Corpus Mortalis in the Greek, Hellenic, and Egyptian pantheons, in the vaults they were filled with marble by all the gangs that tried to find them, because it would soon be the longest night in the Aegean world, where it was propitious to indicate places where to spend the night because the Corpus mingled with the Souls of Trouvere in the Apennines, Ghosts of Shiraz from Jaffa, Almas Christi from Leros with the Gerakis, and finally the souls of the Necropolis of Helenikká to support all believing proselytes of the Hexagonal Birthright. They were attracted to the theorization of fragmented intelligence in every being that fears their own, without the opinion of those who leave them alone and hostages in their isolation, and of a corpus characterized by persuasion in the first objects of twilight, which only left distinguish the moons of the nails and not that of the firmament, the intelligence became lethargic and closed itself in its own object of ideology, of the individual and of the gods who administered everything without a Corpus Mortalis, rather they challenged three-quarters of the day, and three-quarters of their spiritual acuity, to resist the siege of space that disrupts the pause in the hour that excludes all gadgets, to counteract the detonated and not rescued exception of the challenge. The voices of the Moiras were tuned in with Circe, under Zefian's ordering principle, who was already delivering the ergonomic ****** of the fourth arrow, to leave it in the carelessness of Vernarth and Saint John already revived, encompassing and assuming three-quarters of the day they glossed to attract them the threshold that behaved in immovable demiurgic, where men stopped being men with intelligence, rather they dialogued about initiations of the cosmos, but without human centrism that acquires it for a dialogue of Timaeus, wherever they may be. the non-existent things, where he splatters her with nuances of science would bring serious stenches of his erudition. The saga was made of the Ekev of causality that explores from an understood cause already issued, but of the Samaritan philanthropist who shone more at this time, than anyone who closes his eyes so as not to open it after the eternal Aegean night. The philanthropic sense was sensitized with reason in the hands of Zefian, after delivering the Saetas knowing that his personality trilled from the Timaeus, not to disagree with it from a human conscience, but from bilocation of the Beit Hamikdash, attributing his conception with low resources of whoever restrains him by rationalizing, but is under the clinical resource of the one who is recovered from his stuttering and dyslalia.

The Argive constructor Tecton already came with his builders, while the Corpus Mortalis hit who or who would hammer from the plexus, or who or what would be the first network of his linear for the Vóreios de Zefian, adjusting to the beginning of a Corpus Mortalis when it began the constructive principle of the Argivo tecton. The arches were deconfigured in irrational measures, which with their sixth sense they could foresee from the trace of the Platonic Philebus, as he nodded with a refined tiresome bustle, but he appropriated it in presupposition, going to settle where everyone goes together to pick the berries of the field frank, next to the Mataki who was already putting an end and closing the Phaedo that was encircling, with the feverish organization of the trembling desire of the philosophical den, not determining to die like Corpus Mortalis in the breviaries of the ellipsis, where everything remains in nothingness or in the outcast of the one who treasures it with more contingents of memory, and of the same one who is reborn from the slags, having had an insight that remains empty in the cliffs, under the figure of a marked man who revives in the lightning bolts that enabled royal wisdom, while his Corpus Mortalis was leaving with his soul that was embracing vast fields of his thesis. Where what he removes when he pulses from the heart, he adds what the dying person adds, although it is not known where he is going, it will summarize his ontology more than a prison inhabitant who poses free on his profane neighbor from the rhetoric that manifests position in his trajectory who will remember him and will not locate him in the next scene of the challenge of a new life. The Phaedo is on the ex-Voto of him with two institutionalized powers, he will have to know who will dare to cure him of his sieges and his demons that resurrect him but not make him his captive. The spell already inaugurated that knowing or deciding in the nomenclatures of a Platonic Demiurge, who from all past life made it ulterior, but not processed from the Seventh Heaven, between both coincidences from an astral magistracy that will take him through the lawsuit of self-exorcism, wild for the greatest mountains that protect him when he wants to warn, that beyond them he will come umpteenth more monumental than themselves, but with his, Phaedo contained in his soul written and rewritten by him and by his Corpus Mortalis.

Scrounging local garage sales... near ten years past... I had found a flat, welded iron, rusty seahorse... 3 feet high... with a good seahorse shape and poise... edges welded and cut... after the haggle... twenty-five dollars..... perfectly added to my estate... covered rust in gold sheen... mounted upon a tree... to greet all comers... with a seahorse kiss!    
     Seller said it was made by the same artist... of the turtle lady statue... to be found in Corpus Christi!  Asked if I had seen it... my reply... No, but I liked the seahorse piece! He expounded... the artist... only had one leg... but was a surfer... well known for this trait... in Corpus Christi!  
     After I had mounted the seahorse... upon it's tree...I did an internet search... looking for anything about the one-legged surfer artist of Corpus Christi!  Found... nothing!  
     End of May, 2019... visiting my sister, Donna... we were wandering Corpus Christi!  She guided us to the surf museum... not knowing the story... of the one-legged surfer artist... creator of my mounted seahorse!  
     Girl at the front desk... Kyla... real nice and friendly... told her about the seahorse and questioned her... she didn’t know... she never heard of a surfer with one leg or the turtle lady statue!  Looking at us just a bit strangely... one legged surfer???
      Donna and I... started our stroll through the small museum!  Along the right side... stood a long row of surfboards... I’ve never surfed... but I was imagining trying it with just one leg!  
      Anyhow... I didn’t really stop to read or look in any detail at any of the exhibits until I reached the back... there was a glass case... which had a piece of simple letter paper...  8.5x11... taped to the front of the glass cabinet!  I started in reading the last paragraph...

     “Welch, 53, and his wife, Chelsea Louise, 23, died September 15, 2001, when their car plunged off the edge of South Padre Island’s Queen Isabella Causeway, which partially collapsed after a string of barges crashed into the bridge’s support pilings!

     Thought to myself... Wow... Who is this guy???  I jumped up to the middle paragraph...

     “Welch lost one of his lower legs in an auto accident in the 1970s, but he kept surfing with a prosthesis.  He wore a peg-like prosthesis at first, then got one with a foot.  He won the prosthesis division of the United States Surfing Championships on South Padre Island in 1998.”

     In the glass case was a welded metal sculpture of a beach scene... with waves, palm trees, and all!  The piece did have some resemblance in style to my seahorse sculpture!  Also, there was a picture on top of the case... of Harpoon Barry... striking a muscular, no shirt pose... in his tattoo shop... his torso covered in tattoos!  
    
     “It is said... he was on the verge of suicide after losing his leg. In one interview with the San Antonio Express News in 1992 he said;  "I may not make it to heaven, but you can be sure I made no deals with the devil to get where I'm at now, "  Looking down at his false leg stretched out in front of him, Welch said quietly: "It is a real empty feeling when you put one of these on for the first time, especially if you are an adult on your own. And your mama'a not there and your daddy's not there, and the people in the hospital tell you, 'This is the best it's going to get.  I made my first leg myself, out of Hi-C cans. I couldn't wait for my leg to get finished. I wanted to walk. I guess I got the idea from the Tin Woodsman in 'The Wizard of Oz.' That leg actually worked pretty well!”

     I had found my one-legged surfer artist!  I walked towards Donna... who was already half-way leaving the museum...  I hollered to her... she just had to come see this ... “I think I found the one-legged surfer!”  She had recently had partial knee replacement... and was hobbling!  She said if I was fooling her... she better not walk back all that way for nothing!! She came back to the glass case... we read through the letter in it’s entirety!  
     Then we went... and told Kyla at the front desk... she again looked at us again a bit strange... but then reluctantly left her post to go with us to take a look... she was then astounded!  Said she never knew about the one-legged surfer... although she had worked at the museum for several years!  Said there were also a couple metal sculptures... at the front of the museum... she thought were also done... by Harpoon Barry!  We took pictures of those also!  

In the letter we also read...

     “Welch had numerous tattoos and body piercings.  He wore a tiny 14 carrot gold harpoon through one ******.  That is how he got his nick name according to a friend, Scott Gangel.”  

     "I am a unique, self-made sensation!” he said matter-of-factly... in the interview with the Express News!  
    
     It's been 18 years since eight people died when South Padre Island's Queen Isabella Memorial Causeway collapsed... sending 11 people into the water below... four days after the 9/11 attacks!  A string of tow barges had struck the supporting pilings!  A section of the roadway had collapsed...
     I promised Kyla... I would donate my seahorse piece to the museum upon my death!  I only hope my death... is as grand as Harpoon Barry’s plunge into the Gulf of Mexico with his young wife!  Wonder what they were doing during the plunge... what was Barry doing... yelling Yippee Ki Yay... or Surf’s up... Dude!!!... maybe???  
    
Surfed waves on one leg
Young wife... crazy life... grand death
Harpooned by Barry

©  2019 Jim Davis

it happens all the time, that feeling of reading a saturday newspaper supplement; had i mentioned that i find the journalistic medium of writing, the most obnoxious? the most tiresome, the most wearisome, the most, how should i say: *******? i don't which i detest more, the politicians, or the journalists... i never seem to ever pick the "right" choice... it's the politicians with their lies, but it's also the journalists with their social-media "attention" to detail that bugs me... who are these people, who are they?

and it only comes in the shape of an article
you're never too old. or are you?
who are these cardinals, bishops and monks
of the "writing" class fooling?
      i ****** well hope there's an inquisition
coming...
   i'm just tired of a culture that only celebrates
but *one form of torture / execution...
crosses have become so unimaginative that
they had to become necklaces...
              yawn...
                     but these (cliche) bourgeoise opinions
are worse than torture...
         women: bare legs, provocative dancing,
zara, bouncy hair, selfies, macron age-gap bf,
getting drunk, hats (ascot esp.),
                    sheepskin car coats,
             slogan t-shirts;
men: hassling d.j.s, messy hair,
              trainers,
                                ear­rings,
     earphones, live gigs, the "mate",
                           flirting, visible *******...
who, are, these, people?
      i don't begin to think that a rebellion against
the bourgeoisie came from this sort
of laziness, this sort of "attention to detail",
but then again, hyacinth bucket could
annoy anyone with a stern armour of metal...
who are these people?
              i've just been watching clouds at night
with the hazel coated sheen of the moon
scuttering the intruding mountains of
quicksilver sheen cauliflower...
listening to some trafficking moral debate
while in amsterdam everyone partied...
and thinking: you know, i might have seen
my psychiatrist for free, a world renowned
(can't remember her name) -
    but i found that seeing a ******* to be
much more effective...
slave? was she a slave to me?
  frankly, more like a psychiatrist...
         after all, i'm no quasimodo in posture...
and yet the biggest idiot in our company would
get a ****, and i: supposedly the type
that got off on conversation...
   seems i was never dumb enough for a casual
****** encounter...
      pity? what pity, what self-wallowing
could i ever be up to? it's the perfectly sighted
comic affair...
               it's no conspiracy that the feminists
have become so undesirable they imported
a load of north african ****...
            what?!
            that's not the case, who else would ****
'em if not the ***** replacement machines
of nigra flesh? someone has to,
                   overwise everyone goes ballistic!
i already have to ladies by my side,
ms. amber, a scotch fiery red head,
  and sophia, a dark maiden from rhodes,
with curly hair...
                      and it's not so much what they
do with my nether regions, as what they do
with my ego... that other phallus...
                    it always aims at a north korean
army march... prompt, intact,
  with nicely ironed shirts, trousers and
other aspects of the uniform...
          then again, it was never a case of limp
when drunk and with the transcendental
experience passing the madonna-***** complex
with a *******...
     always that glorified one-dimensional
experience of corpus (ad) dare corpus...
            i have no qualms, no inhibitions,
you'd be surprised at the notion of un-inhibiting
certain receptors of quickened gratification,
walking into a room with about 12 of them,
staring at you like they might just circumcise you
with their lips, and eat your liver while
selling your kidneys on the blackmarket...
  and yes, i like my latin,
but latin as the cliche reminds us: is not dead...
latin is not dead, it's simply derived from
the vulgate,
     lingua latina est vivus, in plebei, ergo
   est non mort; and that's the usual ****-it you
apply to reviving the origins of:
               still writing in a latin alphabet!
         if latin was dead, i'd be writing in runic!
dead my ***... ever seen a baboon with
haemorrhoids try to sit still?
           had about four ****-cheeks on him,
****** decided to hang upside-down from
a tree... and no, two weeks in kenya were not great,
i don't know how those whiteys did it,
i spent most of the time in a shade,
  4 hours in an air conditioned room,
          3 hours prior to falling asleep on the balcony,
and probably drank my bodyweight of liquids...
so yes, i have a "moral" conundrum regarding
prostitution, esp. after visiting amsterdam...
**** me, beats sessions with a psychiatrist...
my mental illness? christianity,
  and how i found it hard to mantra mea culpa
+ quia propitius ero iniquitatibus eorum et
       peccatorum illorum iam non memorabo...
which is a staggering combination
  of... "symptoms".