Camelot-66
Evenly
she rode through skies of summer dawn, interleaving cumuli and sprigs of solid
copper rooftop roosters, spinning into sighs of latitudes beyond repair, of
tropics insubordinate, of gales in western stormy brow line featurettes and
dark bespectacled survival videos of savage trunk line murmurings down
telegraphic gnosis.
Duplicated
sentiments arose from her redundant circuitry, pinning wanderlust to outrage,
sympathy to itchy reticence, wholesale laughter to worn despotic gloom; all
looming in uptake segues once ignored, now front and center for all to raise a
lowbrow tantrum over, especially her big sister, Pettigrew Ad Svetticlip.
Young
Svetti (as we fondly called her), Aunt Petti to the toddling elementals of the
clamoring Crumpetico clan, was quite the looker: all legs and curls and wispy
where it mattered most to leering uncles, stepfathers, hit batsmen, visiting
repairmen, constables, stable hands, unstable hidden idiots, vicars, vicarious
drill seekers, lamentably somatic actuaries on weakened holiday to the norm of
Prance, simian rain forest defenders, orange entangled florists in training,
pluperfect seesaw breakers peering through chain link fences at schoolyard
jungle gym catharsis clues…
Yes,
she was well more than all that any man could want, but still not quite enough
for JFK-99, his brother Byobby (erstwhile RFK-150), their womanizing sidekick
Caesar-27, his highness Elvis-101, and Camelot-66 (Jack’s entourage/backing
band of Hendrix-90, Janis-6, Wolfie-9109, Nietzsche-1888, and Snocrates-57).
Fortunately,
this lobotic retinue tended to cancel itself out, bickering in endlessly
byzantine varieties of bot-blocking, rendering themselves virtually invisible
to all but your most fastidious poltergeist detector. Even so, Young Svetti was
tantalizingly close to JFK-99’s ravenously tuned pheromone receptors, just a
short dimensional warp away from pure tobacco pleasure; and he knew it, for she
left him pouring perspiration, dying (if only that were possible, he sometimes
groaned) to elude his brother’s grasp, then hurdle Caesar’s allergic siege,
hip-fake Elvis, riff on Jimijam, bring off Joplin, wig out Wolfie…
But
what to do with Friedrich? This had always stumped him; led, if truth had any
value, to the grassy knoll’s inevitable recursive swap of timed-out frozen
warrior to any of a countless skein of ecologically viable timelines, whirled
without endgame blunder, self-mates fanned to barnyard barriers of seedless
haystack farmers’ daughters, funneling fresh shot from future fodder to gross
diversion’s pardoned recompense of cyclic rain.
So
much for JFK-99’s patented thought process. RFK-150, Caesar, Wolfie, Janis,
Jimi, even Snocrates all devolved to similarly tangled leavings, bumping into
how to counter Nietzsche’s simple predilection for quiet afternoons alone with
interminably sustained chords of major, minor, dissonant, hermetic, asymptotic,
vitriolic, now symbiotic; imitating assonance, consonants, literally alimentary
alliteration, flooding the piano at Villa Silberblick hour by day by year for
nearly the entire final decade of the 19th Century.
Indeed,
Friedrich had proved quite a stumbling block, not just for lobots everywhere
but for all mankind on planet Dearth, and through no fault of his own. Co-opted
decades after his premature demise, fully misinterpreted, appallingly
oversimplified, ruthlessly bastardized, his work had formed the illegitimate
springboard and pseudo-intellectual gumdrop for global mechanization; first as
periodic war, finally as continual ecological erosion, soon rendering the
entire timeline unviable. Paradoxically, his work would have the opposite
effect in lobotic circles, where it short-circuited the baser motivations,
rippling viability throughout the continuum.
John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. His work
has been nominated for Best of the Net and has appeared in many literary
journals. A collection of his poetry,Intunesia, is available at http://www.lulu.com/
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