Ol Jordan Waza Ribber

Ol Jordan waza ribber like the old Yazoo one day back in summer morn of aught two Dave ‘n Miss Daisey Reeves and me shoved off on a ‘luminum flatbottom barge ‘long with his mother sipping mint julip tea in a broad white hat with plastic easter blooms on the broad, slow as Indianola afternoon River, still, leaf particles floating jetsamlike upon its slick-as-glass steamarising misty dawn surface and my wife and boy too who snagged sixteen croppies though on the way back a trailer flat was had

And we were helped with that by a dude of dapper deportment in a light yellow suit and hat banana pastel with cabcallowayish tails and silken blue broadband but he had a jack, James E. Seaton the Third come froma Baltimore way for a Grenville job in radio, all jazz. Soon after that we three familyers piled in the car for New Orleens while on the air hearing Catch-a-Turian and sited the graystone Vicksburg monuments strewn ’round trench grass ditch remainders aside woods tis said ol ghosts Confederate roamed could be heard in heat by night, murmuring bad diction dixielike. At city croissant we stayed in flower wallpaper room where a bronzey plaque
proclaimed a Beatle had stayed, on Richeleau Street neath balcony grates black and pink of paint.

Our adventure ought next rebegin at the Twilit Grotto-Esoteric Archives starring The Heparchia Mystica of ol Mister John Dee, British Library catalogue Sloane some number dash three, late medievalish meister of metaphysik and Newton, Isaac’s afriend and whose writ sticks out a magickality wonderprose of paragraphic wordfluxion in earnest doze.

Aber erstmahl, (but first) as my Wisconsin German prof had oft said, a nostalgic note on a place once visited auf neinzehn hundert zwei und ochtzig (1982), about which a strange old brochure was found in our New Orleans hotel room in deep brown mahogeny nightstand within a King James Gideon marking with pencil underline a Proverbs verse, starting with As in another world you find yourself just steps from the bustling Wenceslas Square when you open the door to the restaurant Trilobite, depicting then the same dreary Prague known worldwide for bridge statuary, obscure kings, sad brown beer and women who can’t sing a stitch of Nieblungslied Ring.

The Trilobit tidbit of a bar was shuttered later that year—how odd to see it within my shady dank bayou hôte while outside a gorgeous terrace entrèe sports red chrysanthemums and lavender flower bush Provénce reminiscent with tall windows blackframed within bright white walls of brazen neostucco glaze.

But there it was, the somehow transatlantically ineffably perduring Trilobit, where tiny portions of Kartoffeln und Apfelmus came on bland white platten mit ein Glass deep schwarz Bieren, I’d heard burned down round the ZeitGeist of nine one one, part of the anachronist edgy Barrandov Terrace deco designed from ’27 to ’31 by the great Maxurban upon the steepsloped Habavra hill (where in part was filmed Hedy’s and history’s first softporn flick (with an ‘x’) EXTACY!, story of a young beauty who marries a disinterested old geezer who jilts her just aft their wedding only to discover next day a handsome prince freeroaming the estate while she’s gone a horsebackriding in ecstasy soon to follow, (black & white brief pan slight to silkscreened solo face unbright rolling eyes (in fade to brief dark grimace, cut.)))

And that was that weird to think of it, along the elongate causeway over awatery Bama bypassing Mobile toward Tallahasway to the bigboxstore’s greeter who was very presidential in demeanor though thought he was the departmental boss of cuticle pushers on sale alongside all manner of odd device starring hair, eyes, lips, lobes, for paint by numbers face the whitesmocked earringy girls freesampled to death selling butterfly broach of crackerjack gold and bright bracelets of old glass diamonds never sold but as birthstone afterthought of that aunt from Idaho unknown but to the few, the proud, the Marine cousin who got shot one time in Cuzbeckystan, the last bikini in Boise’s bigtime potatoe ranch, all the uncut stuff you can crap in Sun Valley dead southwest from the endless flatlander terrain miscomprising the bountied a buck per Montana gopher in hordes, Last Of The Big Sky Varmints. We bought gas from a lady boothed behind bulletproof glass a grinless brunette with bobbypinned brow and ring in her
snout a frozensoul challenge for Madam Traussaud not, you’d suspect, a Floridian original from a hot Cuban disco.

Back to Dee, mighty necromance em cee and muffless progenitor of alchemese, Barnum P.T. precursor and infamous friend of the Queen who once seanced the court with whirring pyrotechnic ease of flash surrounded by floorcircle of old skulls acquired by squire from Abbey of St. Swithun, companion of Dulfinic bard Castigan’s cousin of the Blessed Bede who wye gnoh doth writ Historia Ecclesiae Anglicani as vox populi intermittent.

Be that as it may, or may not be, not to be conflate with that to be the question, tis ryt we press on by Bede and Queen to what of Dee shalt here be not left behind unsaid:

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