Out In The Styx, On Hwy Six

THE DANGER IS PAST; MUSHROOM CITY IS NO MORE…

I slept out in the open, just to let my mind run free. Last night I slept down by the ocean, beneath the boughs of an old oak tree.

I don’t even know; I don’t even know; I don’t even know if I could do the City. I don’t even know; I don’t even know; I don’t even know if I could do the City. 

There was once a place known to one and all who visited as Mushroom City, situated on a plain in a flood control district behind a military levee built by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, those friendly folks who brought you the Panama Canal, facilitated the two-ocean Navy, ushered in the era of PAX AMERICANA…

Which is no more. Which is no more? Which is no more…than past is prologue of the future past in tense awareness of that which is gone, now, but hardly forgotten by those who once visited.

Maybe there is some truth to the rumor that the Corps had a lot of trouble with folks fishing off the bridge. Been known to happen.

It is written, the bright young minds at the Texas Agricultural & Mechanical University at College Station, Texas, a component of the University of Texas System and an institution dedicated to the systematic military engineering of the planet to its very foundations – HAVE SOLVED THE PROBLEM of the psychoactive fungi known as Amanita Muscaria so favored by the psycheliacs of the future past so well remembered in song and fable, legend and amongst dancing fools of all who care to – DANCE!

The pastures of the Addicks-Barker Flood Control District were once strewn by the magic mushrooms as soon as sunlight struck the cow patties and the hip devotees could pick them.

Through an adroit management on an atomic level, the research biologists of the agricultural university just up the Styx Six bridal path of the iron monsters have solved the problem by altering the very structure of the organism to eliminate the psychoactive ingredient itself.

One may go to town on what one may choose, but the exercise is that of futility, for the only thing to be obtained is a taste of a once  wild mushroom that grows in fresh cowshit after rains and does nothing for the head whatsoever.

And then I realized the one singing about sleeping down by the ocean – beneath the boughs of an old oak tree – was me. It wasn’t a dream, after all. I had been there, all night long, all along. Selah!

So mote it be.

The Legendary

THE ENERGY CORRIDOR – ON THE STYX, HWY SIX (CLICK IMAGE)