According to Rx:
"Once, upon a time…"
This is not what I have in mind. I object. The words I hear might as well be the beating of drums, forest murmurs, taps of death or rousing, grousing, flying, muezzin chanting, or the bells, the bells, the bells. Sound bites, jewels set into private parts, falling head over heels, confetti in jet stream, grabbed and dragged or drugged. Eye object, already somnolent, is disintegrating at the edges of the possible. It's time.
Out of these vibrations, called light and sound and touch and smell and taste, come occipital, parietal, sensory/ motor strippings and sortings, guttural snortings. Ecstacy.
Now: I've got it. Gotten, like a point or a lay or a virus, it is. Or so I say.
"Once, upon a time…"
And in earnest I object to the eye object put on the table and appropriate. Inside the look, it is.
It is timely. And the more I see, the more it is not Kansas anymore.
"Often, inside this moment…" I'm over it. I let it go. It is the bird's eye view, taken, shaken. My little objet trouve, found by chance and birthed into aesthetic, a piton. This metal spike has an eye to hold rope passing through its hole. It is driven into rock of ages or ice at the hearts of queens. And through its pretense the climb emerges, timely.
"Rarely, under that epoch…"
My job is undermining me and thee. Never mind.
It is. All. Beside the point, somewhere over the rainbow.
"Always, beside the chronos…" Objection
According to MaX:
Oh, Rx, man of medicine, 'tis a pity you can be so pithy. Next you will be shouting: "Tell me about the rabbits, MaX. Are we there yet?"
You are not the only one who sees men on the moon and rabbits, simultaneously. Or hears cocks crow in different languages. (Cock a doodle, KiKiRiKi.) You oneiric butterfly, do you really believe you awaken in your writing? Do you fancy yourself, tasty found object?
What is your object? To whom do you send your action for result? Who reads this drivel?
Is it found tucked behind commodes at rest stops under strings of numbers claiming to be routes to the best minds of our generation, to angel headed lost battalions of platonic conversationalists? Where have I heard all this before?
And I've read Heidegger, too. I know about being and time and time bombs. I've looked into the mirror and seen my face before birth. I think I was holding onto a root. Or was it a root beer? A real cliff hanger, no? Or at least hung over.
I am no human seraphim. And neither are you.
Postscript, according to Rx:
"Well, while I'm here I'll do the work. And what's the work? To ease the pain of the living.
Everything else: drunken dumbshow." So said Allen Ginsberg. Just look at the sunflower. Ah…
— Rx is the FloridaW eekly muse
who hopes t o inspire profound mutiny
in all those w ho care to read. Our Rx
may be wearing a pirate cl oak of in visibility,
bu t emanating fr om within this
shadow is hope that r eaders will f eel
free to respond. Who kno ws: You may
even inspire the muse. Mak e contact if