No Shoes Required (5)
When the truth is learned to be all lies and all the hope within you dies as a flower left alone for far too long. Miracle grow cannot benefit the dead. “Canned Jesus for the every day ailing Lazarus”… Like easily used “Redi-Whip” to top off your day in the life of a small handled tea kettle filled with rapidly boiling water manufacturing bubbles an inch in size, respectively whistling “Hey Jude” to all the world. Contrary to belief in all things relevant, not everyone likes the damnable crawling “self –buggerers” of pretentious flatulence, known to the world as the “Fab Four”. Saint George Martin, the divine. Carol, Carol King me when I reach your side. A notion that it’s too late baby; so I’ve played it once and regret this waxy mess relieving me of all sense of gravity. Amazing how the soft curve of your smooth speaking voice brings to the touch of an outstretched hand the calming quiet confidence to reach no more. The mistake of a lifetime is the well-salted wound. Doctor in the house of cards so carefully built only to be destroyed by the lack of faith in the deck. Ace in the hole in my preposterous headstrong ideals of a fanfare prepared solely for the worlds entertainment at the expense of a lifetime of bliss. Kill my damned arrogance once and for all time and time again attempting to fill a great and black void with sand where a diamond once set itself amongst the strongest platinum so crafted for her own protection. Draw off the blood and open the wound to the surface of the pale bone so I can see what awaits me when I wither and cease. Six of ten reveals to the laggard the missing four seem like a thousand and my eyes hurt from rolling down hills growing sharp and pointed stones. Meet me at the bottom my sweet voiced smile, not to help me to stand; only to stop my eyes from rolling and let me see the face I know as beauty and my only salvation from that which I am. Face that if I were blinded for eternity I would still recognize as sublime. If Rembrandt wished to paint you, he would concede to the realization that the beauty and depth of your soul could not ever be justified on canvas. DaVinci would kneel before your grace as Michelangelo falls mad in the presence of your perfection. Strike the stone as it need be so in the Land of Oz where heels click three times Dorothy I wish you were home. Another cry in the wilderness only to be answered by an echo and the sound of falling rocks. Blasphemy!” was shouted from the rooftops and all through the poorly paved streets. “ She dared to look a needle in the eye!” shouted a well-hidden person of no particular interest to anyone whatsoever; so we’ll just kill her off right know and alleviate the stress of not knowing her whereabouts or predicament. There, she’s quite dead and completely removed from the planet. Do you feel any better? Good; lets continue. “ She’s a witch, burn her!” was the most discernible phrase being shouted throughout the small town of Peh. (Pronounced “pyeh”, got it? Good.) All this commotion over a young woman that dared to look a needle in the eye! Who is this person you ask? Why none other than Miss Annabella Ticklefeather; Seamstress, candlestick maker and Saturday evening prostitute for the town of Peh. Why is it only on Saturday evenings that she is a prostitute? It’s the only night the Bishop is free. Ask no more and please don’t mention Howard’s End in front of the bishop; his holiness couldn’t pull himself out of sticky situation fast enough to be rectified. At any pace the carriage chooses... Miss Ticklefeather had recently grown tired of giving up her “wares”, so to speak, to the bishop and devised a plan to remedy the situation once and for all. The bishop it seems had a peculiar request for Annabella. He always blind—folded her during their sexual activities and only performed from behind. Anna met the bishop at the place they always met, the wine cellar underneath the bishop’s house and started the ritual of all the Saturdays before. Just as the bishop dropped his robe, she pulled off the blindfold and spun around with the intention of grabbing the bishop by his member and dragging him out to be disgraced by the town. But something was terribly wrong. When she reached around she found not a member of any considerable size to grab; instead the bishop stood mortified, and quite naked, with a phallus fashioned from one of Annabella’s own candles in his hand. She pulled herself closer to the area between the bishops’ thighs and searched for the ever-elusive member. After a few minutes of relentless searching, while the bishop stood as a sweating mass of slovenly-heaped flesh, the little fellow was found. Only the eye of a seamstress could find the needle sized member belonging to the bishop. After a moment of personal laughter, Annabella said something to the effect of, “Can you look me in the eye now needle dick!” The bishop fell to the floor and begged for her mercy. Unfortunately the town spinster over heard the activities in the cellar and started spreading the rumor that Annabella had asked the devil to let her look through the eye of a needle so that she may be able to see into the minds of the persons whose clothes she has mended. Rumors spread fast in the small town of Peh, and unfortunately for poor Annabella Ticklefeather, too fast. A confluence of coincidences occurred this carefree morning, giving to what would be just another day, a distinctly supernatural aura. It seems that for no particular reason whatsoever, my left hand became well aware of my right hand and vice versa. Now believe me when I say this is of the strangest nature, for at no time ever in my past has either hand conceded to the will of the other. Generally one has to decide for oneself what one wishes to do with either hand in any given situation. Not so, is the case this morning and I would likely say that the very recent alliance just might last a lifetime. Let me explain the moment of revelation as best I can. The alarm clock performed its daily task perfectly, as usual; waking me with the sound of a radio station not quite tuned in mixed with the constant triple octave high “C” pitched tone performed as an eighth note “BEEP!” After fumbling around for the button marked “OFF” on the machine for what seemed an hour, I shut the “FASCIST” thing off and made my way out of bed and into the bathroom. This is where the ball of string starts to unravel. Standing at the sink, staring into the medicine chest’s mirrored front at the reflected face of a man needing much more sleep than the few hours achieved, I felt something tapping the top of my right hand. Curiously I looked down to see the nature of the sensation and oddly enough, to my great surprise, found my left hand tapping the top of my right hand and pointing in the direction of the toothbrush holder; as if to remind my right hand of its duty to be performed. Shaking my head to clear it of any possible remnant of post sleep “fuzziness”, I looked back into the mirror; just to make sure that it was “I” in the bathroom. Recognition being accepted, I looked in the direction of the sink below. It is here that the ridiculous continued to thrive, feasting on the carcass of my sanity. My right hand, you see, had obviously been disturbed by the pestering of the left and was now in the process of squeezing out the entire contents of the tube of toothpaste into the palm of the left. For the next few minutes I became spectator to a great battle of gladiator hands. I would like to be able to say that the entire spectacle was that of great amusement if it were not for the fact that each and every blow delivered to one hand by the other caused a considerable amount of pain; all to easily comprehended by “pain central” in my brain! The expression “ OUCH”, to say the very least, is quite the understatement. At long last the two hands retired from their momentous battle and rested easy at my sides. Yes you would be correct in assuming that my teeth did not get brushed this morning. If proper oral hygiene is to continue in my life some sort of treaty is going to have to be agreed to. As they were too exhausted from battle, I found that I was able to control them as any other would be able to control their own hands and proceeded to get dressed. After dressing I contemplated another attempt at oral hygiene but opted for the safer route instead, the chewing of a curiously strong peppermint” manufactured by Callard & Bowser called Altoids. (The processor just went psycho on the spelling of that one!) With my hands under control, for the moment, I left the house and entered my car. This happened with ease of an every day occurrence; as it very well should! The ignition turned by a very obedient right hand and the car started. All things appeared to be functioning in a sane and rational manner, so I proceeded to pull away from the curb and continue driving onto the street in the direction of the fast approaching intersection. As the intersection grew nearer and I prepared to stop, my left hand suddenly decided that it wanted to shift and jerked the stick shift handle out of the grip of my right hand, throwing the car out of drive and into reverse, sending both car and driver (not the magazine) careening back down the street in the direction of a small dog playfully chasing a butterfly (added for suspense purposes, in reality the street was empty). Earnestly trying to avoid a certain collision with the happy go lucky pooch, I slammed on my brakes with both feet causing the car to stop in the exact same spot that it was previously parked in. With my right knee, I nudged the stick shift handle into “park” and then with a quick movement of my arms, I forced my hands under my bottom and sat on them with all of my weight. At this point I was not taking any more chances, the only thing that remained to be done was the turning off of the automobile engine; a task not so easily performed without the use of ones hands. Without any further thought I forced my head through the opening in the steering wheel and ripped the keys from the ignition with my teeth. The engine was off and now only one other obstacle laid in the way of me exiting the car and taking care of my very opinionated hands. Getting my head out of the steering wheel. In such a rage of anger, passing through the opening in the wheel was easy; now that I’ve become somewhat sedate, my ears, hair and over all size of my head are obstructing its removal. To make matters worse, my hands obviously don’t like the close quarters that they have been forced into and have begun to revolt. Try to picture the sight of a man being forced up and off his seat while trying to pull his head out of a steering wheel. With one final effort, I pulled my head from the steering wheel and jumped out of my open car window. If the car was equipped with air conditioning I might still be trapped in there, hopping about on my hands like a damned fool. Standing in front of my house with my arms frantically waving in all directions, being propelled by two very opinionated and spastic hands, I contemplated entering my house. This would ordinarily be all too easy but with renegade hands refusing to hold a key, next to impossible. My only option seemed to be a mad dash towards the front door resulting in my body crashing with all its weight into it, forcing it to break open. So this I did; about 100 times. On the 101st effort, I tripped over the front steps and smashed my chin on the doorknob. A stroke of genius was this occurrence, apparently, because the force of my chin caused the knob to turn and the door to open. So flustered by the aggravating condition of my hands, I never bothered to check the door to see if it was locked. It wasn’t. I’d forgotten to lock it in the first place. After a moment of excruciating pain and considerable blood loss, I entered my house. With arms still flapping, I repeatedly smashed my hands against the wall with all of my remaining strength until they ceased to move. As you may think, and you think correctly, the pain was so great that only the need for sanity allowed me to perform the task. Eventually I made way to the telephone and dialed the operator, with my nose, and requested an ambulance; which arrived within minutes. Off to the hospital I went and needless to say, made up a story explaining the condition of my hands as not to alarm the doctors with the lack or lack of sanity. I told them I was changing a tire and the car slipped off the jack and fell on my hands. They believed me and placed my hands into casts. Feeling completely exhausted, I asked them to call me a taxi and eventually returned home. Once again I was locked out. The ambulance attendant must have locked the door behind him. Disgusted, i sat on my front steps. With all hope of entering my home apparently gone, I looked out onto my front lawn for a place to stretch out and rest. Following the edge of the lawn with my eyes to the base of the front steps below me, I noticed something shiny. Looking closer I noticed that the shiny object was my key ring. It must have been thrown from my mouth when my chin struck the doorknob. A smile crossed my weary face as I walked toward the keys. I bent down to pick them up when the harsh reality of my situation dashed all my hopes of entering the house to pieces. I had no hands in which to pick the keys up with. Sitting with a dazed look on my face, I pondered my situation further. This will be my last effort; I swore to myself and then attempted to pick up the keys with my mouth. On my belly I lay, snapping my teeth at the key ring. This went on, it seemed, forever; or at least 1000 attempts, until; the postman delivering the mail confronted me. He would not have noticed me were it not for the terrible scream let out when he stepped on my head. As he looked down, I looked up. My twisted and tormented face to his face filled with howling laughter. When the laughter subsided, I asked him if he could possibly pick up my keys and open the door. He agreed and I finally entered my house. I immediately sat down at the processor and began to log this episode in my life for your reading pleasure. Blessed with a large nose, it was executed as such. Winner of the coveted award for best cartoon cheeks is, (drum roll please) Sally Brown! Snoopy you dog. Milk and sugar for your animosity or would you rather it strait of Magellan. A mould for green gelatin is not found to have any bearing on the manufacture of penicillin or pencils or oddly shaped peninsulas. Tangerine? Living reflection? Are you kidding me or flying so above yourself that the hairs growing from your armpits blind you so, la, ti, do, ray ban sunglasses deny credit in the Netherlands. Blintzes for everyone! She orders what I don’t want but she will be more than happy to take home. The one that refused to will always be my favorite flavor. Thirty-one... Cut to the bone. No flesh exposed to the waiting eye; but a serious wound all the same. There is no apparent scar tissue to seek out with ones fingers. No partially removed scabs to pick at while your lying on sweat soaked sheets; hoping to sleep. A wound, so nearly mortal…to worry about blood loss would be foolish. I gave it all at the start of this sacrament. You know it all too well. Stolen from the corner of the room, a shadow falls weeping. Cast as the necessary extra in a poorly lit play, the dialogue blasts with the heat of a furnace. Only to be extinguished by the cold anxiety of fear you nurture as an only child; a child that wants its friends to play house; but will not let you in to rest and see you and not your toys. With the finest swordplay exhibited, you promise an exercise in love; for the promise of no exchange, no kiss farewell. Inspiration enough to soar straight into the sun! Say no and realize the nature of a lie. Look at the wreck before you. Only let what ever may appear, materialize. Let the corporeal hold you with all its strength, for all its life. One joyous soul will love you forever. Singing modes riddled with prose, rivaling the Shelley’s, Keats’, Bach’s and Beethoven’s. Bastard I could be to whatever ideal appears as the foundation of each and every thought in your head. It’s easy to keep distance one mile with ten more yet to swim. And no shark cage…you have teeth, I know, but not the better to eat me with. A smile from twenty yards and eyes that at every glance I drown in the great depths willingly. Friend or lover can be sung and you inspire the arrangement. Allow me to fly each and every day beneath a radiant face; and rest in the velvet, come evening time. Dusk only for two eyes to meet and see nothing but sea. Ebb to the exchanged flow. Hurt as the wound almost healed, rubbed hard by a bitter tongue, on and on the maelstrom’s edge. Invite me in again and help destroy the error of my ways. Tell me how nice the spin will be, alone. Loneliness you await eagerly as if the only Avalon you believe to exist does so. Witch you have said you could be. “Stepford” woman I do not need. Sweet, so sweet… let me love you baby. You’re driving my poor heart crazy... Rod sings it well enough for me to say it to you. Walking along the strip that flips itself over then under into itself. Motioning to the judge for a small piece of paper. Jotting down the useless information of the moment, never to be remembered and the sweat of my leg in summer made the paper soft; the words a blotted nothing. Becoming a statistic only as refuse. If I could remember at all… Dorothy, I have a heart, a brain, and the courage for everything before my time worn eyes. Clicking the heels of your not so ruby red slippers together will not take you away. Stay with me as only an asterisk could appear on any page at any time in any book; opened at page one. Be what ever you wish to be, an honest mistake. To err is human is what has once been proven all too often. Stakes are raised and wages bet for a gamblers hand touches us all. You can smile. The loss is never as great as the risk taken. Life itself lost in some adrenalin intoxicated state is relished at its moment of completion and remembered for its glory. The well-documented picture of the event so risked guarantees a “ Pulitzer Surprise”. My diamond, how well you know and I may never. Cold dark hand reaches out from under the bed. A, I forgot to put before the sentence. As if the smallest degree of temperature measured escapes continuously. Feeling the cold before actually seeing the hand. Preparing my flesh for the touch of its flesh. Quick, pull the blanket over your head. Hide yourself from its vision. It has no eyes it cannot see; still it crawls closer. Clearing a path through the accumulated dust on the bare floor. The blanket feels taught. A tug and it falls free from my naked body. It’s so very cold without a blanket, as cold as the hand seeking me out, this night. Or is it morning? Where are my shoes? I have no shoes. How can I escape this hand with only my bare feet to run with? I am sure to stub my toe. The ceiling seems to be so very close. Close enough to touch with my fingers, while lying flat on my back, as I am already. A chill runs through me. The hand has hold of my foot and is tearing off my toes. I should be screaming from the pain but there isn’t any. I don’t even feel the cold any longer. I don’t think I am in my bed. This room I’m in is so very small. Was it a sunny day before I fell to sleep. I would have liked to remember it as being so. The thought of a rainy day is not what comes to mind either. Oh it feels like autumn and I know this face in my head. How many times have I praised its beauty? Each and every time we have come closer. I have no more toes; the legs will be the next to go. The next time around shall we stay together? Leave my eyes for last. I want to see her before I go. Stepped on a nail and it certainly hurts enough for me to yell at the very top of my lungs or the bottom of a conveniently located staircase spiraling down, more today then yesterday. Thinking about Asia and the buoyancy of almost anything on dry land, at this time of the year 1966. How many torturous individuals spawned in that mid-sixties pool claim a portion of myself as their own times how many more still to come closer to me, turn in time as one hand slaps my face again. Turn left at the intersection. Beside yourself, gaining the smallest piece of ground allowed by present rules and regulations regarding all insteps, including the juxtaposed clog, spin you as a leaf in the breeze. Diner’s card members have discreet bowel movements. Licensing belongs to the spectator resting in the loge. A cheese-danish or if there are more than one, shall or should I say “danii”? Someone told me so. Her eyes are prettier than mine so it must be true. Eighth notes staccato for everyone. “Tempestuousthoughtsarisethisnightempestuousthoughts arisethisnightempestuousthoughtsarisethisnightempestuous thoughtsarisethisnightempestuousthoughtsarisethisnight”... Someone thought that they could but they couldn’t because the door was closed. Then came the sequential tapping as if almost in code, the mystery of all things thought to be said, only never. Silent stepping in the courtyard, where children would play, if not for the ever-present memory of grey… Monkey see, monkey do. So practice very quickly as the time spent remembering slips by all too fast. Smiling, I thought you would say that the meter was well fed and time could be called whenever the need be desired. And we do desire you so very much… Hostility, in the yearning for satisfaction, murderess one in a million… Idle speaks with the dead, a science in practice and you smile so very well. Dressing for the ball are you? Tinsel off the tree to make you smell pretty under the heated lamps of indigo. Ink offal you taste tempting the palate to render the sense of touch inferior. As a stamp applied for the delivery of sensuality; offered at the arousal. Eight miles high and then Sly said, “STAND”! And if I do will I rest easy come the morning. The door is still tightly shut and the rapping continues. Monster waiting to enter, I can taste your terror. Saliva greeting the back of my teeth, as a beast smelling fresh blood… Animal in the nature of all things repressed. Moon outside the window is not full so I cannot be weird enough to be where I should like to be. On the first floor landing of a cold- water flat, on sheets so dirty and greying as the slate colored skies of winter before a snowfall, a heart beats. A pulse sets its pace for all to measure the ounce of life it wishes to leave behind. Remember the door was shut and the tapping would not stop and you dare not say you love me. The Titanic sank and ships still sail upon the silver washing of our green earth. Looking from the tower I see the staircase traveled too often break apart in the middle, before the landing. Child creeping as the growing green up the walls, burns into my soul, the reality of its precious life; so charmed unlike my own. I declare the greatest proclamation of promised severity to the wretched refuse that reduces the child to tears. Your life is mine to devour, pederast. Slashing your thin throat as you fall dead is a splendid thought indeed. Let the child grow old and untainted so it may destroy you as well, foul creature. The door is forever opening up for others, unlike the window blind pulling itself down time and time again. Looking out for everyone but my own shadow chasing me for help. Turn me around. The cloud bursts, surrendering its wishes of fortune and fame to the unlucky umbrella salesman. Thinking the day was going to be the clearest of all summer days. Oblivious to the notion of something being truly salty without a Guinness to render the stylish setting of the oak floored tavern clear. Dark was asked for so many times that the light in the hail is never on long enough to make any difference at all. The last line of the rhapsody reveals the essence of every thing not served under glass. Organdy is not for the drapes or the shroud of one long dead, it is for the sail to catch the wind and set free what needs to be for all eternity. From Bloody Mary’s to bourbon and soda, a glass of water and a roll of ROLAIDS for dinner. …Dans mes tête, dans mes rêves, IL y a jamais n'importe quand pour le thé…
Copyright © 2001 Anthony Dean Capotosto |