Can I wash your feet
whisper to them
I shouldn't have said that to your head
hope your knees don't get offended
send life off for long bouts of needless worry?
this is a poor resumé
for a foot washer.
I’ll get going.
I have heard of a school in West Germany that holds an annual race between three students, chosen because they are in love or at least because they proclaim to be so (it is never quite clear how the faculty is privy to this information). Each student must strap a potted fern to his/her head and run sideways without spilling any soil from the pot, which is completely full. Whomever manages to tickle The Everlasting God, whose fat is peaking out of the ceiling panels, first, wins. Though it is never stated what exactly will happen when the God is tickled, the winner usually finds some great success in life, although whether or not it is related to the race is also unstated by the faculty of the school, for how could they know? It is about sacrifice. But there is another factor of the game I have not told you yet, and it is an important one: each participant is photographed in the process of running his or her plant sideways in an attempt to tickle The Everlasting God, and these photos are then shown to each of the participants’ lovers while they masturbate. The question here is about love and confusion. If you were masturbating and were suddenly shown a photo of your lover in a serious bout of concentration, trying ever so hard to appease The Everlasting God and its tender stomach by balancing a fern on his or her head and willing a half-pound of soil to remain still, could you continue? Would you want to? Or would you wonder about your lover and the situation they find themselves in, or about how this academic has found his or her way into your private masturbatorium, assuming you have one? You do, right? But I am simply expressing my opinion for a solution. I am tired of this place too.
We all go down to the falls, the family.
Of course there is rumination
for what else does a waterfall bring?
the weight of it a great quilt
by which breath can pass through.
I with my vacations always foggy
walk off higher
into the ruins
in the brush and rust. I am brought down
later by a girl in purple rain boots
with a dog under her smile
and I imagine she got them
in the same week. Shameless,
she throws rocks out and into the
bubbles of the peaceful torrent
the new dog can't find. A few
men in shorts lie on their
elbows tanning luminous thighs
in the sunlight halfway watching,
Again, no shame.
The girl's dog
slaps at the water and circles particular
spots, ears up,
creek bottom bustling
two-for-one deal: fish & stringy shit.
I go to find the family
without saying thank you.