they never fit anyway

now that i am no longer a poet, i do not see the birds sculpting the sky or the rivers with those long, luscious names or the love that will eclipse the previous loves. rather, dogs poop. i poop. there is poop under my shoe. and scrubbing now, i understand now how someone can easily fixate on something like a shoe. shoes have always been. some with the entirety of every soul. some were wood and cracking under the fire. but a shoe is a shoe is a shoe for shoes have always been and they will move even when we become idle.

what should be done now in this stillness? the water is brown until it is not. the shoe is dirty like a sprung carrot until it is not. i put it back on, wet, warm. the dogs bark outside, warning of another day, of the fact that it is all the same thing over and over, a beat, a song, lyrics one’s listened to many times but cannot mouth for they were kissing then, dancing then, buying the shoes in a store where the cashier said, those look good on you.

i go to return the shoes. the cashier is no longer there. each footstep back looks like the world is weeping.

*

above is from a book of poetry i’ve written, entitled “a mess of you everywhere inside of me“.

it is for you. it is about you. it will tell you how to be you again. get a copy here: https://goo.gl/zsyqVD