by Gabriel Orgrease
The running joke had become that I was being passed off as Billy Gibbons from Zee Zee Top. I wandered the streets of the French Quarter with family and friends of family. Whenever anyone of the group shouted, “Billy Gibbons, everyone, Billy Gibbons!” I was to go “Har har har.”
It was pleasant warm weather. I had to make up some sounds. I’m not one for realistic impersonations and it does not help that I had no clue what my alter-ego Billy Gibbons should sound like going, “Har har har.” I had to make do on a limited amount of information. Based on the reaction that I got from members of our group I must have sounded like a wheezing donkey getting a suppository. I smiled a lot.
Often what is going on inside of my head, when anything is going on, I try to figure out from signals that emanate from the outside of my head what the anticipation is of my next reaction. Sometimes we must go with the flow. Sometimes it is best to not flow, just go.
In this case it is night and we are in a dank bar with a famous name that I forget, and everyone is drinking, some more or less than another. My new friend, I’ll call him Walter for convenience, well, Walter is sloshed big time, big pink bunny talks to the dark-air of the 7th dimension kind of wasted. We must keep figuring out where is Walter as kinda like an extraterrestrial lizard he does not stay put so well.
I see lights flash across the ceiling and there is a smell of burnt umber. Music is jiggy in the background behind a tumult of mixed voices. Ice melts toward the center of my glass of raw bourbon. I can’t hear so well. Sirens evoke a sense of pending curiosity. I can’t separate the noise from the noise. Keep on an even keel. I shut down and watch people. Faces, arms, movement, eyes that twitch, laughter, tongues stuck out, boob, the guy Mike sat next to me asks me if I like boobs, rather conspiratorial, out the window is the street. Ambient glow of the night. Some readers may think that I make this scene all up. I could if I would.
Next thing I know Walter grabs me by the arm. Pulls me off my chair. He wants me to meet his new friends who stand at the other end of the bar. I am pulled along. He brings me up to two younger dudes and their classy dame and introduces me as Billy Gibbons. I stagger forward, my best imitation of a drunken super-star stagger. I give them each a hug. They don’t seem convinced. I step back and yell at Walter, “What did he say? What did he say?”
Then I fall on the floor to pretend that I am passed out and that my real name is Walt Whitman. I figure this will confuse everyone as they have never seen a video of Walt Whitman braying at Har har har. Easier to mock and imitate poets long dead before television reality shows. But on the way down I hit my head on a bar stool and I really do pass out before coming completely aware in the ER and dream that I am Santa Claus doing a cameo on Duck Dynasty. They clean the sawdust out of my eye sockets. I spit out peanut shells. My shirt smells like it got used. The morning sparrows peck at my beard in search of moldy seeds. I rustle with a wet newspaper. I’m not sure how I got on this park bench. It never hurts to have friends. Oh, my, if only.
I fell off the wagon and they didn't notice,
so I walked. Until I found the puppy and carried it.
Only it wasn't a puppy.
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IN THIS ISSUE–––
• David S. Warren -
OOO Editor's Notes
• Georgia E. Warren -
• Sue Ryn -
I Never Imagined This
• Mary Gilliland -
• David S. Warren -
Poem to Archie
• Don Brennan -
Take Me To the River
• Peter Fortunato -
• Peter Wetherbee -
Sinister Ballad of a
David S.Warren -
We are Nuts
• Rhian Ellis -
• Garriel Orgrease -
• Daniel Lovell -
One for Miriam
• Nancy Viera Couto -
and the Queen
• David Rollow -
• Franklin Crawford -
When I Have Thoughts
That I May Cease to Pee
• David Rollow -
Review: A. R. Ammons
• Chris MacCormack -
Packages (an excerpt)
The running joke had become that I was being passed off as Billy Gibbons from Zee Zee Top. I wandered the streets of the French Quarter with family and friends of family. Whenever anyone of the group shouted, “Billy Gibbons, everyone, Billy Gibbons!” I was to go “Har har har.” (go to story)
When I Have Thoughts That I May Cease to Pee
by Franklin Crawford
My brain, which I am very attached to even though we’ve never met, is doomed to liquefy and bubble out of my ears, nose and mouth, shortly after I am as dead as the DNC.
It’s not the most pleasant thought my mind ever conjured, given that I suspect my brain doesn’t like to imagine its post-mortem condition any more than whatever this self – this symbiont with whom I share my weathered hide – wishes to dwell upon. (go to story)
by Georgia E. Warren
As soon as I got back to my dorm room I remembered. There was no textbook, we were supposed to research the famous artwork of Milan. The test was to identify and discuss the Italian Renaissance art was located in Milan. It was late. The library was closed. I decided I should go to bed and try to get to the library before class.
But I was exhausted: I sat on my bed ready to take my shoes off and fell asleep in my clothes.
Within a minute a very nice Catholic Nun shook my shoulder and told me I should not sleep in the pews of the sanctuary. I told her the problem about my class. I did not tell her it was thousands of miles away
(go to article)________________________
Reiki: Just The Facts
"Take Me To The River"
by Don Brennan
“Whoa! Where did you come from?’’ I set it down on the picnic table as fragments of memories washed over me. It was an old friend that I had found as a child, on a family vacation, somewhere one summer. Even though it was still covered with bits of soil, it was easy to see that it was loaded with interesting minerals. “I’m going to have to hose you off.”
The next two mornings, I spent more time staring at the stone than reading my book. The words were creating images not from The Celestine Prophecy, but from the day this stone first came into my life.
I had glimpses of it sparkling
in a shallow pool of water at
the bottom of a riverbed.
(go to article)
by David Rollow
The Muse came knocking at the writer’s window on a night of wild weather. Her skin seen through the windowpanes was luminous and pale, except for her flushed cheeks. Her green eyes glistened. Never had she looked more beautiful. Gladdened by this unexpected visit--for the page lay empty on his table and the pen lay untouched by the page--the writer stood and unlocked the window, his heart surging against his ribs as if they, too, somehow, were to be unlocked and his heart set free. (go to story)
by Mary Gilliland
Myth is longing. I lose myself in myth. When I would re-read the texts, or re-imagine them, myth led me out of family problems I could do nothing about. It contextualized the martyred strivings of Roman Catholic indoctrination. (excerpt, go to full story)
Margarida, José, and the Queen
by by Nancy Vieira Couto
Margarida saw the Queen in that summer of 1901 when all the days were damp and filled with the smell of salt. She couldn’t see the future through the fog, but she imagined machines, money, and motion, a city crammed with tenement houses and streetcars. She was fourteen years old. She and her mother, Maria Julia, had just arrived in Ponta Delgada, having said good-bye forever to aunts, uncles, cousins and friends, the living and the dead.
(go to story)
The focus of our next Metaphysical Times will be "Memory." (see full size)
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