Archive for October 11, 2013

The High Heels of Lviv

October 11, 2013

The High Heels of Lviv

These shoes are not
built for running or for connecting
to the ground as much as keeping
you above it.
A spike, like Jesus,
a sacrifice.
Off the ground is certainly closer to god.
These women are just
very religious.

The shoes say,
who cares about getting there.
Lay me down.  Bend me over.  I’m ready for it.
For life, I mean—the exchange, the interplay
and hello, reproduction
if it comes to that.

The heels say
let’s make something.  I’m ready to
make out,
make babies,
make love,
make up,
make believe.

The shoes say
Stay….It’s not the destination, but the journey anyway.

Me, I’ve had enough
of keeping myself above.
My back has let me know.
I spent my 20’s on a platform
above reality.  Reality schmeality, I’d say.
I paid the price for hovering.

I’m flatfooted now
with heels gripping the pavement.
I’m learning to be low.
I’m making friends
with the ground I stand on, which I like,
because I like having friends.

Look, I know what it means—
the illusion of height, the defying reality.
Fuck the elements.  Fuck gravity.  Lviv is centuries
of want me, want me.

I don’t know why
ankles grow fat or toes crooked.
I can’t read minds,
and who knows why time is so mean.
You do what you can.
You put on your shoes.
A heel worn higher still
says what you’ve always known to be true—
if you’re not wanted, what are you?

It’s very nice that feet take you
to the toilet first thing.  But really,
do you exist without being wanted?

I am here regardless, and I have other rules that bind me,
but this city exists because it never resisted.
‘I won’t fight.  You can want me.
I won’t run away.  Stay, stay…’


Girl Pool

October 10, 2013

Sometimes when people ask me to do things here, I’m like, “Seriously?  Do you know how boring that is?  I mean, it’s really boring.  Like inhumanely boring–as in human beings should not be made to do that.  That’s what machines are for, and once machines gain any level of sentience, we’ll have to think of something else, because no one, not even a partially sentient machine should have to do that.  It is a morally unacceptable level of boredom you are requesting someone expose himself to.”

I’ve never said that, but you know, it was an internal dialogue.

This place doesn’t have nearly enough accordions in it, and everyone goes around acting like poems don’t even exist.  If a poem was found on the premises, they wouldn’t know what it was.  They would think it was a bat that had sadly found it’s way in, and they would hit the poor, misidentified poem with a binder until it smeared onto the industrial carpet.

Bring Your Poem to Work Day would be a mess.

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