Almost last winter turning spring in portland I purchased a pair of black doc martens. Brand new, & too large for me. If I get ahold of some insoles, however, they'll be perfect. At the moment they're inside an amazing black & white trunk with old leather handles ripped long ago.
I came back to boise in late october. I found from savers some little black boots & inside, on the bottom, there reads NICOLE. I love them, but my broken toe is alas still broke, and pressure from the thin outer side of a shoe is still pressure, then. The click they make on a woodfloor or a cement walk is tempting & generates a moderate satisfaction.
Blue leather lace-up shoes with heels from a suburb of seattle. I've been asked: are those leather soles, there? to which I wrongly replied, rubber. I got some cole hahn tassel loafers at the same store, mostly for entertaining the thought of my dad's probable jealousy. I think I lost one of them; I'm not sure how, but I'm certain I lost one of them. I brought the one with me, when I moved, just in case the other turns up. I could never forgive myself if it did... these shoes were like slippers on the feet; leather & with a heavy wood heel. Toes always wet. Ball of foot always loud & doubtless.
In new york last summer I wandered soho with alex in the sweltering bosom of that lusty town. He wanted some adidas, I said man, get sambas, and he said, well, I want white shoes, and I said, great. He forced me into a large retail store; he had to get a white tanktop (it's impossible to wear white adidas without a white tanktop) and I gladly thought of buying the gray mesh butterflyprint shirt. It was fifty dollars, and mass produced, and a nylon poly blend, of course, so Instead I bought some suede oxfords with faded wallpaper flowerprint. Some of the greatest shoes the world has known. And what a sound on the street they make.
Twothousandten sees my hair fall down, and the tears in my eyes. It sees me maudlin. It sees me intrepid, erasing a hapless/imagined ten years from my life. It sees me in sweaters, relating. In eyecontact, in the hushed yells on an earlymorning park bench. The clasp of a mouth around me. My own views of drunk couples pressed against the outside wall of a bar. The eager fingers pinned against the brick, her hand letting his wrist drop on occasion to her skirt, pushed up or down. The mendacity of aforementioned loves, the ones who come with their own apology, nonspecific to our relations. Your unctuous apology, secreting your fancy for fear of me. Of me? Keep one of us from the other. Pushing me against the wall is goodless, I see only a reflection of the drunken couples, salacious on the streets, careless, ostentatious. I and you cannot be they.
