hurling pumpkins at your door

i awoke at four in the morning to a pounding in my head...and even in my sleepy state i knew this was not the result of a hangover...i was still living in colorado and the mile high air left me devoid of horrors such as that...no, the pounding was not only in my head, but in objective reality as well...it had been a rough night already, even though at this instant i was waking up next to an apple assed beauty...many people, when hearing noises, especially strange noises in their apartment, would become a little wary about who or what was causing them...i, although just jarred from the peace of sleep, knew instinctively...it was my roommate, my lawyer, and my religious council extraordinare, allen...as soon as i walked into the unfurnished livingroom i knew that i would be the one providing the closing arguments tonite...i walked in with my usual tone (exaggerated of course because of the hour and circumstance) "what the hell are you doing out here you crazy fuck?!"...all i received in return was a blank stare...it turns out he was beating one of our kitchen chairs, part of our kitchen set, to a pulp...he had bought a table and four chairs for twenty-five dollars and now he was laying madly into one of our few possessions...it was sad...not the beating per se which was quite humourous even in my present mental state, but the sadness of seeing meager possessions destroyed...his response to my line was only a look in my direction...but that look told me everything i cared to know...his eyes were swimming like caged goldfish, and the stare revealed that he did not even recognize me...evidently the subtle 'canadian mist' had crept up on him and engulfed his skull...finally after much cajoling i convinced him to stop his beating of a defenceless kitchen chair, and i went back to bed...however, within' five minutes the pounding began again though softer and muffled...i again rose to the cold night, clad only in boxers, to discover that our beloved esquire had resumed his chair beating outside on the balcony...somewhere in his strange whiskey-riddled mind the publicity of the balcony might draw more attention, but not from his immediate adversary (his roommate)...again, i have the same conversation with the idiot savant, and finally resume my slumber hoping in my drifting that the good lawyer will begin his...now, the night vanquished and the sub-zero morning rising from the east i wake, put on a pot of coffee, and light a camel cigarette...as i sip my coffee and gaze out to the parking lot i see a lump next to the dumpster, sleeping in the snowy morning light...a closer look reveals the truth...my legal council and roommate is passed out next to the dumpster, nestled in the snow's soft embrace...as i sip my coffee and wonder if he is still breathing, the lovely apple cheeked maiden passes behind me, breasts bouncing in the crisp november morning..."is that allen by the dumpsters?" she asks as she reaches for the coffee pot..."yes" is my thoughtless reply gazing westward towards the foothills...i sip and stare and think of human multiplicity, i see we are all caught in a dream between beauty and truth, in an existence that we have not asked for but received nonetheless...hallelujah...