No Shoes Required (4)
The step that was just spoken from has been vacated. All inquiries to the whereabouts of the speaker can be sent to the foot of the nearest bed; where I am sure the lazy bastard is resting, waiting for the moment you turn in your sleep. If your pretty enough for his skeptical eye you’ll live to see the morning; if you’re not, then he will drag you off to the well that you should have been drinking from at the start and drown you outright. Pleasant dreams... A message for the mountain; a question if I may be allowed to ask…did you start at the top or the bottom? Did heavy rains wash the earth away from around you or were you cut by the winds of time. Why do I ask? No special reason. The Yankees are losing and I’m bored. Underlining the slip as the hem gave way to the nasty use of a fluorescent orange high—light pen ripped right through the middle of town. Blazing steel eyed transfer makers jumped from station to station. No phone calls. Deer in the headlights and may be swimming again upstream those damn salmon. Locks and keys end up dissonant as the diminished fifth of bourbon wishes its way into the scheme of things. Underlining the facts of the most beguiling nature; mama said there would be days like this. Aspiration in the deepest respect for the diamond so feverishly sought after blatantly walked over crumpled leaves of an autumn well remembered. Wishful thinking this time around, come the autumnal trek this passing time I plead to the highest inspiration let it be as the first. A man walks into a bar with a monkey on his back. He asks the bartender if he may use the restroom. The bartender says yes, but he must buy a drink first. The man agrees and orders a shot of bourbon. As the bartender pours out the shot, the man tells him to keep it on the bar, as it will be needed later. The man makes his way into the restroom. Anguished by the recently found corpse in his restroom... the shot went down smooth. Sitting on a rock in the middle of a shallow tidal pool, beside myself with a damp feeling of remorse. Could be only the slippery lichen on which the seat of pants rests or the certain uncertainty that this tidal pool will surrender itself to the incoming tide and merge with the divine actions of curious nature and swallow me into the cold, dark depths of its very existence. Will I swallow much water before I slip into unconsciousness; will the salt water burn my eyes? Surely as I rest on the sandy bottom the crabs will make a feast of me. It’s only fair. I’ve made a feast of the clawed ones all too often myself. I can feel at this very moment the fisherman’s barbed hooks tearing into my bloated flesh; as they troll the bottom with the greatest hopes of landing a meal on the end of their lines. How long until one passes into the unconscious? Will I stare up at the surface, seeing a diffused beacon try to shine through the eternal fog of the briny realm? Far off in the distant future of this low tide, when it rises to its full moon flood, I will become as one with mysteries of the oceans depths. Maybe not so soon… excuse me, the phone is ringing. A perfectly good reason to be is the existence of all mention that word one more time and the responsibility for the actions taken will be underhandedly masterminded by the freezer burned upper lip. Never kiss an ice cube farewell; wet as it may be, you will always find it to be slipping away, and really, who needs yet another let down in a relationship. Everyone said that it could not possibly last. Seeking the council of a female impersonator on the matters at hand can only lead to severed antennae on the nearest water bug. Lyme did not ease the frigid dare of a freakish lemon wedge, easily mistaken for a fish. Cider poured all, over the floor; and it wasn’t even Thanksgiving. Easter bunnies do not play jazz. A rather stout- man that Guinness fellow. Does a man a great justice knowing the acre of land he once thought to be flat was really only so for the purpose of a good postcard greeting. Salutation! Salvation at last, we have reached the spin cycle and now it is almost time to be put on a line to dry in the early morning sun. If it rains we are sure to drown. Has anyone seen an ice cube? Strange fellow that man next door… Some people say that he is a genius in exile. I don’t see how or why a so-called “genius” would or could be exiled; after all, a genius would be smart enough to persuade or convince whatever justice of his or her innocence. Why would anyone be exiled to a small suburb of any city; let alone, a small yellow house? Didn’t some general or something get exiled to some small island called Alba 66? I think I read about it in a textbook once. What did you say? His name is Gene Yuss and he is in textiles? Oh! That does change things a bit doesn’t it? Sorry. Damned Jaegermeister! It was the early part of a new day and all around was the accompanying silence that is so much the essence of being up and about at such a time. Snidely Cobblespot was well aware of the conditions surrounding his chosen hour of reason, and well prepared to use them for his benefit. At this hour, it being 3 A.M., thoughts have a certain fluid nature to their existence, flowing and ebbing as if controlled by the more supernatural elements of the world around us. Wiping the remnants of uneasy sleep from his eyes, Snidely made his way towards the beginning of a great and hazardous journey, the quest for the holy Quail! Wasting no time at all in dressing, Snidely was out the front door of his modest home before the watch on his wrist had registered 3:15. (In all actuality he could have been out at 3:05 but he ran into problems during the ritualistic morning bladder release. Being in the great rush that he was to get on with his journey, he accidentally got his tally-whacker caught in his zipper. Any man alive can identify with the excruciating pain associated with such a mishap. To this very day he only wears button fly jeans.) Looking up into the early morning moonlit sky, Snidely took a deep breath and began to cough with a violent hack. Seems that with his mouth being open for such a deep breath, a very large flying insect made its way into the gaping orifice that was his mouth, finding a place to rest on his left tonsil. Snidely continued coughing until the insect either left or has taken permanent residency in the cozy confines of the digestive tract. The coughing ceased and the quest had begun. Tales of the holy Quail had been told in his family for centuries. He remembers hearing distinctly, from his grandfathers lips, that on the night of June fourteenth (which is really the morning of June fifteenth) at precisely 3:43 a.m., the most treasured creature in all of “Zedium” can be seen on the corner of 30th and 8th in the most confused of states. At this time, only can the creature be chastised for its blatant misconduct in the use of arrogance. Snidely was prepared to find this creature and do what all of mankind for countless centuries has tried to do; a verbal thrashing to end all thrashings! With thesaurus in one hand and Webster’s unabridged in the other, he set off for his destination. Traveling as fast as his steed Scirocco could carry him, Snidely arrived at 30th and 8th at precisely 3:40.”Only three minutes until the stuff of legends makes me a legend”, he said to himself. Collecting his books and wits respectively, he made his way to the place mentioned in his grandfathers tales and waited. The wait lasted the three minutes that were expected and gave way to the sight of the most elusive creatures in all of history. The holy Quail appeared as if from out of nowhere, and stood with the cockiest appearances that any fascist bastard could. Snidely wasted no time in attacking the creature. The words were fast and sharp. Any other creature would have been reduced to a jellied mass of apologies, but the Quail stood and stared at poor Snidely and with a great, foul smelling belch, sent him crawling for cover under good old Scirocco. Snidely knew that his time was running short and the only possible way to beat this creature was with the one thing it could not tolerate. A Budweiser. It is well known among the tellers of tales that the holy Quail despises Budweiser. He reached into one of the bags hanging off the side of his trusty steed in search of a can of Bud. Grabbing hold of a can Snidely spun around and challenged the creature with the can. The creature smiled than laughed as he disappeared into the night sky. Snidely stood silent and confused. Looking down at the can in his hand he realized his mistake. He did not hold a Budweiser in his hand; mistakenly he had pulled out a recently manufactured can of Guinness. The love of Guinness by the holy Quail is as much a legend as the creature itself. With his head hung low, Snidely Cobblespot and weary Scirocco left the scene vowing to return on another day. Caution! ! ! This word flashed before my eyes. Each letter having the size of the largest fat lady “ in any circus side show. Startled? How could I not be? Was I aware of the meaning behind the elephantine letters making up the word? Definitely. This has happened, if memory serves me well, twice in my lifetime. On both occasions the warning was not heeded and the consequences the same; though the second was a greater devastation than the first. To survive a third time, I fear, may be impossible. As I’ve said this much without explaining the derivation of the subconscious warning, let me try as best I can. Walking through this life with a thousand thoughts in my head; makes the ability to pass over things blindly very easy. It is not intentional; I assure you. Unfortunately certain arrogance is associated with me by persons that feel that they must be recognized by every eye in existence. The smallest flea must pay homage before latching onto their precious hide. Special people forgive me as you escape being trampled underfoot (talkin’ ‘bout love. talkin’ ‘bout love. Talk about... nana nanana Na nana) time and time again. One day you may not be so lucky. Then again, I really wouldn’t notice, would I. Regardless; the arrogance perceived is not completely valid; so kindly, step out of the way. Blind as I may be to most of my surroundings, objects and persons of undiluted beauty and unobstructed grace draw my attention. It is at this time that all previous thoughts are set aside and the appreciation of that which is being observed is relished. As this continues, the thought of confrontation occurs and the object or person is approached. If one finds the object containing a greater beauty up close1 then as many of the senses are employed as possible; if the person admired reveals an even greater beauty than first noticed, an introduction is quite necessary. This is beginning to sound so very generic; so I must settle into a much more comfortable frame of mind. I think it’s the coffee. “Edgy”. Anyway, this leads to a friendship in most cases and finally to the point that I’ve been trying to get at. I do hope it is sharp enough. All this for a dull point seems completely useless; unless you prefer things to be blunt. The moment during the easiest of conversations that you look into the speakers eyes and feel the very bottom of your heart fall open, allowing every ounce of all that you know love to be to fill you from the bottom of your feet to the roots of your hair, thin the sign flashes. You know that the eyes you have just gazed into belong to someone that could do with you whatever their heart desired. And you wonder. Do they feel the same? To die at their feet would be all too easy. Giant red letters flash before your eyes. Are you spider to my fly or water to my orchid? For the third time will I die, Bloudeuwedd? Did you see the smile fall from the face of the card held too tight? Oh Queenie, don’t leave the poor boy drinking all alone. Really sometimes I do wonder where and why things have to be derived from the most ambiguous of situations. One bathroom too many lines form to the right, do you know why the name was changed to save all those pretending to understand the Methode Champenoise? Frog eyed bubbles fleeing from the close arrangement of the chorus singing in unison what would be a well-stacked harmony. Disturbed by the sudden shifting of the seat beneath you, smile as another continues to look and wonder just how close the arrangement could be perceived from a distance measured by a pint or one half desired. Yellowing page I’m sure, diluted by the ever-changing scenery of the arrangement easily agreed upon by the flip of a coin never seen by both delvers of Santa Claus horses. Sharp antlered drug fiend just a little closer to the window seat. Take one small step for two, in the opposite direction. Tradition I could show as a cable special to be taped but I don’t think you need it. Flower face that doesn’t get enough sunlight still grows more beautiful each moment that I am allowed to look in the desired direction. Anything at all wood be cut into the required amount of over-sized tooth picks deliberately thrown in the air collecting amongst themselves a thin film of dust no one will ever wipe away if you persist in hiding from every occasion that is marked on the calendar. Scare me once again, I think I like it; and my name is not Mikey. Life serial fed to the dying birds collecting on the front steps of one bitter. Haven’t you been there, once before? Does anybody care to dance under the palest moon at the sound of the sweetly struck twelve the first. Prepared for the worst summer time session of blues yet to be experienced in these here parts. Gabby Hayes sez yup! All that could or should be; is. This phrase repeated as I trace a figure with my right hand index finger over and over again. Crisscrossing lines at random making the figure change with each stroke; feeding an ego that wills it to be. Sitting on the thinly carpeted floor with my legs crossed in the fashion of some twisted yogi, leaning over an idea with my weight poorly adjusted. This floor reveals its many creaks and cracks under my ill—adjusted weight. I can feel the fibers of the carpet cutting into the bare flesh of my side laying feet. The added pain of my eternal sciatic nerve condition seems to be appropriate for this moment in all-changing time. The will to be persuades the desire to sleep to extinguish itself for the moment. Am I or should one be lucky to be awake? Sleep denied leads only to further aggravation. This I know to be true by experience and destiny, allowed to work its will on a thinking mind so hungry for sleep that his own destiny deems him to be all to awake to experience I could be thinking so many things. A spider has created a home in the farthest corner of my room. The newest candle will probably remove this web so freshly spun to a place inhabited by all those things that use to be. Shifting into a new position, the rug underneath burns my left calf. A raspberry freshly formed and a new source of pain. I needed a wound; self-inflicted is even better. There’s no one to blame but pitiful me. No pity for this candle burner. All that could or should be; is. On the busiest day of the year, including the festivities of the accompanying evening, the street is quiet. Is it any wonder at all the street’s given name is Grim. To be labeled Avenue of Joy or Boulevard D’Amour would be the same as calling shit “ice cream”, and selling it on a street corner (Imagine the profit!). The street name or the street itself for that matter is not the subject to speak about for any great length of time; I only mentioned it out of respect for the word “description”. The one thing that I need to mention is the existence of a certain perverse individual (as if he could be a duo, every day getting more and more out of hand it seems), Mr. Zero. A completely repulsive and terribly twisted creature, so found. If there is an ounce of sanity in his bug bitten skull, it is consumed as a libation by his cantankerous mind. Even more so in small, tight lipped sips. He is foul, and I do not mean pigeon. His rapidly balding head glistens with the sweat of an afternoon laborer, but he doesn’t work. The ritual of his day is sitting in a “weaved-back” sun chair; leering at the daily procession of people that quicken their step as he comes into sight. The sanity of the situation is the madness that is all too real. He calls himself Mr. Zero, claiming that the government gave him such a name because he is at the beginning and the ending of all things. He is the natural follower of nine as the turn around begins. A residual left to be defined as the end product of one and the forming of another. All this he claims to be. In further conversations with the wretch, he has told me of the time spent in an institution and of the narcotics used in the so-called “rehabilitation” process. He has never really mentioned the reason or reasons for his past incarceration but for one time. He confided in me his sense of fear for the well being of his younger step—sister; her being so very pretty that he really did not know if he could control himself. Now I know exactly what thought crossed my mind at this time, as I’m sure it is crossing your very own. Mr. Zero should become as he himself has claimed to be, nil, mote, and zed. A child should not a lover be, ever.
Copyright © 2001 Anthony Dean Capotosto |