I'm wearing my favorite boots today
They fit perfectly,
Since Ive finally broken them in
It took a while to wear my footprint into their soles
But now my body has beaten the leather
Until it curls around me.
They are comfortable, practical
The tongue used to stick out and squeak with ever step
But don't worry, I silenced it.
I've laced my boots up tight
Don't want to be too big now
Don't want to be loose
I can't let you slip away from me again.
I top the knot off with a little bow
Still got to be pretty
What are you if you're not pretty?
They have scuffs and scratches and cuts and bruises
But that's just because of all the fun I've had
Sometimes I clean them up a bit
A little spit and polish, and they're good as new
A little spit and polish, and everything's okay again
But they're getting worn down, I can see it in your eyes- I can see it in their eyelets
But I know they can't walk away
After all, who else could they fit so perfectly?

she's a good girl
in a pair of docs
still she doesn't know
what it means
to be a paradox

The times are so normal and peaceful.

A yellow leaf can fall freely to the earth

without any obstructions and die peacefully.

Rivers flow at their will: sometimes calm
         sometimes furious.

Everything is perfect, following a masterful design

They invented a machine to keep peace and order

The machine wiped out chaos and dissent form the world


The machine pushes the misfits into under ground

Look around you: there is no one with a scarred face

A world so perfect

The machine emits a sound while it works:

An army of iron boots stomping the ground

And the machine's sound mutes all other voices

All other music

And a perfect world is born.

Now, the machine is turned on

I hear the sound of iron boots

They march ahead....

Once I knew a spider
wore Doc Martens on his feet,
eight holes on eight hairy legs
he wasn't too discrete.

He rode a lengthy shadow
while he stomped around the floor
this micro “muy macho”
unabashedly cocksure

I trapped him in a glass one night
And told him at the door
“My wife she doesn't like you
don’t you come around no more”

But spiders rarely listen
and ignoring my request
next evening he returned once more
our octo-booted guest

I'm not good at closing doors quietly.
So much so that my father made a sign to remind me.
It says:  

Shh!
Quiet Please!

in blue magic marker.
It's not that he's trying to stifle me, he's just sleeping.

My mother told me that she had to realign the door frames after I moved out, as they had grown used to my proclivity for slamming.

Nightlight bright,
She has a subtly shimmering smile
In the flurried snow of winter
As she climp-clomp
Passes by: home bound.

With pockets full of peonies
And daydream diamonds
Her words wash over you
And drip-drop wearily
Onto the canvas of cement.

“Shake your *****!”
you said
so I did
and you shook so much
the laces came undone
and the sole almost split
down the beauty of its middle

It's what I now know was a
“wow there we are”
out of ***** experience

You tip my femininity when you scratch my back with your stubble before you shave in the mornings and it is so lovely to be near one who can cry.

You wear heavy boots with the tip of the steel toe showing to match the glint of mischief bouncing off your eyeglass frames and i stand on your toes to kiss you goodnight on my porch in the snow where you brought me oatmeal cookies to talk with you about foundations.

I don’t know if you needed help with that paper, but I certainly needed the cookies.