No Shoes Required (2)
Bass players are true geniuses and if one was to be catholic, canonized. To put up with self centered guitar players and prissy vocalists and let us not forget the highly erratic air breather that must crack its snare at every available space in time other than the song or practical measure, the (oh it pains me!) drummer, and still perform with the most honorable intention of keeping the music in constant motion is simply amazing. Bass is it, ask the bartender. Twice I�ve told you, DARK! In the confined space, of a moments glance, a revelation. If one were to be exactly as that which one would like so to be, could there be anything better than so desired? If perfection were to be consistently revealed, would one desire to continue looking, or would the boredom of familiarity destroy all feelings of desire. The odd brush stroke and the uneven line are the true essence of beauty. Perfection is false and can be manufactured, imperfection is completely unorthodox and forever the great stimulant to the eye. There is nothing more stimulating than a visual distraction. Keep all your artificial face makers and give me that which I can look at every moment and find something that I had not seen before. Let it change as the hours turn into decades and reveal to me each time the beauty that is eternal. Maybelline, why can�t you be true? A small man of no great importance stood in a-drinking glass at his maximum height. Eyes staring out over the rim, he gazed at the world, his world. Anything at all could be his on command alone. Still he chooses to remain the small in the glass. No wishes to be the giant of the freezer or the troll under the table, only the man in the glass. Patiently he stands and waits for the moment when his glass is to be filled and its contents swallowed, along with himself. It is in this way that the man can see what is inside a man in hopes of knowing the inside of himself The only fear he himself has is that of a woman�s thirst. There are better ways to be in a woman than to be drunk, unless you are both drinking. Temptation lead me not into, for I am useless without reason and reason to be left me with that train ages ago. Salamander pink on a bagel was requested. Laughter, like a shot in the arm, is offered. Do you refuse? Chastise me for being that which I can only be. Look away my pretty face of fright. I am not the devil in your most vivid dreams and surely an angel I can never be, (Wings only fit under a tank top). As myself to be safe is not at all possible to be properly understood as anything other would be shoelaces tied as a great knot in your stomach, Mylanta, Georgia. Brave new world were having this time of year, do you think it will last? A documentary unfolds as the pocket climax allows the leaves to fold themselves into each other. Movement of no particular precision alleviates the sliding tension between the folds. Winter flower I know to be poison on my lips, and still never to have kissed. Fractions vary from exchange to exchange of glances unknown between two. Level to level the staircase winds and traveled so lonely that the shadow one keeps is unknown to any other except the sun. Proclamations in letter form no resolve to the situation of the climb; so eventual is the fall that at times a swift jump might relieve the pain of the fall that is the maxim. A small tariff on the lot of fools, the foul begotten children of plastic bankcards, a digit for every lie. Tempestuous thoughts arise this night. Pulling mussels from Michele. Rembrandt knows what I saw and the end result is a Picasso. Paint me a new lover, this time in oils. The city�s watercolors eventually run. Throw me a rope; I must see it now, as my chances of clear vision are good. Why do you disregard my very recent plea? This rope that I ask for, is it to great a request that you cannot find the resources to grant me my lone desire. Reach deep into yourself and ponder my request for the simple strand I deeply covet. Silence still! Again, with grave and honest necessity, I implore you to throw me a rope. All right, it�s the Gregory Peck impersonation you want isn�t it? Damn it Man! Throw me the rope! Still you refuse to give me what I want. Could you find it in your heart to at the very least tell me why I cannot have a rope? What do you mean I don�t need a rope, of course I do, how else can I see? A gun? What about the mess? Oh, of course; do it in the bathroom, no one ever cleans in there. The view is just as I pictured it to be. Absence of light... A notice as to the presents under the tree; The manger doesn�t have a chance next to Mattel, Capitol of north Dakota- Bismarck; that pink stuff that you drink when obviously that is what you have done in the first place. A shot of this ingenious device is cryptically evolving into a nuisance. Around my neck tie that is paisley of print not of park sausages are not greasy in the garbage truck that never ever comes when the trash is about return to its mostly methane state, naturally. Elvis Costello is not the son of Lou Costello. By birthright turn left at the stop and remove all intentions of continuing forward. Swiftly destroy the front seat of your car, it�s easy, she knows exactly how it�s done. A stout for the embarrassment to continue as you like; my hands are just as clean as the ones you allegedly possess. I know your kind smile can only reveal the harsh reality that, do I dare say it, you, have teeth! The bite is over the edge of my most excavated archaeological sites. Tut, tut my good man; fetch me a wench of the kind I seem lovely. Two legs of her own, you fool! No they cannot be on borrow, how else can I tell them apart, as they very well will be separated. No I do not wish to play Columbus. This world has been discovered often enough it seems a little worn around the edges. Maybe this is the proper fuse to be blown down the smoky corridor that seems so familiar from afar but upon closer analysis appears to be not so cozy. Everyone loves a slinky...(red thing I�ve heard to the crying sob so directed towards the listener, Fred should have died in his not so classic Cadillac) As the moment slips into the next and so doing becomes the past we will all long to remember and rejoice in doing so, where has it gone and now so has another, slippery things these moments. Every time you catch one it slides out from between your fingers. Even the most tight fitting glove cannot help the hand to hold what can only be held once it has past and then is no longer anything but what it use to be. Ten years gone, holding on, holding on to what seems to be in the future which has just presently become the past. A letter to the Editor: I must ask that you kindly stop printing the every consistently false statement in your paper. The matter that you wish to clarify is completely without basis for doing so. Are horoscopes the next of your major news flashes? For as long as you persist in constructing false statements as to my present actions and future endeavors, I shall continue in disrupting your every day affairs. Consider this not to be a threat, but a promise (and I don�t mean margarine). Chidingly; M.Nature. Calling out into the wide-open spaces. Mercy! And I don�t mean thank you. Save this person you so love to twist into the most irreverent of dispositions from the viscous blasts of nonsense I seem to be isolated in. No, I do not want a rope. Or a gun; Fascist! Yes, yes I know the free will ideal. I understand Free, I�m a big fan; so what if Kossoff was a junkie; it�s this Will guy I don�t get. �A personal friend from the old days in the garden maybe?� �Possibly a jealous lover of yours and pretty boy Lucifer?� Come on now, you can tell me; I�m made in your own image. Is Will available for seminars or even parties? I�m sure he could stir up the dead if needed. Oh, I�m sorry, we�re not supposed to play with the dead or anything of the �other world�. Well I still don�t get the meaning of all this around me, but I have my Free records to keep me happy for the moment, but I think you should settle any problems between you and this Will fellow, the repercussions are becoming quite a nuisance. A learned man took his own life as another, considered a fool by all reasonable ideals, lost a dollar in daily transit. Feverishly pacing the train station; nothing could be found. As the day progressed, every possible means of detecting the presently lost was exhausted, all to no avail. Realizing that very soon night would be upon this part of the world, the search was called to an end with hopes of resuming in the morning. The next day it rained. A plain girl, for no reason at all, smiles. The flirtation of natural causes was enough to arouse, but an accident was completely uncalled for. A severed hand was carried off in the workings of it all. One less in it to win it� Thirty days in the hole would make for a serious rash if not in hands of the safest of specimens. Lovely arthritic conditions are sweeping from the south. Currently ignored by the just beginning fundamentalist frantic fumbling his aforementioned. Tally ho, the �H� word, you imbecile. A horse the likes of which you have never seen. Finding the one loss of good intention makes the yeast fall in to a state of resolute, destitute franticly fumbling for the hold you�ve obviously lost in a silly game of gin or vodka and tonic will do fine. I won�t ask for dark again. Ivy crawled freely across the lawn; until she had learned to walk. When this great event occurred, surely it must have been a signal to all that watched over the child; that things were going to be difficult in the years to come. Ivy, you see, was born yesterday. How often does one that feels quite confident in all one does to be oneself use that term; not being born yesterday. If one were, think of the genius in being able to make such a statement. A Pulitzer Prize winning status gained at the very least. The vision, possibly messianic, perceived by the media would be all consuming. Simply put; not a single, sensory organ, of any living thing, would be alerted to its existence. Well enough of this talk of �what ifs�, the statement is true and dear little Ivy was born only twenty-four hours ago. Now you ask yourself, �Where is the mother during all this? Letting a newly born child crawl across the lawn. The act of irresponsibility is despicable. The mother should be severely punished.� Well, try to bring yourself to a more sedate disposition, as I must clear up the matter of both mother and father. She has none. The dear child was left to die on the curbside, as she tells it. The sound of a passing car startled her from her infant�s easy sleep and caused her to look about for some sort of salvation from her dangerous situation. Feeling a bit uneasy about lying in the gutter, she collected her thoughts, having no other �belongings� what else could she collect; and started crawling from the curb to the nearest stretch of land, The previously mentioned front lawn. Finding the act of crawling much to damaging to both her knees and her credibility as a woman she simply decided to walk the distance of the lawn. As she puts it,� a woman should at least have the confidence to walk upright, if not anything else.� So now we come to the problem of the days to come, for I fear she will easily tire of walking and with the car in the driveway, paved to the left of the lawn, I�m quite sure she will find the need to drive. Ah, but she is a lovely child... Akfak Holedigger here. I dig holes. Not with a shovel, with my head. That�s right, see an empty patch of land and I just slam my spirited skull straight down into it. No, I don�t ever use a helmet. Well I did try one once, but it didn�t have the same �feel� as my naked head. The feel of the hard topsoil giving way to your repeated thrusts of an unbridled head until you reach the soft, moist inner earth that embraces the stiff shaft of your neck is really quite like nothing else any man could experience. Yeah I know what you�re thinking, and I do consider baseball a close second. A string stroked listlessly; as a butterfly sliding between the currents of an afternoon; as simple as any one contrived motion in the act of movement. Fall on deaf ears and you are lost. The smile is that of appreciation. The act is as a liniment for the skin. Soothe the wound forever agape, vulnerable to all probing fingers, half of which are unclean the other meticulously numb. Pretty eyes have always made the picture come to life, and to kiss the lids after they have closed is not a farewell but a wish to accompany the sublime on its journey into the sweetest of dreams. Drink as a child would in learning the fall of the tongue, allowing the sensation of thirst to be quenched. How easy to make the word fly into the all surrounding sky and still so very difficult the hopes of it falling on the ears of ones intention. Horse of stately elegance carries its selfless form across the place of vision. Arrogance alone can close its eyes as~ a fool with a photograph is blind even as hooves carve deep impressions of its existence into the self. Read is not the horse for you cannot read. My dear Aleister is not for the compliment of your very own digestion as you easily swallow the swiftest nothing to have others watch you eat. Better that you not read for you are all to easily read. Of pretty eyes in the previous spoken word fall back now to my own in waking thought. I design in dream the place of the most formal of practices lean to dive deep. My own has been driven to the moment of its entirety and as if one could strike such a consonance as so very few can even play. Listlessly legato so bound to forever. Speaking to the all boys choir, I ask for more of an effort on behalf of the future of all mankind. Higher you must sing, with all your heart. The talk is of retrospect in nature, Castrati in truth. Bring back that Leroy Brown. There are those that believe and there were those whose belief was not to believe. Properly stated; they believe now� All the sneering faces have become quite blank as they stand before the review. Cold and silent, they stare as if they were looking into the eyes of mister Mesmer himself, maybe they are? I have to smile to myself because I know who and what they are looking at. You may think me without shame and full of conceit, but they are looking at me. Honestly. I know how the taunting voices can sound like sirens calling one into that place of small shadows. The pain of the dirty pointing finger; piercing the eye of reason. Questions, all to easily answered, still not the answers required. So strong at lifting worthless parcels of pretensions gathered at dawn to be worshipped on every festival of Fridays�. None of the pack of perfects believed. So easy was it to step away from their narrow sight and vanish into the nothing of their world. How many will and continue to call me the devil, or witch, or just insane? How long will they stare at my last stepped place; with faces cold and silent. I laugh as I see from my present position just how many have shit them-selves. Cold hands, warm heart and vice versa is the actual fact of the matter. Beware the gloved hand by all means, especially in warm weather. There is an entire town in the New England area that is a peculiar situation in itself. All of the towns� people walk about with their hands covered. Mitten people I call them. They swarm around the weary traveler that passes into town in the wink of an eye, just waiting to see if your hands are covered. And don�t even think of hiding them in your pockets. They can smell that bare flesh as if you were grilling them right there in front of them. Then it�s all over. First they walk up to you with that big New England smile and offer their hand in the most honorable fashion. As soon as they feel that bare hand in their gloved hand, they are attached to you like a pilot fish on a shark�s belly. And they won�t ever let you go. I don�t know what happens once they get you in their grip; and I shudder to think of what heinous thoughts cross their twisted minds. Let me just say this; you run into traffic going into town, but there is never any traffic leaving. In fact sometimes you�re the only car on the road. Now you�re thinking, how did I escape the allegedly cannibalistic Mitten people? Luckily I�ve always been one to speak openly on matters that I find peculiar; and on my first visit to this town I questioned someone on the where a-bouts of a bathroom. After I spoke, the individual ran away holding their ears and screaming a New Yorker! A New Yorker! Stay away! Mitten people are immune to all but the dreaded New York City accent. Speak it or die. Driven to madness by the thought of another, when the other so thought of is none other than you, is quite a different situation entirely based upon nothing more than survival. To hold onto so dear a thought as the memory of another, other than you, completely involves all activity of the livid kind. Lascivious by nature, how can one not leer at the most desirable of figures, standing as a curve against the straightest of planes are not allowed over the capitol, unless the door is uneven then love walks through with a rather odd gait. Waltzing in and out as it so pleases me not as often as it pains me with glass beads in a Chinese jar. Kermit green finger has the clap, the dirty swine. Naughty little petal-pusher, eat that flower as it was much to late in bloom so many tasted it before you and swear to have liked it not at all. Plastic boots on a summers� eve does not prevent the inevitable itch of irritated skin subjected to repeated performances without a safety net. Applause you mad clappers of well ridden thighs of opposing polarities. I do desire you to bath as soon as possible with a lotion of the most acidic constituency, lyme with that twisting tonic. Practical satellite watching, like the Venus and Mars probe that is so affordable at the low, low price of a moment�s degradation. Do I have to say it again? Yes and forever shall I continue too, plagiarism? Saffron stained top lip of adoration, as I stand a myth in the eyes of nothing more than fiendish gossip. Business as usual my sulfurous travel agent; I promise with the greatest sincerity to continue, as you seem fit; but will you still love me tomorrow? Sixteenth century unicorn tapestry; oh carol! Let me steel your heart away�
Copyright © 2001 Anthony Dean Capotosto |