the tiniest pair of shoes we could find you weren't really shoes at all
we grabbed them that week the weather stopped
six or seven days without so much as a breeze
it took a small hole, so that we could leave the rest of ourselves before we returned
so here they are
laces like silly wet spaghetti strings

two worn heels to match your dreams and an upside down tongue for your ideals

and though it may seem the result of our work remain halfway concealed

wait for their dare

and close your eyes for what feels like the warmest amount of time
until everything you can taste is pink
and everything you can feel is white
and your only smell peptides

...

...

wait.. there it is..

breaking.. breaking news:

your parents are children

whose parents were children

defined by their habits and what they internalized
so now you can either
suck it the fuck up
or continue on
an orphan
homesick for it's foreskin

I'm having trouble
I can't compartmentalize
am I the reason wolf parade recorded kissing the beehive?
the reason pitchfork's best new tracks make my own blood boil?
and why you enjoy novelty songs about combination restaurants?
you must be mocking me.
that has to be it; how else could you?

a man walks past me lifting his walker slightly above the sidewalk
his name tag calls him "john rash"
johnny's having trouble
you can see him internalize
shit, even I'd have a walker otherwise
it's why when I push my child in her stroller I talk on my cellphone
give my baby the impression I'm talking to her
confuse her just enough
work my cellphone arm a strong muscle
to impress the rest of you
caress your attitude toward being alive
canonize my nine to five opportunities
fit myself into a paradigm of calvin klein and jewelry
perfume from a room without a view
and a credit card that matches your lazy eyes
left in pews
struggle without their toes

Right now you're thinking to yourself,

"I hope this is even half as cathartic for Norm McDonald as it is for me,"

him watching with his arms crossed,
you crushing a fluorescent lightbulb onto a series of colorful rugs you pulled across the alter
their shards illuminating the air between yourself and just pew
after pew
after pew
of the most confused and confusing.

Somewhere within there, two men decide this was a bad idea, and you run, literally grasping at that same air in front of you; pulling at it with each step feeling a little slower, and a lot more silly. But if you could just get a grip- if you could get even so much as a handful, you would tug it like a rope, pull yourself forward - but instead you will swim toward nothing - instead, you are stuck, spinning slightly.