Last Updated On October 2, 2020

 

Left foot, right foot, left foot, right. Feet in the morning, feet at night.

 

 

Pushing away, pushing aside,
Until I am alone like I feared
Like I surmised, like I wanted, like I initiated.
All ways are hard
Maybe I need to drill down
Way down
To strike it rich thick and black slick as night
Undone like a braid
Falling out of favor

Maybe I’ll take social media off my phone
Maybe I’ll take the outmost layer of battle-worn skin off my phone
Maybe I’ll take humanity’s oily breath off my phone
Maybe I’ll take my phone
And toss it into a crematorium
Letting it rise anew in the form of something free.
Am I alone in this?
I can’t tell.
This place is perfect,
I have everything I could ever need.
And I have this barely perceptible music in my head that I could very easily ignore.

It is so hard to pay attention to anything when your skin is peeling, when your all-natural-chemical foot mask is four days in and you are SO eager to meet your new feet! How can I possibly be expected to get anything done. Even when I have socks on, I find my mind wandering to what kind of transformation is happening down there, the bounty of flakes with tiny imprints of my whirls and DNA littering the ground and becoming airborne to parts unknown. I know that I should use restraint, let nature take its course. But I can’t help myself. Like Dr. Wu, chief geneticist of Jurassic Park, I insist on being here for every birth, donning my gloves and delicately relieving the detritus for new life to begin. I remember covering my hands in elmer’s glue as a child, waiting for it to dry in anticipation of the future endeavor of its removal. I held my breath in the ecstacy of pulling a long, uninterrupted strip from an old sunburn. My cuticles were a staging ground for self-surgery..softly, softly chew. I am aware of how much evidence I have left in my wake, but I am too intent to care. Just beyond this pesky layer my new feet await!
Maybe they are the bruised and disciplined feet of a dancer,
Or the powerful, fur laden feet of a hare.
Perhaps they are the taut and strained feet of a night out in not-sensible shoes or
The dimpled plump pierogi feet of an infant…

I love spa night.

 

Last Updated On October 2, 2020

 

Left foot, right foot, left foot, right. Feet in the morning, feet at night.

 

Pushing away, pushing aside,
Until I am alone like I feared
Like I surmised, like I wanted, like I initiated.
All ways are hard
Maybe I need to drill down
Way down
To strike it rich thick and black slick as night
Undone like a braid
Falling out of favor

Maybe I’ll take social media off my phone
Maybe I’ll take the outmost layer of battle-worn skin off my phone
Maybe I’ll take humanity’s oily breath off my phone
Maybe I’ll take my phone
And toss it into a crematorium
Letting it rise anew in the form of something free.
Am I alone in this?
I can’t tell.
This place is perfect,
I have everything I could ever need.
And I have this barely perceptible music in my head that I could very easily ignore.

It is so hard to pay attention to anything when your skin is peeling, when your all-natural-chemical foot mask is four days in and you are SO eager to meet your new feet! How can I possibly be expected to get anything done. Even when I have socks on, I find my mind wandering to what kind of transformation is happening down there, the bounty of flakes with tiny imprints of my whirls and DNA littering the ground and becoming airborne to parts unknown. I know that I should use restraint, let nature take its course. But I can’t help myself. Like Dr. Wu, chief geneticist of Jurassic Park, I insist on being here for every birth, donning my gloves and delicately relieving the detritus for new life to begin. I remember covering my hands in elmer’s glue as a child, waiting for it to dry in anticipation of the future endeavor of its removal. I held my breath in the ecstacy of pulling a long, uninterrupted strip from an old sunburn. My cuticles were a staging ground for self-surgery..softly, softly chew. I am aware of how much evidence I have left in my wake, but I am too intent to care. Just beyond this pesky layer my new feet await!
Maybe they are the bruised and disciplined feet of a dancer,
Or the powerful, fur laden feet of a hare.
Perhaps they are the taut and strained feet of a night out in not-sensible shoes or
The dimpled plump pierogi feet of an infant…

I love spa night.

Last Updated On October 2, 2020

Left foot, right foot, left foot, right. Feet in the morning, feet at night.

Pushing away, pushing aside,
Until I am alone like I feared
Like I surmised, like I wanted, like I initiated.
All ways are hard
Maybe I need to drill down
Way down
To strike it rich thick and black slick as night
Undone like a braid
Falling out of favor

Maybe I’ll take social media off my phone
Maybe I’ll take the outmost layer of battle-worn skin off my phone
Maybe I’ll take humanity’s oily breath off my phone
Maybe I’ll take my phone
And toss it into a crematorium
Letting it rise anew in the form of something free.
Am I alone in this?
I can’t tell.
This place is perfect,
I have everything I could ever need.
And I have this barely perceptible music in my head that I could very easily ignore.

It is so hard to pay attention to anything when your skin is peeling, when your all-natural-chemical foot mask is four days in and you are SO eager to meet your new feet! How can I possibly be expected to get anything done. Even when I have socks on, I find my mind wandering to what kind of transformation is happening down there, the bounty of flakes with tiny imprints of my whirls and DNA littering the ground and becoming airborne to parts unknown. I know that I should use restraint, let nature take its course. But I can’t help myself. Like Dr. Wu, chief geneticist of Jurassic Park, I insist on being here for every birth, donning my gloves and delicately relieving the detritus for new life to begin. I remember covering my hands in elmer’s glue as a child, waiting for it to dry in anticipation of the future endeavor of its removal. I held my breath in the ecstacy of pulling a long, uninterrupted strip from an old sunburn. My cuticles were a staging ground for self-surgery..softly, softly chew. I am aware of how much evidence I have left in my wake, but I am too intent to care. Just beyond this pesky layer my new feet await!
Maybe they are the bruised and disciplined feet of a dancer,
Or the powerful, fur laden feet of a hare.
Perhaps they are the taut and strained feet of a night out in not-sensible shoes or
The dimpled plump pierogi feet of an infant…

I love spa night.