Potter called a butcher knife he used
on the Friendship Old Hick.
From Old
a carbon-steel blade and wooden handle. Brass rivets.
Andrew Jackson. I once took the brains out of
the skulls of some Hessian mercenary soldiers
we dug up at San Marcos de Apalache, a fort
from the Seminole Wars, when
I went in through the foramen magnum with an iced-tea spoon.
When I punctured the integument a pink miasma emanated
into the laboratory. Everything little looks big in a mist.
A sickly sweet smell. Odor, o-no. Comes out like a ribbon
lies flat on the brush. Bix Beiderbecke.
“In a Mist (Bixology).” Sometimes Hick
called himself Moldy Fig.