I used to think I had it bad because I had no shoes,
then I met a woman with bare feet mangled
by the sadistic hands of Jack Daniels at 3 a.m.
bearing scars left not by the novelty of Prada pumps,

and suddenly I felt like a chump
for trashing my old-school Pumas
that so strongly walked away
from thousands of weak situations.

For a moment I mourned for them,
and for the woman’s toes,
one broken for each time she should have
used her wings instead

Like flies on the lips of zippered mouths
I feast on silence,
starving for surround-sound that will
swallow the static of a single blown speaker.

But life’s a stitch constantly pulling
from an angora wool sweater
that will eventually unravel altogether,
so I suppose I might as well just turn up the volume
and listen twice as hard

though I still cannot make out the words.

I break down pounds of concrete block sidewalk chalk,
drawing powdered hopscotch boards around
pig-tailed innocence, found and lost
at every bridge we cross in our constant evolution.

Darwin says only the strong will revive
themselves from asphyxiating sheaths of simulated smiles.
But the uprisings are feeble
and not worth the money it takes to fund them.

My money works too hard for me

and so I don’t give a buck to ventriloquist puppets
masquerading as emcees who try to predict where the hip hops in me,
attempting to synthesize the natural beats I breathe.

04/27/2007

Posted on 04/27/2007
Copyright © 2025 Malika Bierstein