"sneaker" poems
From youth, not unlike the love
I received from my family, I surmised,
that extended love might be everywhere.
With artless, open arms and heart,
I embraced this simple notion.
In time, sadly this childish wish
was honed to a hard truth by maturation.
Friends and loves come
and go, fleeting in heart,
and committed soul.
Unreliably, flowing in and ebbing out,
like deep undulations of an ocean,
all too often with sneaker waves
that pull us under. Breakers pushing
our ship onto the rocks, in a sea
of shallow unfulfilled expectations.
Encounters becoming disappointment,
with too many frogs kissed.
My educated suspicion is,
beyond our family of blood kin,
Faithful canine love is the only
other "truly committed devotion"
we are likely to get.
In the end, that may well be enough.
Perspective wisdom can be a bitter lesson.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 5:11 PM UTC
i’ve long dreamt
of black flags in the streets
tonight i marched beneath
the shadow of their wings
shoulder-to-shoulder
in hope and solidarity
an anarchist professor
with a climate change activist
an independent journalist
and one of my students
as mid-November winds tugged
at her pink-and-brunette hair
she lifted a hand-drawn sign
of a gigantic sneaker
smashing a ****
and i felt
for not the first time
an enormous sense of pride
how humbling to at once
inspire and be inspired by
an eighteen-year-old
punk and artist
who asked to borrow
The Moral Imperative of Revolt
two scant months ago
then took to the streets
to oppose and depose
a twisted fascist virtuoso
for two whole hours
we hundreds owned the streets
we marched down Rosalind
Central and Orange Avenue
as protest slogans rang angelic
we raised hell and found heaven
in liberty equality and solidarity
but then the pigs closed in
cordoned to Lake Eola
to scream acquiescent rhetoric
at the fish sleeping
blissful in their innocence
beneath the jet black surface
a half-dozen cops in riot gear
astride horses loomed
ominous before us
backlit by the headlights
of the aggravated motorists
our march had forestalled
as the people abandoned the streets
we’d won so easily
i felt my chest wilt beneath
the weight of forsaken opportunity
my eyes scanned the remaining crowd
four stood strong
rooted to the concrete
by the world's weight
anchored by conviction
an anarchist professor
an independent journalist
a climate change activist
and a freshman college student
i heard the professor whisper to his student
i heard him say she'd put herself in harm’s way
that they'd lost the day when the marchers
turned their backs and walked away
but she didn’t flinch or move an inch
she stood silent and vigilant
shoulder-to-shoulder
chin held almost as high
as her Nazi-smashing protest sign
and her matching middle finger
and in that moment
i could’ve died
smiling
Nov 12, 2016
Nov 12, 2016 at 12:07 AM UTC
Me without you is like,
A sneaker without laces.
A geek without braces.
Asentencewithoutspaces.
Jan 21, 2011
Jan 21, 2011 at 11:55 AM UTC
*Me without you is like,
A sneaker without laces,
A geek without braces,
AsentenceWithoutSpaces.*
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 9:32 AM UTC
i am the melting sun beams dripping from the children's running sneaker...creeping slow into the ocean of nose hairs sparkling with iodine and rosemary...father farther to the cosmic goop of motherhood and magic mounds of twirling gases...rancid beef so evergreen as if the princess is licking loudly on the frogs back...green of colour my third eye melts her fantasy into rainbows of toxic firearms...leaking valuable oil all over her wedding dress...come into the third eye and hammer away the truths of 1000 years...to fowrad this message is to embrace all that is the third eye...magic and numbers spiral towards the center edge of my reason...pure and criticized like goblins with tiny feet...reach up into your third eye and pull yourself into it with all your power and all your might....stay with it for just one night and reach for the spare tires in the third eyes trunk...don't forget to fill it with melting bubbles of fantastic hot sweet golden ratios where infinity smell like dust bunnies and dust bunnies smell like crystal salts and volcanic ash...spew forth third eye and share the vision of ecstasy and freedom...never cover the third eye with hate and regret only wash it with happiness and fullness...let the third eye rule your heart and towers will melt into concrete and paper will fill the sky...only the can the third eye truly be the way to see your path....spiral softly third eye and forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and forever see with the third eye....
Jan 17, 2010
Jan 17, 2010 at 8:01 AM UTC
My first pair,
Limited edition ‘05 altitude 13’s
The black mesh upper and the green sole
The stares I would get just for having them
There’s a story behind every pair
From 1’s to 23’s
The anticipation of getting close
to the release date
Feeling the actual shoe on the foot
for the first time
The feel of the leather, the suede,
The nubuck, the netting
and the carbon fiber,
The color way and the uniqueness
Oozing from every little detail
Owning a total of 20 pairs of Jordans
At once feels like nothing.
It becomes an addiction owning them.
Taking care of them as if one little smudge
Will be the end of the world.
The way the laces link together with the shoes
Like a spider's web
The sneaker talk with another sneakerhead
It flows off the tongue like sweet honey
I will forever have a passion for my sneakers.
Jan 22, 2018
Jan 22, 2018 at 12:25 PM UTC
Confronted on a 20 year quote
What it means to you
Your misunderstanding
It was kinda dope
Shared among twitter fam
No private joy is mention
Brand name speaks first
Others see the sneaker
Nov 17, 2009
Nov 17, 2009 at 3:32 PM UTC
Opposites
happy, mad
joy, sad
in, out
silent, shout
sunny, rain
pleasure, pain
big, small
Spring, Fall
rich, broke
serious, joke
win, lose
sober, *****
red, blue
false, true
pencil, pen
Barbie, Ken
up, down
smile, frown
Every word has an opposite,
I deserve a national monument.
walk, run
knife, gun
sneaker, shoe
me, you
**** ****
hit, miss
night, day
straight, gay
woman, man
bottle, can
No one is better than me,
that's the way it will always be.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
It's time again it's that Onomatopoeia
Is it a verse is it fire a spicy meatball mama Mia!
Mario warped in those pipes couldn't see ya
Wouldn't wanna be ya look at my sneaker
Nike do it like me I ****** what I want I do t fear ya
Taking it all like I was on my billy and Mandy grim reaper
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 1:18 PM UTC
the lion pack traveling side
by side, though not evenly;
colliding shoulder to shoulder
territorial and instinctual.
trying to tame the manes
beneath logo-baring headgear,
hoping to hide soulful eyes
behind dark shades of plastic.
clothing loose to make up
for skin too tight, laughter
bouncing off cement and
rubber sneaker soles.
that musky scent of male
mingling with each individual
mixture of hopes and dreams
hits me in full force, leaving me
at a standstill long after the last
of you has passed me by.
Aug 13, 2010
Aug 13, 2010 at 4:59 PM UTC
Most mornings are not clear.
Most mornings are not the type with a
ten-state view from the top of
Clingman's Dome, and two very expensive
tanks of gasoline. You're welcome.
No, most mornings are battered
by some kind of weather condition -
rains and drizzles and nebulous fogs,
unhappy bedmates, a productive cough -
or else the sun just remits,
stays dozing until it has slept enough.
Then you get that gray sky-
chalkboard, the punitive slap of
humid cold on your early walks, your
coffee rendezvous. Then you have
too many garments at 3 because you put
on extra at 8. Morning, in short,
wishes you ill.
Be aware that if you were born
this century, you lurched into no
midwife's hands, full of love and wet, but
a surgeon's, gloved and powdery,
who spanked you firmly, knocked you
down with a commanding stare, and gave you
the first of many cuts you were to receive.
But for having woken up, let's say,
on the wrong side of the bed (if
even there's a right one), I would
like to think we've done alright,
are not too warm or upset at midday,
not too disappointed in ourselves, our moments
of astounding social gracelessness
that we leave like bits of sneaker in our wake.
Still, though, a question:
where grows happiness? Where sprouts
the silver trunk, the cypress or birch? Or
ficus or orange or ginkgo biloba? Tell me.
I would tap that tree 'til it withers, and die
under its trunk, and the two very expensive
tanks of gasoline it took
to get me where I am.
May 4, 2010
May 4, 2010 at 7:48 AM UTC
"BUG"
I saw a Bug Battle,
in the cracks of the street Blood and Struggle
Their plastic screams and cellophane curses were almost like yours and mine.
Until a brave one crawled to my ear,
and he told me of his trial in the street crack theater,
I grinned as if I cared, he smiled like he had the time
He said "in whose camp does your banner fly, and can I have you on my side?"
He loaded a Pistol while I replied:
I said: I'm anti-pro no shout catechist, so keep your pamphlets political activist,
You take your cause for lack of a purpose in life,
pursuit of happiness, "eudemonia" good spiritedness
you're living proof that ignorance aint bliss
Pray "Libira nos a malo!" and Free Tibet!
But you never prayed for the souls with affixed Bayonets;
so I wave like the man being shot from the cannon;
born on this chunk of warm rock hurling through nothing;
who only on the front of spirit can fight;
Storm the Bastille of desperate life;
and dance in the street every night till the day I die.
The Bug Replied:
Know All, Know all, in the dialog to win,
two grants are a Franklyn one Lincoln's just a fin?
Posit value for this bug since you're so well balanced,
gaining perspective from the outermost valence;
you never killed what you eat and confuse "labor with action,"
but you think you're to evolved to fight for my faction;
We're currency baby as we live and breed,
BASTILLE for you ATTICA for me!
better get in the frae my anti anti teacher
before it ***** you along with every other fighting creature;
I'm going back to me cell where I breathe a little freer;
but let me give a final though like I'm Jerry Springer:
If happiness is purpose than you can call my purpose love,
to survive I fight the Battle and to me you're the bug.
Thunderstruck, I sat on the curb,
realizing I could be a "social surd;"
then I saw my small confessor get killed in a raid;
I would have stomped out his assassin if I wasn't so afraid;
instead I rose to my feet, and walked straight home,
locked myself in, and wrote out this song,
I think of the bug while I'm dancing in the street,
every time my neighbor throughs a sneaker at me;
I feel his wrestles spirit longing to fight,
while I'm drinking and singing in the middle of the night,
than it hits me:
The bug was right
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 9:04 PM UTC
Sunrise was just a red line in the inky void, as Lisa and I reached the harbor decking stairs,
but at once, the brazen slash began widening, like a silent, slow motion explosion,
thin, smoky wisps of cloud, like flammable tissue, prismed the stage light ignition.
bee-de-deep my phone chirped. It was Peter (my bf).
“Hey you,” I pronounced, as Lisa took off her left sneaker and shook it, upside-down.
“How’s the harbor?” Peter asked. I glanced at my watch, it was 5:32 am in New Haven.
Peter must be at lunch (in Geneva) and tracking our morning run with the ‘Find My’ app.
“Beautiful,” I pronounced, “they’re really putting on a show.”
Of course, I meant the universe, the sun, the turns who were already at work, and Long Island Sound.
The gulls, perched on whatever, and grousing at each other, obviously haven’t had their coffee.
I read that AI had decoded bird talk and on a wire, they chittered, “Move over, you’re in my space.”
“Just wanted to say good morning,” Peter confessed, “Good Morning.”
“Good morning,” I wished back, “gotta go,” I replied, Lisa had finished de-pebbling her shoe.
“Yep,” Peter agreed, “Seee ya,” he quipped. “See ya,” I chuckled, smiling.
My watch asked, in my Air Podded ears, “Have you finished your workout?” because I was motionless.
I pressed the crown of my watch and slid the phone back in my pocket, our jogg’s only half done.
We began our harbor exodus, by turning our backs to the haven. It was already beginning to busy with boats.
We slipped on our hats and protective, polarized sunglasses as we began to run directly into the blazing sun.
.
.
Songs for this:
Sail on Sailor by the Beach Boys
Dancing in the moonlight by Toploader
Cold Heart - PNAU Remix by Elton John, Dua Lipa, PNAU
Apr 25, 2024
Apr 25, 2024 at 10:07 AM UTC
In a shoe box he sits
Quietly watching the darkness
Sitting forlorned
He's a sneaker
A loafer
Tied in laces
And hidden in shine
Alone
As his eyelets sag
With hopes the light peeks in
An envelope
Finding his leather
If only he could feel a touch
A foot
Feet
Interaction
A women's toes that wiggle
On those cold and lonely nights
Where inhabitation brings comfort
If only
He
His shoes
It could be fitted and fulfilled
Tailored and shined
And not be a beaten path
With wishful thinking
Of a women's toes that wiggle
For now though
A shoe horn would be the panacea
His hope
From being shelved
Hidden
In a shoebox he sits
Looking at the darkness
At the four walls corrugated
In lost time
Oblivious
Of walking
Logan Robertson
11/24/2018
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 2:25 PM UTC
Swing swing
Kick a pebble into the distance
My sneaker leaving tracks in the dirt
Beneath me
The shadow of the tree
caresses my cheek
And I feel free
On the upswings I am happy
On the down I am "okay"
If I am pushed I may fall
If I am pushed I may soar
I close my eyes
Recline my mind
Inhale and realize what life
is truly for.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 8:14 PM UTC
In due time
I’ll pay what’s owed
Alone for the load of old moves
Payback for loans to sell dreams for a minute
Pimpish
If it’s crazy to be owned by the past I will be finished
Listened
To the choir to acquire what was missing
My soul is tired
Worn like treads of tires
Sneaker soles and old attire
Suited with attributes of a brute
Uncouth in the present of the future forbearing
Telling what’s apparent
Yet no one will listen
Forever imprisoned by debt
Even bankruptcy is too much to afford
Lawyers are costly
Hard to invest in freedom
I’m left
Like the wrong hand
Gambling for the chance
To win
Signing on lines
Next to x’s
Trying to buy back.....
Trying....
I’m trying to...
****
I need my ******* soul back!
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 11:34 PM UTC
I don't remember how many cars passed,
Or if I saw Orion's belt.
I don't remember the night's smell,
Or what shoes I wore on my feet.
All I remember,
Is how much it hurt.
Tears rolled down my cheeks,
Soaking through my jeans when I neglected to wipe them away.
My sudden disbelief,
Hung in the soggy night air,
Like cigarette smoke.
Reality's hands tightened around my neck,
Choking me with the truth.
At some point
In that dark hazy hour,
My trust slipped through my fingers,
As quickly as a Sunday evening.
Nothing was "to be or not to be"
Between you and me.
For there is no such thing.
I simply tripped on strings of promises,
And sweet words that unraveled my sneaker laces,
only to bleed my trust all over you.
Sore and delusional,
I wrapped my heart up with a bow,
And gave you my love over and over again.
Although I didn't even consider for a moment,
That you would use it
to destroy me.
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 4:09 PM UTC
His pressure was mounting
along with his weight.
He got into training
a little bit late.
In the grey light of morning
He'd be seen on the street.
sweating it out
on sneaker clad feet.
He sparred with his partners.
with few in the stands.
Then pummel the light bag
with lightening fast hands.
The fight date was approaching
and no one in the State
gave him much of a chance
of escaping his fate.
The champ was unbeaten.
He ground his foes down.
They'd be down, looking up
at the Champ looking down.
How then to cope
with an unbeatable foe?
This cup would not pass
even if he wished it so.
He was not getting younger,
This was his last shot.
Would he be one more challenger
that history forgot?
He was no timid soul,
avoiding the chance.
He'd go down swinging.
No regrets, he would dance.
He stepped into the ring
and they stood toe to toe
They touched gloved hands together
When the bell rings, you go.
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 9:52 PM UTC
We live life each and every day
Wond’ring when we’ll come to say
I am not afraid
Spiders, clowns, nightmares
All seem so cruel, unfair,
Not to me
I fear not death
Nor the smell of my breath,
I fear people
Not thoughts or opinions
Or loss of dominion,
But unconsciousness
I fear misinterpretation
And the discrimination
Of my voice
Maybe odd maybe strange
And someday I may change,
But not today.
Call me different-weird
Your words are only smeared,
For I am me.
I am the me that screams
Past all of my dreams,
At my reflection
Nobody else hears it
‘cause I’m scared to admit,
They won’t realize.
I continue to block away
More and more, day after day
And it doesn't help
Growing vulnerable, weaker
Tying, retying my sneaker,
Living with fear another day.
-David Rombouts-
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 12:43 AM UTC
Single sneaker rolls down a road
As the dog barks at empty room corners
Limb shaking winds replace august heat
With an off key church hymn humming heart
And
Two toned makeup, matching stain on new---old shirt
Animal tested
Cheap
Incomplete
Like a José guzzle, airy gag
Shots of half assed smiles
Across an empty bar
Read half assed headlines
Bury corporate hatchets
In pocket or timepunch
Wish we stood for more
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 12:47 PM UTC
you won’t find me here. wrapped
in the wool of violent, vomit-soaked
******* we’ve made a mess on the
tables, with mulled red wine, beside
cockroaches. every inch of skin
pink and trembling beneath other skin.
you can expect this: one perfect little
throat sliced clean. cleaner than your
moans. for every finger pried inside
me, there are a hundred more
pushing up into you, until your moans
soften into screams.
the squelch of your **** as it pulls
apart, the pulp of your parts so
pleasant. we bathe in you. love, our
sequined slaughterhouse: we wanted it.
you can find me here: drawn up
tight in my taxidermy, among
ten dozen dead doves. their wire
bones crunch beneath your sneaker
when you approach the front of
that forest. the black iris of my sold
soul, now an eternity for us both;
you approach draped in morning
breath, content to bite the bugs
from my lips. we always kiss with
teeth, because we are always high.
here, where i live, you are shivering.
we are god’s golden children,
untouchable with fuzzy, white mouths
that click in hollowed-out howls,
imitating wolves, waiting for who falls
fast in love first. suspended there,
we sigh against the flies, how they
**** our skin with grease-slicked
tongues. our guts blackened by the
gun, shoved all the way inside, are
now dusted with sickness.
there is a smile against a smile. my
skin stretching as your skin. love
wrapped severe, twine around a finger,
where the blood swells and gathers.
there should be trumpets for our
sallow suicides. a banner in an office,
frosted chocolate cake. instead there
is a kindness: rain carves a ravine
out of the earth. we tumble down like
leaves into the cockroaches and left-
over wine. two black mouths in another
black mouth. nothing grows over where
we rot, but it doesn’t matter. they won’t
find us here. not a single foot will
fall into our worm-warped skulls. this
is, for you, some small comfort. but again,
it doesn’t matter. years will pass, and there
will never be enough teeth to claim for all
the small, mutual murders; nor for the way
we became our disease.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 6:29 PM UTC
There I go down on my knees,
And let me just tell you its not my first time.
This is not what I want, let me put it simply...
I'm ******
Do you hear me screaming?
No you don't, No you don't.
This is me crying out deliriously.
I want love, I want attention...
I want a ******* chance.
Your not givin' it up and I can't stand the sight of you...
or you, or you.
No, let me rephrase this.
I am delirious from starvation.
I am not eating or sleeping
And my insides are twisting
And I am missing these arms that I created to hold me,
For you see my mind has now left me.
I see you there and
I want so badly for that girl to be here...
right here... but she's not.
So I am on my knees with this load in my mouth,
metaphorically and literally.
Does anyone ******* hear me!?
Does anyone see me becoming smaller and smaller until one day I am nothing more than your old favorite pair of sneakers, worn out and torn.That you put in a bag and gave to Goodwill, that now lies in a landfill smelling of ****
Aug 25, 2011
Aug 25, 2011 at 4:30 PM UTC
You said you needed my soup
But I present my best and your faces melted onto my sneakers
I only had the pair so I now walk barefoot
I soon realized my predicament
This was an unknown land and I lacked public transportation
My space phone broke when I dropped the sky pool
So I chain smoke for signals
hoping for a reasonable excuse
Thumbs would be out but I have trouble trusting strangers
I make my way
Three fields of concrete
train track trance
Overalls with the greasy gloves
cold metal exposure
Finally I see an outlet mall horizon
Ten shops
two in working order
Past the thrift store with it's deceiving Lego sets
Reminding me of infinite childhood disappointment
Because the crucial pieces were always absent
Sneaker shop with the cross
Annoyed reception
See my ***** feet and gasp
Give me shoes I cry your Jesus demands it
My lack of religion horrified the shoe salesman
Who swore I would never wear his sandals
I say gods don't dictate kindness people do
I am acutely aware of my own hypocrisy
I laugh with the rest when presented with crocks
I hear their edible but a chew and a tooth goes flying
They throw me out the door saying I'm my own problem now
Now there's food for thought
As long as it comes fried and delicious I will hear myself out
I am an American after all
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 5:13 AM UTC
It is more than I deserve. It is perfection. It is the perfect Sneaker, perfect in price, perfect in design, and perfect in appearance, and a perfect fit. My new Sneakers are everything I want to be.
They are Sneakers worn by Angels, who are only used to walking on clouds, and so demand a Sneaker that is fit for cloud walking. In fact wearing these Sneakers is like walking on Cloud 9, click https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WHOrtW4PJm8&list=RDWHOrtW4PJm8&start_radio=1&t=53.
Each step bathes my foot in pleasure and is an invitation to dance, or run like a gazelle. I love looking down and see my Sneakers looking up. "We are perfect for sneaking around in comfort, ya wanna sneak up on someone or even sneak up on a tiger, we're your Sneakers, silent, unobtrusive, splashes of blood, simply wash off. We are the perfect Sneakers for the fashionable predator, we provide silent service".
"We cushion every step, we cushion the steps of kings and queens, and we cushion the steps of career criminals, we don't discriminate. We are fit for every foot. We are fit for the newly married, and the newly divorced.
We are more than you deserve".
Mar 1, 2020
Mar 1, 2020 at 4:14 PM UTC
Girl in black masquerade gown with books balanced on head
One high-heeled foot on drum
The other
A laceless sneaker
Long-stemmed glass of wine in right hand
Slim bottle of Summum ***** in left
Background dissonance
Vintage grey vehicle with red interior
PYT seated in the back
Tatted up bad boy in front seat
Bearded man in tailored blue suit
Hand draped over driver's seat door
Red carpet rolled out to the entrance of a dive bar
that leads into a mansion
Eyes Wide Shut
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 9:33 AM UTC