Julius Caesar suspects Brutus of practicing compositions on the
piano. “I heard music,” the strongman alleges. “Études, Brute?” If only our
back-stabbiz had been musicians, instead. They’d of (sic) kept their steely,
steely connives in their two-nix and we’d of (sic) slugged-down an Orange
Julius Caesar Salad. In short, weed’a lived and it wouldn’a been uh backstabbiz
atoll. Later, Caesar and Brutus haggle over which catalogue-retailer to
patronize. “J. Crew, Brute?” says Caesar. They have some thought-balloons in
this arena, some Ideas of Merch. To this point, the pooch hasn’t initiated a
coup, a coo hasn’t emanated from the putsch. And as for empire, Romulus hasn’t
reamed us out, Remus hasn’t loaded a CD-Romulus into the disc drive. Anything
could happen, even détente, even breaking bread, peace-meal. It’s both
terrifying and wonderful all at once, kind of like Brutus, bored out of his
bust, making his late-night Bru-tay call to a gal, a Gaul pursued by the scent-o’tour,
himself. Rife goes on. A gambling conference kindles-up at a hotel across the
street, where someone delivers The Keno Address. When indentured servants
reinsert their false teeth, they become dentured servants, no? Ever notice how
antlers resemble driftwood? It’s like mature bucks are washing up on shore,
waves and waves of sea-sawbucks, them and their weather-worn driftwood antlers,
ten bucks a dozen in Ten-buck-two. If you have a job, or if you seek a job, then
you’re under occupation. Behold the afternoon sun. It could be—a little
bit—hotter before the instrument begins to fail, and it will begin to fail, the
mechanism failing the person: this is our bleak future, dear citizen, all mechanisms
will begin to fail. At the request of Brutus, Julius Caesar agrees to engage in
the nautical guessing game, Battleship. As dick-tater, Caesar goes first, of
course. “A-2, Brute?” he guesses. He guesses correctly, even though he doesn’t
kitchen-sink no gravy bloat. The bodies of the other senators reflect on every
bright surface, their motions unlike stabbing but in emphasis of their numbers,
their jagged rationale. They attack Julius Caesar for being a crass-dressing
tyranny even as they, themselves, will become tyranny, with or without the
salad dressage, and they, themselves, will be slain by the residents of tyranny
2-B. Recital is a good deity, too shrewd for the mothball operas that
resolve themselves (phone booth, no mouthpiece) in the public confessionals of prepaid
gravity, amid the sunlit metals of confrontation.
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2 comments:
Rife goes on. Shit.
--RITA
"Wife goes on," but not in my life. "Fife goes on, too," either Barney or "flautist." So it's all to say that rife goes on, especially when one is under occupation -- working or seeking work.
-----------------------BA
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