The Podiatrist’s Foot

“Who’s not allowed to?” is why “What?” must be asked. It’s a passionate way to ignore privacy. At least that’s the argument.

You don’t want anyone to know you’re barefoot. Recent polls among podiatrists show passion accounts only for 7.998% of a compelling argument. Size does matter.

Your fear of elegance tastes like diet Coke served by Donald Trump’s Hawaiian investigator in a Jamaican resort surrounded by New York City tenements.

You get there by airplane. The pilot’s joystick goes limp in your hand. He seems happy when his parachute pops. “What?”

You’ve duct-taped two seashells to your ears. It looks nice. You're listening to the ocean's soundtrack. You gesture to say you can’t hear me. Nevermind me.

Your sneakers are made out of old bibles and you can almost make out the word ‘Barabbas’ on one of your soles. You want to save them for nostalgic purposes. Children made them far away.

We nickname you ‘Pontius’. “Who’s not allowed to?”

When your plane goes down you’re 7.998% passionate about surviving the pilot’s privacy. You’re surrounded by parachutes, like an ant in a falling garden. On the island, sneakers hang from the power lines.

The local missionaries who invaded half a century ago give you a bible. The bible says something about diet Coke you swear is not a typo. This is not very compelling.

You decide you’ll go door-to-door in your neighborhood, absorb all your neighbors into your testicles through your urethra's straw, store them there until you die.

When you die their ghosts will seep out of your urethra in one big orgasm you’ll only be able to feel nostalgically.

It will feel like your whole body has become carbonated, like small, fizzing bubbles of diet Coke.

You'll feel around in the dark. The podiatrist’s foot will go limp in your hand.