Big Legged Woman, Keep Your Dresses Down, You Got somethin' under there, Baby, Make a Bulldog Hug a Hound (Bonnie Lee Bakley, Me, Dotterel Trees)
I was for strangeness, time warping posed an anomaly not anomalous any more, that time being before, the hipness sickened us.
COVID-19 pandemic might make young Gen-Zs quiver, au verso, coming down with COVID -- they are right to think the End of the World is turning, it's been burning and burning and burning and burning.
maskless sexuality spilling girding loins, Bull studding Heifer on his day off,
Big Legged Woman, Keep Your Dresses Down, You Got somethin' under there, Baby, Make a Bulldog Hug a Hound
for a second there; and as a College Boy from the great State that ate its own weight in crustaceans, and whose feminine partners wear shirts men make which attest to it.
Just 'do' as Huey Long, the Kingfish, 'do' (scrivener of Southern songs of my South, Louisiana -- where it used to be said on some Potato Chip Truck Panels, then, and I'm going back before my time, "60 Miles Fresher," -- a cuspy 'OK Boomer,' Late in the Season, but still IDing with true 'Died-in-the-War,' 'army Coat, army car,' Vietnam-Go-Boomer -- then boom-boom in the Boom-Boom Room Room)
...
*you shoulda seen the facial expression at the end of what Poe, Pynchon, and Kerouac, all up to NO-GOOD and, if it were a thing for Edgar or Jack -- no-way, Jose, TP --merrily writing screeds of unending lucubration, peripatetic athletics, or that walkabout they go on and call its name in Pennsylvania Dutch, Amish, free ranging minds whose mouth they get through to introduce something potable, devotable, and dotable into the gut, whose profundity in Jack and Poe's case (please don't read that in Afrikaans), notably lauded, queer ducks dined, sure, K., very believably, the story goes, having already, like us, but without Plague, except in philosophic, temporal, semiotic, derangement of the senses-ways, famously resourcefully did the ultimate hack, whose hat's colors were not white, nor black, but whose masterpieces, if not viral, scaled for lack of convention, burned, burned, burned -- because, well, they are respectively, 'Inventor of Short Story," First American Goth Aesthetic, and as for Jack, what Poe had in Spades, he had in Rolls, wound like toilet tissue tissues from the loo on which to type
-- the Beer, Brats, bi-phetamine -- possessing him like poor poet, Coleridge, who wrote on Laudanum, like Edgar A., who one night and whilst bearing down hard on a nib, a knock at the door ........
(fell asleep) ......
blasted at pleasurable part Kubla Khan ... skip a beat.
Yes, because like Poe, whose requirement for ruminative prose was, unlike Jack, whose bulletproof condition could 'hear the grass grow,'
he needed a modicum, as in Salinger's Bunker-writing out-building lair, where sexy College Chicks could tend to him and then leave him be, to that Great unpublished bullet in his chamber, really a safe, and never will be published, because he wants it that way, and after all, those girls are now grown but still remember, and obey.
Jack was the first Houseproud Stay-at-Home Beat, and his Mom cooked him whatever it was he wanted to eat
and like they didn't dig that like that.
But ... someone tapped my shoulder and didn't have to say, get to the point, Hux --
He MacGivered (sp? don't care, not late boomer shit), an ingenious way for him, Pillproud, polluted on Bud, but of all of the troika-full of company, he got to that place where ...
Dylan Planet Waves, Richard Hell's Cover of Going Going Gone, is doing its thing in my head now too, what with the two people who are still humming along reading or quarantining down for so long and being read to, delivered Foodstuff, become thoroughly Cabin Fevered and Housebound, like what used to be on Dr. Phil, Donahue, Oprah's Show, who are sailing by us loving the desperate, anonymous, camaraderie, which is not really there for which they have been delectating, at arms length, its still-too-social for agoraphobes with hella Social Distances,best friend, Social Anxiety, to a lesser extent, the 40 % of the hard-to-pin-down people who love to Tell the Alpha Type-As and overloud of us, what we think absurd, but if we heard what we said, the way they heard how it sounded (i really can't -- Fiona Apple's one -- first to post a meme about that 'type' of person who is, has been prepared for this day, they thought would never find them so suited for -- who, FIONA? i never believe people who say they are that they think they are because, who are they to say?
Jerry Lee will never lay herein, ado.
Kenny Rogers (not related) will never own it again.
Bonnie Lee Bakley is murdered (the last danc
e with Evil).
This barren reststop or Memphis cowboy Honky Tonk herder, Doug Easley and I wrought noneffective pre-internet systematizing of music connoisseurs, weirdness countermove roughhouse houseband trucker.
Jerry Lee Lewis trolling sin, 'round 3, a Rolls or Excalibur, paramedics, recurrent pursefull of pills, enough cake for Henry Hill
to lush, a profound Killer, forehead ever-throbbing
-- the heart wants what it wants -- tightass Jordache-stitched
dark denim pant vicing up his surfeit sexe opiate-redundant, soft plaisance
of satisfied mind's on the Green Green Grass of his Dopaminergic-rushing whorebrain -- no presentment -- the Sentinel is me.
My training and resourceful, harmless graft gives me country clout by
pharmacy, phraseology, fully erudite, by receipt of endogenous substantiation, consecrate irrevocably the appearance-only, of what's there and shouldn't be ad what is and should -- Bread, Wine, exigent.
STILL, so Let a Soldier Drink, Excellent Well.
Jerry Lee spake to me through the Bard, as told and shewn one gloaming meeting of mine and hers, in his childhood room, Frankie Jean, his sister and I sat on his childhood bed in the museum she'd made of it and talked a lot about things that no one should really know but she;
but I already knew when to quit after being karate chopped by the Killer backstage at the Ritz for having to much brains ofr the head, as told to me also by Frankie Jean, which was a thing, one of the only things they had that they took out of that swamp where they lived with snakes falling through the roof, Frankie Jean wrote out by Kerosene Lantern, a pretty good little first effort for a child, a song called End of the Road, her brother when signed to Sun recorded and had a small hit with, but forever will always remind me of her and I holding hands where she wrote it and talking about all the people hanging from the trees on Black River -- playing --
or knowing her, she made me think I did, which was doing fine, and then she got up, once more the clearing of the throat (well, she had to have had some kind of mild condition, and it might as well be minor Tourette's with a little Coprolalia thrown in for good measure, in case you were wondering why in the fuck she was always clearing her throat), and reached up to the top of the closet filled with miraculous things only known to her -- the best kind of curator, and she knew I knew the second it came down that what else would she show me that no one else would ever care or even know, or dare to think would be right within reach, and she handed me a small worn, dogeared Program from 1969, San Francisco, of Catch My Soul, with all the cast's signatures -- of which only one is memorable today, as her brother, whose Iago, the Dark Moor, some jokes there about it better left to the Bard to here, and his great anxiety at taking on the part ...
in situ entry, still remaining -- Tosches, Sam Phillips, Dewey Phillips, J.W. Whitten, Kenneth Lovelace, method of loci (loci being Latin for "places") is a strategy of memory enhancement which uses visualizations
of familiar spatial environments in order to enhance the recall of
information. The method of loci is also known as the memory journey,
memory palace, or mind palace technique. This method is a mnemonic device adopted in ancient Roman and Greek rhetorical treatises (in the anonymous Rhetorica ad Herennium and Quintilian's Institutio Oratoria).
Many memory contest champions report using this technique to recall faces, digits, and lists of words on psychology, neurobiology, and memory.
The method of loci', an imaginal technique known to the ancient Greeks and Romans and Yates book The Art of Memory.
the subject memorizes layout of building, or arrangement of geographical
entity composed of a number of discrete loci.
desiring recall, subject 'walks' through these loci in imagination and commits each, forming image, item, and feature locus.
Retrieval by walking through loci, allow efficacy inestimable interference
Ferriday, LA, Clayton, LA,
chainlink Napoleonic ruler de sophist hectare, phrenoloment ...
Broussais, F. J. V. (1847). Lectures on Phrenology, Delivered in the University of Paris. United Kingdom: George Routledge.
plausible, fallacious, uncommon ephemera, crepuscule lucubration, substantive locus of Vulgate confederacy, pleasureful viewing with no intent, Jerry Lee was giving these backroom party-walls at HH some fucked-up shit to hear tonight, so bear and stand witless,
Hello, ceiling (how'd things go for you today?) ... tonight -- whenthefuckever!
This
irreal venue where Memphis meets something strange from somewhere proximate to Graceland, 24-hours a
day --
you will never see the Killer here, or like this again.
hiding in plain sight, Charlotte Rampling, or Catherine Deneuve sip espresso at your local bistro
recorded at Doug Easley's backyard studio; funded by New Rose Records'
Patrick Mathe
$6,000 1990-dollars (60k today); songs handpicked by me, an
already-strange Memphis melange of Honky-Tonk Gumbo, or Soul Zydeco, already anomalous Memphis and Opelousas respectively.
Inherently NOT pristine -- no organic origin encumbers adherence.
No NATIVIST ollapodrida or MemphaeStheticians to correct --
undetectable ebullience makers, 'joyful accomplices,' I had to, of course, become inspired
by
Doug 'K-dough' Easley
aka