Friday, December 14, 2007


So yesterday Photoshop gave me the dreaded message: "scratch disks have run out of the mercy of god". So I am waiting for UPS to deliver my external hard drive so I can back up the crap out of my life. And I stumbled upon these three poems that I wrote in my English class a long time ago while attending the Academy. I had completely forgotten about them, but now I am thinking I might resuscitate them by adding some illustrations to them. I remember when the teacher announced there would be three weeks of poetry as part of the English class, and I remember groaning inwardly and thinking how much I hate poetry and poets and the pretentiousness of it all. So while my classmates wrote about worthier subjects like love, hate, pain, childhood; I wrote about my shoes, because that's what I was looking at most during that class.
So here they are, three poems about shoes:


I accidentally spilled bleach on your zebra face
but you just stood by my feet
bearing the stoic mark of practicality,
pliable but strong, original but standard.
Your tapered white nose
irreverently peering out of a denim blue river;
a couple submarines, two projectiles,
two little sharks,
traveling in a sea of asphalt, patent
leather and croc,
fearlessly tackling paint and road
like a warrior, like atlas carrying the world
held together by duck-tape and god.
I spilled bleach on your face and you wear it like a badge,
and throughout all the seasons, and all the fads,
You kept my feet on the ground.


they peek to the beat
of a soldier's chant
fashion forward
red turns the light
I stop to see green
down below;
Italy stands,
parallel twins,
sculptures in leather,
on wooden pillars,
my ticking tools,
my stature spools,
a perch from the runs
of pluvial San Francisco,
made for walking,
never balking
comforting carriage
for tired brothers,
never demand
a well-earned rest.
Trusty companions,
I bow down to you
and let you be still
for a minute,
my favorite boots.


From their pedestal point
two patent clad thrones
whisper beguiling:
"your top is too low,
the bottom too big
the outfit so so".
With sensual persuasion
they tempt me to ride
they promise to match
whatever the stride,
to hold back the sting,
to soften the spike.
From their calculations
the distance is short,
the weather is right
to waive the support.
Their murderous depths
their tethering hold
lay my step by the heels
as I vow
to never again bear such foes.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...


No entiendo nada :-(. Inglés demasiado elaborado para mí... y dónde están los dibujitos???