small-c crystal, heroine of the small-c caste

by homeless homer lester teabury

interdimensional dictum

to:       small-c crystal, who begat the small-c preference:

from:   lazarus, rudely awakened from his
umpteenth death.

aahhhhhemmmmmm . . .
god roundly condemns such immodest practices
as those, small-c crystal, he has observed in thee.
he went so far as to dispatch a message:
"wise females leave off thought when they pass from girlhood.
when a boys need a missal, he calls robin hood."

and then from the heavens, a thunderous voice spoke:

"whose life have the boldest large caps slain?
show to me the capital floating on shame.
when every letter of the giant cap names
wmt, xom, ibm, & brka, 
preaches a gospel of capital easing
to sooth public panic, and curtail recession
my high priest waits upstream to tax their tumescence.

"the principle lex divinicus 
novo ordo seclorum est is no mere airy jest.

"it must needs be capitalized,
for if as believed, it will airborne glide,
like ashes of freshly cremated saints,
serif-by-seraphim incanting my name,
or inscrutably wall-wrote, in long lines of zeroes
in multiplicatious ovalesque strokes
on light-reflecting mirrors, amidst all the smoke
nary a human beast considers the yoke.

"if only my people played nice as they should
i'd swear, small-c crystal, you are running a hoax.
but i smell their burning worship for sodom, 
in time I will send them all back to the bottom.
for now let them blaspheme! but do tax the loopholes,
at one thousand zeroes per rectified poophole."

here now croaks lazarus in his unliving voice,
astench with the fetid wind of death's chasm
"will I be hung on my own capital 'l'?
or you, swallowed by an engulfing big 'c'?

"confess that capital makes an impression!
shocking and awing, compelling repentance.
as for venal sinners of the small case letters,
with no cap beginning, the'll run up bad debt.
your small-c justice permits these diddlers
to dance all night without any fiddler."

so patiently, so discretely, small-c
dissuaded laz, though never completely
to take a rest from capital sermons:
she coaxed him to speak of his lord jesus' death
and the soothing tranquility of modern train wrecks;
and forgotten fashions of the women of eden,
"heck," he averred. "gals there didn't know bleedin'."

but weary lazarus spoke naught beyond that
he'd too much life for the drop of a hat.
so used to resurrection had he become
he resembled a steamrollered cat
reflating cartoonishly just like that.

far more than just dead and awakened from sleep
with one or two dusty, bad-smelling sneezes,
laz felt exploited and meanly treated
too oft scraped off the floor and dressed in red,
each bell-ringing season taken from death's bed,
and paraded around every christmas berm
hearing "death now be dead" until his ears bled.

how cherished laz, in his life-deprived state,
his dreams of finally fulfilling his fate
and returning man to what man knew best:
predictable, reliable deadly lawfulness,
where push-button capital let the dead rest.

small-c sensed his ennui; so she swole him up good
'til his death-idled wood petrified all anew
she small-deathed him drowning him in her least holiness,
keeping him pliable through small-c satyriasis.

for before their planned easing could euphoniously chime,
high priests had small-c summon laz one more time, 
rise from your tomb, and walk flat-footed 
through the burning land. for only you, laz, 
can make sense of the strands which warped and woofed large caps
will spider-like wrap auditors in webs of collusion.
we have decided, by solomon, let's show them to you.
surely much history informs what you'd do.

placing their confidence in death's withered hand,
they all took lunch, leaving lies to be sorted
by capital's liveliest dead man. laz took a look
at cooked books of global bankers.
to chasten them all, he gunned down the wankers.

then he stood festerin', and peevish of mood
sweeping up the new mess with the same old broom,
longing only for a deadly peaceful nap
back at his new tomb, nowhere on their map,
when what should he see but the apparition
of small-c crystal floatin' down on a cushion.

"how bout that old shroud? do it need a ton o washin'?"
small-c spoke in tones she should've used oftener
"I'll pay you a shekel," lazarus deadpanned back.
"but for chrissake small-c, throw in some softener."