The discourses of Confuseus: The Tonguesplash and the Meat Farmer, holding an x-rated postcard.

 

I saw myself from the obverse, the "me" of me, made plain, in the reverse, mirror universe, reverse aspect, and I knew it, though rarely, without cameras, have I seen my own self in that particular, peculiar angle.

I saw myself, too, and my great grandmother, and I, her little cookie boy, a student of nature that was powerless against such precepts as but I could will away.  To wit, saying, "it sounded like fun at the time."  And regret was a forgotten old stone monument with old drying flowers from the a springtime that seemed like yesterday, but was more like four decades ago.  Was it indeed Springtime for Hitler?  Springtime in the Hinterlands?  Or the Roman Spring of Good Heather?

It was such to see sprigs are made to sprig, and vines engrafted.  I watched oaks grow in the ditches.  I smoked something that was not punishable by incarceration, and I let my thoughts just sit, not in travel, not pergolating towards a destination, not generating a shape, but a self-same sedentary parabola that came forward only to intertwine again, interconnect, and collapse on itself in a neat little arc that mirrored perversely its own creation arc.

I got a postcard with illustrated nudity; she was not plain, but had all sorts of roses and vines on her person, telling a tale of business going well, which I was not connected to her business, so the fig she gave went over my shoulder and out of mind just as quickly as I recognized her lovely words.

Had a tonguesplash of Sex On The Beach in the silence of my rooms, "the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls..." and so forth, and that darkness was indeed my old friend that I lay together with and upon I know not how oft.

A veritable "meat farmer" of no renown, but distinguished and decorated within his own person, a Napoleon on a 1.5 acre France; what could one do but sit with a postcard perched between two fingers, a cigarillo between the fingers of the other hand, an alcohol haze retreating across the mental bulwark.