Half of my soul is a hippie
A Fleetwood Mac loving, Allman Brothers singing,
pretty gypsy tattoo slinging, I can’t remember if I cried
when I left on that midnight train to Georgia
kind of girl
All free verse
Living fast out of a suitcase
(One of the best times of my life)
I went to an Eagles concert last Wednesday
Joe Walsh is still a badass
I feel underfed
Baby, I can’t tell you why…

The other half is everything they read to me
in school,
Swift and Keats and cultivated sensibility
Art, wine cellars,
Vocabulary tight as a key
A little black dress that looks like it has the answers
Literary criticism
Bobbing for buzzwords
Hair gathered with a pin
Too few syllables to call it dreaming

I’d rather read Borges and Freud
And spend my time pecking at the letters
My intellect is barefoot
Part hippie, like an angry bird
I want to shake the shoes off of everything I know
And cast stones at it
Get muddy in it
Let it get into my skin
Like getting fresh ink on a Friday night (the forearm on the right)
A feather that refused to frill
I knocked it till its teeth fell out
And we both bled
Do you think we’ll be in love forever?

I am full of questions that aren’t good for me
Questions that have no answers
Questions that only I can answer
Shhh…I’m building something…
A woman must be an artist in order to fully understand herself
Eroticism is poetry
Desire is diffuse, ekes possibility
What would Rollo May say? (I’m six books in.)
I’m constructing a theory out of holes
With a worn out sole and a string

8 thoughts on “Barefoot

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