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The Night I Broke My Foot

here's how it happened:

you never regret the swimming.

I'm actually not so much about the swimming

but the nakedness.

I want to be a mermaid

a sea nymph in my orgy of phosphorescence

want to lie on my back all



cooch and toes

and be called a spirit.


the water is always cold and often tumultuous.

these new England kids will say that it's not so bad

that I should just jump in

that it's more painful to feel the water first with my feet.

you may need to do some bottomnaked jumping jacks

may need to lie face down on a rock and only let a wave wash over you.

you may lose a contact

climb home braless

without panties

smashing bottles

cracking metatarsals.


we hobbled by The Shack

walker, and a cane





the three-legged race

grandpa and grandma pelican.


I can see his bare bottom as he rides a current on his stomach like a little kid I can see his naked bum as he hangs from a rock like a fearless teenager.


I will follow him.

I will wait for his return.

I will put him in a ziplock bag

and save him for later.


sometimes you can't eat what you order.


the actress is a very young redhead, or she is a very old redhead. she is unhappy and she is happy


and sometimes your arm just hurts.


there is always a brilliant sunset,

a full moon,

a planetarium of stars,

and mars (which by the way will not be this close for 68,000 years)

all the intensifiers of romance and of tragedy,

our decadence to take for granted.


your advanced intellect is false advertising.

it runs faster

and is afraid of nothing.

why should you comprehend an iamb

why should you articulately contemplate a grain of sand

a failing nation?

how can you understand that four

is four

is four

and not know what you are?

millimeters, dollars, amps:

the tools, the currency, the outlets, are the same.

the language is your native tongue.


I thought the rock was closer than it was. and sometimes your arm just hurts.


here's the thing:

I love you.

I hear the words like a song repeating in my head.

or maybe it's just the Pixies.


there is lost Indian wool

and drugs

which, being lost,

cannot be found.


I wake up

by myself

in a panic.

I need water.


there, on the windowsill

is his jacket

and his drugs.

I am asleep

in twilight

and limp to deliver the found package.


there are voices.

whispers not for me

that cause my faith a fever


I will stay awake and determine them

I will slap faces if I need to

I will crawl out the window

onto the roof and spy

            if I need to

I will be ruined



but no door opens

and no one returns to her bed.

she is watching the sunrise

and I wish I knew.


I dream of those whispers

and right hooks labored by molasses

she maintains not discussing it

because she has to take a shower.

he is indifferent.


but then he is not

and says all I want to hear

and clarifies it with a kiss.

a kiss of porches and anguish and his neck:


the one I remember (the one I had.)


but then he is not he

but some troll of a human

with paper clips through his ears

and expectorating habits.

and then I am fired (because I cry too much.)


forget it.

I will put the coat in his room

and see him asleep on his side


and exhale

and go back to work.



when I think it is

                                                it isn't

when I think it isn't

                                                it is

I have lost depth perception

which is how I broke my foot.