The Golden Palomino

He was, as his sister Olga remarked in a note to her future husband, in really bad shape, and "one sometimes has to wonder about the wiseness of his self-imposed dietary regimen." This last in reference to the increasingly ascetic discipline the Young Neoist inflicted on himself in which he progressed from the avoidance of certain foods to the point where he would eat nothing but carry-out fried chicken.

Thus did late May find the Young Neoist bedridden at the Pego Berndt Center, a very laxly run Baltimore nursing home. The Young Neoist was often delirious, picked at himself incessantly and spoke of his belief in something called "rectal brightness."

On Monday, June 2, the Young Neoist seemed somewhat improved. He was able to spend much of the day working on his massive "Neoist Reading List & Bibliography" and even made several additions. However, on closer inspection these were found to be unintelligible. Around four o'clock the next morning, Dora noticed his labored breathing. She alerted Klaptrap, the attending physician, who administered a camphor injection.

The Young Neoist became extremely agitated and began to rage at Klaptrap, demanding the long-promised bucket of fried chicken. "You've always promised it to me. For four years you've been promising it, you're torturing me, you've always tortured me. I am not going to talk to you anymore. So be it, I'll die without any fried chicken." He was given a wing and a thigh, but he still persisted: "Don't try to fool me. You're giving me Roy Rogers' Roast Beef!"

As his mental confabulation became more pronounced, the Young Neoist confused Klaptrap with Rudolf Steiner, his idol and lifelong role-model, and apparently worried about Steiner's hair-style. He also sang songs that made no sense and wasted everybody's time in a big way, referring to himself in these as

combed the soil / Then the sleeping heads could thump / Suggest vaginal steam love / Bag butt-ing side grow it forward / Go fried up a side">
Pieces might grow -- maybe get a bucket
I mean a haircut!
At least it gardens hands
Hands rectal rum think home at ever love like "Simon J. Pie"
Strings of beetles be seeing chicken love ever erect in the feet and heads
Mucous of sleeping families strewn in a sea of mucous plans the hands not a once-planned sleeping chin but a whole nursing home splashed coughing pies
Heads bloom letting in rectal brightness and maybe seeing fried chicken
Fried bag! But not pies strewn side pieces steam the salad oil back & home-it!
Pies of butt -- a hair-do made me delay in maybe loving pieces splashed pies double for mud could double for Rudolf Steiner! Or made me delay causing love like when it plans rectal brightness
Mulled might garden that side of his head
Hair-do high and rectal be certain of fisting burial sleeping rectal curtain the thump of love could bag feet and heads which have made his hair a black curtain invented sleeping down days that nightfall ten down decision to fist a hen for double-wish chicken to finger if down sleeping days or chicken ten or more double or combing the hair-do combed down over his left eye letting love in but sticky finger delay Rudolf Steiner's butt, stumbling hair said, here & now
From the thinking the sleeping chance is merely your butt which involved
Much fried chicken that could double sitting on it, here & now, suggesting
A cleft chin in a happy frame of mind
Where going on and off pies combed down over his left eye the nightfall that we,
On the thump of hot mulled rum drinks down the ten pieces of going
Down to monkeys bright, invented.
All Steinerites! All in mucous that could double for
The Golden Palomino if heads could double for the whole bag
And strings at least what to invent days of stumbling hair that said I invented they --
Did I???
Yes I did
Like when the bag of coughing through the fist
Invented the garden plan's burial
And "Simon J. Pie" invented monkeys
But not pies which were invented by chance
And the feet & heads of sleeping families
Strewn in a sea of mucous that could double for mud in bloom or mouth
Of dig it up to your butt invented drooly sheets
I once invented a new hair-do for Rudolf Steiner,
Which involved, among other things, letting the hair on one
Side of his head -- the left side -- grow long as his chin, the whole
Swatch combed down in strings over his left eye.
It was so -- Veronica Lake! But nobody ever leaned forward eagerly
And said, "Hair-do high and rectal be." Days
Of sitting high and rectal in this lounge
Have made me delay nightfall and wish
That Steiner could be here now,
His hair a black curtain concealing the left side
Of his face, his bright eye bright & probably
Seeing a foot of soil. Then I would
Thump down my mug of hot mulled rum and suggest
We both go out and get a haircut -- I mean a bucket!, a bucket
Of fried chicken! A real big one, ten or more
Pieces at least, the greasy stem causing us
To think of arthritic fingers splashed with boiling
Salad oil and why we can never go back and work
At that nursing home, ever again. Oh, I stumble
About in ecstasy of sticky hand! Too, I believe
If Steiner and I could chow down on some good fried
chicken, it might make Florian the Neoist think twice
About his decision to love up a hen

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