Delousing the Muse

Four-twenty-eight in the morning and I’m thinking about the Husserl/Walser connection, or is that the Walser/Walser connection, it’s like being in a frigging windstorm, or is that sandstorm, seems rather silly to be cutting hares, so I’ve taken a sulpha, a pillory, or is that a poultice-sulpha, who knows, or cares for that matter, really. I have no idea what a pillory is or isn’t, nor care to, so I guess I’ll cut some hares and be done with it. Okay so we’ve got the log-legged Miss Jeffery’s kowtowing it down, maybe up, the middle-school hall, high heels clip clopping like a Bedouin on PCP, a Bedzin might be more appropriate, okay a Bedzin with a tasselled fez, that sounds good, clopping down the hall with a tasselled fez on, a ream of freshly mimeographed pluses and minuses and mathematical crap, insufferable crap, in her arms, cradled like a sleeping, okay, not sleeping but a jumping and wriggling child, a Bedzin child, a waif let’s say. This is going nowhere, the sulpha must be working, or is it the poultice, who knows, who really knows, anything, really, that’s the question really, when you separate the wheat from the shaft, my namesake in fact, that kickboxing blackjack wielding so-and-so, what’s his name, my name, my goodness me, I’ve forgotten my own name, maybe what I thought was a sulpha was actually PCP, a tincture of angle-dust, a seven-percent delousing, gosh, this is terrible, what would Miss Jeffery’s say, indeed, what would she say?