That Wasn’t a Microdose (Fissure Kitty, Faun, & I)

No, I tuned arpeggios at 6 and 16.
Fissure Kitty at a neighbor’s glance—under the shake-up of a manic-depressive trend—laden with oppressive fudge, in August heavyweight. I initiated it.
My fissure sunbather fuzz, with fanfare drums—from Miami to Kankakee—to backfire applause and Janus-faced adulation.
Faun joined us then on an anachronism-fueled jag. We didn’t make a record until we tarred 48 Housefeathers in Idioteque, Arizona.
I witnessed Faun’s beauty—an undergarment so severe—it was a triumph. A homily to downy wool.
A “hello” at Arrowhead—followed by another record. Produced by the very weightlifter convicted for ordering 40 Chomp Bards about in a wanton manner.
I took Fissure Kitty and Faun for an early morning jaunt in search of Beatles-subcontract-hairstyles. The barbers motored with clippers called Mr. Potpourri, Ms. Headlamp, and Mrs. Dingleberry.
Another jaunt. The peace broken. I didn’t understand why Faun and Fissure Kitty fought so intensely and frequently to the syncopation of the weightlifter’s discharges.
We broke up the band.
We separately formed the BeetleGees, The Third Dinghy, and Neil Dichotomy.
None of us separately ever as artful or popular as we had been together on The Budgie Enema of His Benefactress LP.
Some call for a reunion. Some are nonplussed. Most never knew or ever cared.

What I’m Reading:

Suppose the stars are just our grief reflected back to us,
proof that grief sometimes forgets its source, that it can
find dead things no matter how distant. Everyone arrives
one day and asks, is this it? And the stars answer back with
more stars.

— Victoria Chang / “Starlight, 1962”