Definitely among the things I don’t want to remember is the glowing hoof print, Tesla’s interpretation of reflexology. And among the things I dread most is the resurgence of the sprain, that web of synchronized swimming brushstrokes – strung over the glowing hoof print.
Known in advertising and in government as PepsiCo’s ‘empathy,’ most people ignored the sprain. Its unvarnished hooks and chains and pulleys – unmasked like a grinning radiator – but helmet-mounted – ready to ram a wall.
The warm friction of a reasonable diet was unceremoniously forfeited, so that it became quite popular to wear braces. Naturally, the trend was known as ‘polio chic.’ And the spectacle of dragging oneself through the pileup of cycling caps on every street corner was not very demeaning.
The trapeze is stupid. The broken fire hydrant is the unattainable excellent water pistol. That was simply how we rolled in those days.
At the police station, the out of control ukulele managed to wrest the jewels of concept art from the clutches of plastic cutlery. For in concept art there were many, many banned words, all hunched in cages of strobe light and making their mark as endangered species.
The blender finally received pardon for pulling down the creeping hand of Hausmann’s American gorilla. With that, the chandelier promptly stopped levitating in the living room. And my favorite machete was covered in house paint. Complacent, haughty, but forced to feel rejected: thus was defined the stifling life of a Freemason. A postcard surplus on a rickety stand outside the Christian Science building. With things jumping up and down under the scab.