Crazy about the boots, puss

Take a ladle in your pulled mouth,
tongs for rolled eyeballs.
The pot is bigger than a sheep's brain
but who eats grey matter when you can read it.

An Einstein is revived
by fashion I don't wear my pointy boots
in public,
private or in my closet because they're in the shop

I can buy with my eyes
and no pill to cure the therapy,
I put a new tail on my ass with my mind
and the way my shoes make me walk.

Different pairs ask for different days
and different depths of my toes pulling
the leather to stay on I walk
with a sway or sometimes, I hate

to admit always, slippery socks
and a hat that is not cotton
but no one notices.
Except their own bat of an eye swooping

in the dark for your hair.
I buy something I believe
will make me outside
of my cave and gravel

sliding down my pockets
inside my hole,
there echoes wings
pat patting my femaleness

is only one of them
creatures with horseshoes
pouring the luck under
over, the spikes of decision.

While you wait

My hear, comes slowly unravelled,
tinfoil turns a star.
Light socket needs an electrician
memory told me.
That this will mean nothing.
Who's God - tell me
it's a running joke.
What will move me to write,
to tell?
Not this.