with Dan’s steely eyes. No interpreter was needed. Robert Plant, his long blonde hair all curly and fuzzy, pointed at me; he said:  “ Look at the fool in the rain.” I answered it was us and them. He understood, departing for the temple of the holy as Louise followed me in her pink tutu—Floyd just looking so comfortably numb chewing his Hubba Bubba in the cold water. The snapping turtles clapped. The bullfrogs mooed. The punkinseeds swam upstream to Missouri.

Soon another monarch butterfly flitted down from the purple haze. The rain abated; a total eclipse of the sun ensued. I just floated. Eventually I ended up in Buenos Aires looking for the house of the rising sun. There I found Marcela awaiting my sad tale. She asked why I didn’t write first. I told her in my practiced Portuguese, “into é como eon face as coisas: esta é a forma como eu secretor” She said, “Do you speak the language?”  I just smiled and offered her a Vegemite sandwich.