The World’s your enemy, you sigh.
Against its stiffened prick,
You, like a wildly rearing stallion,
Kick.
Although you call yourself corralled in it,
I see you on your back,
Victimious, Cradled in the lies that keep you
sick.
Sigh, kick.
Your delusion’s walls are thick.
Your persecutors powerful and
Psychic.
Thirty-eitht years is not
Really a long time to live but
It’s taught me something about
Love.
Each of us has a
Purpose apart from it.
We are each complete
Human beings of and by
Ourselves.
We each have a destiny
To fulfill; a life to
Lead, and whether we
Are loved or not it is
Our most profound duty to
Get on with it.
Once this house
is sold it will be sold
time and time
again and shoes
Life is a long
thread Wallenda
longer than you knoow
and shoes.
I am out back when
crying stops
inside the faucet
when the leak
is fixed. When
my trunk is
bottomed-out your
shoe is there.
A man and a woman
and a blackbird are one but
only the former wear
shoes though they can’t
buy them very often and
sometimes discard them
all together.
Unshaven the cadillac man
wants him never more
scared or poor and shoes.
On a grassy knoll
bug a dead
president and brown
custom-built cordovans
With freckled arms the
younger sisters bear
the platinum one
home from high school.
Their shoes are beneath
their hearts and they
expect nothing.
My headlights flick
a raccoon’s flailing paws his
black stupid eyes; the candle
I burned
while we
made love.
Where there are shoes
there is Bob Dylan;
where there is Phil Collins
there are shoes.
She’s spatula’d herself
into the tiles and burned
herself to see
this her love in pans
and pots and black
shoes.
Abebe Bikila
you ran without shoes
Abebe Bikila
the sky was blue.
I want
to tell you
how much
I love you
but
the words
are jammed
between lips
that cannot move
stiffened
with paralysis
caused
by fear
And so
they sit
collecting dust
within my brain
half-hidden
in the shadows
of my heart
stored
safely
in a place
where
they
cannot
be touched
or
sent away
rejected
– Scarlett Faith
To dream is to
live
in the world
of eternal
truth.
If you say you
don’t dream
you lie.
Lies destroy dreams.
– kmf
A small army of bearded intellectuals approached the Mountain of Faith. They rode up on Raleigh 3-speed bicycles, and wore paper maché armor made from the pages of recently outdated textbook editions. Each one had a briefcase strapped to the carrier rack with bungee cords. They rode to the base of the Mountain in the “flying V” formation of forgotten foot-ball. When they reached the base of the Mountain, they parked their bikes, unstrapped their briefcases and pulled from them large stacks of paper. They found a piece of rock to serve as a podium, and from it each delivered a long treatise on the Supremacy of Reason.
They spoke with vigor and conviction. Their approaches were various, their delivery dramatic, their diction perfect. They spoke in German, French, English and Russian. For seven hours they spoke, and the Mountain moved not an inch. As the afternoon grew late, and their voices weary, they began to realize that it would take more than Reason to move this Mountain of Faith. They divided into teams and began to discuss tactics.
Edison built a bike with a huge overhead propeller that could actually fly, thinking that if they could get closer to the peak, they would be better heard. Nietzsche volunteered to fly it, and he flew so high that he cleared the peak and disappeared over the other side. Aliester Crowley began to dig a hole beneath the Mountain. “If we can dig a huge pit under it, then the Mountain will fall into it,” he explained. Freud found a cave in the side of the Mountain, and took a team with him to explore it. Wilhelm Reich concocted a device from a bicycle pump, a Cuisinart, tin foil and used paper towel rolls, through which he was blasting deadly Allgone Rays at the Mountain. “Look,” he said, “I aim it like zis, and Poof! All gone!” But through it all, the Mountain remained unmoved.
As it grew dark, and they grew weary and disillusioned, it was decided that they would turn back and look for a suitable pub in which to take an evening meal and write their memoirs. As they mounted their bikes and began riding away, they heard a rumbling behind them. “Look,” someone shouted, “The Mountain—it’s collapsing on itself!” And so it was. They all laughed heartily. “We stood there all day trying to bring it down, and as soon as we leave, down it goes!” But their laughter turned quickly to screams of panic as a huge avalanche tumbled from the collapsing Mountain and killed them all…
…All except Nietsche, who can still be seen on a clear night from this flat earth, riding his strange bicycle across the full moon and shouting: “Gott ist tot, Nietsche liebt! Gott ist tot, Nietsche liebt!”
