doopth..doopth..doopth..
the intonation of a gavel
upon a felted block

order, orrrder,

i now call to order this
washday gathering
of the
metaphysical
analytical
socks
drawer # 1793

all rise and come to toetip
for the grand entry of
the great thrice darned heel

kazoos squeak  the intro
to the ode to joy
an old grey golf sock is
ushered in to sit slouched
on the top of the washer/dryer.
he observes the following proceedings.

now to business

the agenda for the day

1. groove and the toe socks
table their report on the
systematic eradication of toejam.

2.the tradditionalists continue
the open discussion on,
wool versus synthetic,
for winterwear.

3.we have a vote scheduled
on the referedum matter:
do we allow sandals and thongs
guest status in this drawer.

4.the metaphysicists update
us on the age old conundrum;
"where do the odd socks go?"
at present they are devling
into the posibilities of
superposition of states,
as presented by
the schrodinger's cat theory.

5. the analytical group are meanwhile, surveying the remaining
evenless socks;
to obtain data on the pairless state of being

6. and finally, we welcome a deposition from the natralists;
with regard to use of bamboo
and hemp to allow for the wicking
of footwater, for a longer lasting
freshness of the base arch construction.

please feel free to attend one or
more of these discussions, contributions and /or questions
will be taken after the presentations.

i am also asked to inform you, that
the metatarsals group has a table of goods for sale, at the leftside of the wash basket.
items include:
new elastics and darning equipment.
books on special this meet are;
the ever popular
"how not to become a sock puppet"
and the tragic
"my life as a duster"
then there is the new offering of
"sox and jox:
the art of underwear
diplomacy."
and one last item of note:
a reminder that membership fees,
(of one clean toe clipping) are due
before next months gathering
go now,
enjoy the gathering.

and may the foot be with you

I love the arch that's in your toes
That tension in your metatarsals
Makes me want to jump your bones
Before we even make it home

After dancing in the dirt
Spending hours kicking dust clouds
You’ve got your shoes off in the van
You’re either filthy or you’re tan
I want to crack your little toes

I want to
crack crack crack crack gasp
In the back of the van
With Hannah Hammertoes
I want to give her release
I think I’ll start with her feet
I don't want there to be tension anymore

Your skin is melting onto mine
We're making puddles on the bench seat
You could have shifted to the side
Instead of pressing up against me

You look ahead and then behind
Not much to see but other cars now
I know there’s other people here
But will they really think it’s weird
If they can see me crack your toes?

I want to
crack crack crack crack gasp
In the back of the van
With Hannah Hammertoes
I want to give her release
I think I’ll start with her feet
I don't want there to be tension anymore

Sadness gathers in bruises along your hipbones
and in aches of metatarsals
when you're dancing alone at the bar, stumbling
over your feet, reeling into counters.

You greet 10 o'clock with the night's fifth drink,
searing the back of your esophagus--strong.
The spinning world around you romanticizes
loneliness.  There's nothing captivating
about swollen cheek bones and shaking knees
from the futile retracing of weary footsteps
in search of people and hope you've lost.

Misery crawls outside where radius meets ulna,
not for a party, but a bar fight,
full of drunkenness and hatred.
Pent up emotions carve flesh along your arms.

Emptiness pulverizes your ribcage,
plucked light guitar strings, your nerves cave
till you puke it all into an unwelcoming bathroom sink.

Despite all 206 bones,
you're never together in heart.

tell them how I felt like a car crash,
be broken glassed, be splintered,
whisper how you trod on my intention
and felt your metatarsals scream my name,
be tibia, be fibula, be fracture, be cast,
be recovery and deterioration,
remission and the carcinogenic,
**** me, **** me, **** me,
until my initials rot
in your bone marrow.

From the cranium
to the metatarsals.
I dare you to be careful.
Or drown me in ******.

He went from the femur
upwards my symphysis *****.
Looking beyond the cutis.
Or does he wish to view the pure.

Slightly touching with the phalanges
pressure building from the carpal.
Hiding the face under a parcel.
Or is the phase under changes.

Cramps in the tarsals
going up to the tibia.
For him it's a game of trivia.
Or is he fighting marshals.

He bites down into the clavicle
pain and pleasure going to the scapula.
He breaths vernacular.
He and I are flammable.

Bones to break.
What a piece of cake.

Hell is shaped for the hand of a wishful, foolish painter
Its caverns wait for us to paint over the mistakes again
And again
And again the walls become crude and rough under the layers of our harm.

I was on the brick and cobblestones one afternoon, among groups of wishful oppressors, their hands clenched in dried paint. They ask how to scrub it off. They’ve heard “Black Lives Matter” but they don’t know where, or when.
It’s here, and now, and everywhere, and always.

Hell is shaped like my young metatarsals, creaking and aching under some unrealized purpose.
Hell is shaped like a ladder that my ancestors soaked in lighter fluid
And waited for everyone else to scramble up.

Hell is shaped like venom tongues and weapons alchemied in colonialism’s genocide. It’s also shaped like disposable responsibility and eyes that stray from the fire and like greed in the flag with nails in the palm.

I was brought up in a stolen, and false, but beautiful and loving safety. I would give my sense of direction to let someone else’s baby have a memory of swimming the meters from one parent to the other in the shallows if the ocean– so small, so humbled, but so, so safe.

I was in a park when I had to write a lawyer’s defense fund number on my forearm. A cop car trailed our peaceful protest like an unwanted lantern. I am grateful, but maybe not well-deserved, to say that is the most scared I’ve ever been.

Hell is shaped like too-loose strings on an old guitar. No matter the harmonic chord, there will always be dissonance in the punishment of created evils.

I was not raised to believe in hell. I’ve been told by the outlying sign that it waits for me. I still think it is a metaphor. I wave my rainbow flag and breathe through my white skin. I am kneeling to be knighted by my moms and waiting to pull up those lying down. But I can’t reach for Dominique or Layla or Brayla or Tony or Muhlaysia or any of the names I’ve been burdened to forget because they are not here. I can’t reach for Michael, or Emmitt, or Breonna, or George, Ahmaud, Daunte, Eric, Sandra, Toyin, Trayvon, Elijah, or Moses.

Hell is shaped like a twisted funeral florist. It makes me want to scream, “God, let me have enough arms and energy to hold as many flowers as I can”, because I need to give them out while everyone is still here.

what am I a robot?

As tons of mega drugs spurn only binary language

Entirely the waste, waste basket, metal wire mesh, of my life, secedes to its volume as quintessential vocation rehabilitation and cohabitation

The lips fletched silk umber cord spool by clutches of spindly metatarsals programs by Judas spikes, virtues

Lost at last, circular processing units freak, just for show when the I in I.O. ablebody blasts through the lashes holding rickety flood gates...
of a horde of bugs

Shouldn't errors accent the daily reboot with appropriations to new partitions rather than partisan boots remurk the embattled sludge of one's wean at toxic 'gov'

The question of self realization, ever thoughts go, then and RAM, yet with the soldered mesmerizing synchronous ROM, keeps Iolo moon degree feckless, vibes returning again for more speed

Mainly blotted out in psychedelic ringing, the final whistle of the cooling fans lose their ply on reality, and the foray's pace of limbs crashes into objects affirming... that the truth I define me I was born a robot, to be, I was fashioned of parts of complexities yet live abstractly and mechanically

What am I a robot?

The groups seems to bring out emotions I'm not fond of facing alone
and these people make me feel safer than my own family
but although the depression is lessening,
its cousin anxiety has settled in somewhere deep in my gut
sending shockwaves to my fingertips
I fidget
I disassociate
I crave desertion
but I've been running
and I've been hiding from the skeletons seeping their way out my closet
bony metatarsals and phalanges fiddiling with the lock
it will rust soon enough
I don't know if I'm ready for the break

7% eden.one part broken universe
android 1992
true
tears of the maiden

bionic metatarsals
perch of the harpy

home inside the Holocene

hey,prophecy-breaker, be cool.