The Rozen Garden

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

My Brother-with-schizophrenia told me this story back in 2001. I liked it so well I posted it on Wattpad. Once again, he beats me with his stunning imagery and appealing prose. God bless you, Bro'.

 

The Rozen Garden (I assume he meant Rose Garden!)

 

A. Guinevere Kern for Wayne

Copyrighted 2001

 

[ My brother-with-schizophrenia once called me and rambled off the following “Prose Poem.” I have reproduced it word for word – I liked it so much. He has never been married and is supported by family members. I felt like the “Rozen Garden” was a place of peace and beauty for him, in spite of the tumult of his neurochemicals, his severe thought disorder. ]

 

 

 

**Howard Hughes had a camera for traveling in November.  I met Howard Hughes in LA, in his electronic Rozen Garden.  There was electricity connected to movie projectors.  You know?  You know? Like a cast-iron engine, like you used to have in your Capri.

 

One piece of metal connects us to every last thing made in the water cycle. At the bottom of the ocean is a machine, a wheel spinning. Scottish Humans and Jupitrons made the wheel. Scottish Humans have special metal in their veins; that’s why they’re so strong. The machine is metrical and dolphins swim around it.

 

It waters the Rozen Garden.

 

Hughes was a November engineer. He stung like a Squirrelly Scorpio. Someone has to use a car or a boat – Humans in color are also typed as water humans; the sun’s real strong in LA.  You can still find some shade in the Rozen Garden.

 

Minimum wage isn’t ¼ of what you need for rent or mortgage. Even the President is talking about minimum wage.  LA is the home-base for the Venutians.  They like the atmosphere of the Rozen Garden, too.  Everyone I met when I was living in your basement had heard of the Rozen Gardens.

 

I’ve had trouble with the horsheins.  A Scorpio woman stuck her horn in my spinal column and I’ve had trouble ever since.  My head is a garden, a rose garden, a uterus. I hear the voices from the past, present and future.

 

I am a spy, a rock star, a Mighty Foot. When I’m on stage, I talk for three hours – it’s a performance.  No one else can talk. I’m a secret agent.  No one is supposed to know. A guy sticking his tongue into a girl’s mouth, he will ruin his metricals. Any human I see on land is not working – every single human on the planet looks pitiful.  They don’t give me a job or money, because I don’t have a wife or children.  They won’t cut me a check – the game is over – as soon as they hear don't I have a family.  No one works. No one can find work.

 

You might as well sit in the Rozen Garden and watch the electrical projector with Howard Hughes.

 

He was rich.


Submitted: December 23, 2020

© Copyright 2021 RexMundi555'.-. All rights reserved.

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Comments

Steven P. Pody

Well, you don't read that every day! An interesting mind with many wheels at work...

Wed, December 23rd, 2020 8:50pm

RexMundi555'.-

I know, right? He's really funny and very kind. But he truly cannot go one minute without talking. I told my Other Brother I am just a shade off from Wayne's Curious World of Surrealism!
lk

Wed, December 23rd, 2020 9:28pm

LE. Berry

So many fascinating lines in the piece...and I love the title.

Wed, December 23rd, 2020 10:06pm

Author
Reply

I do, too! Somehow, the Rozen Garden sounds like a nice, peaceful place to hide from all the Craziness manifesting in the world right now. If only I could find it . . .

Wed, December 23rd, 2020 3:22pm

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