boots of the girl students have drawn and quartered my manhood.
boots which ride up the ankles, calf, knee, and like conquistador
Spanish boots of Spanish Leather, they ride me, in the abstract, of course.
like Brown Shirts or nascent Israeli henchmen, the boots of the girl
students gather outside the library, pouring kerosene and oil,
dropping journals and Jewish/Palestinian letters, on my manhood. My mantle.
My manifest destiny. Manticore-mangled Meningitis. those boots!
they are mounting a production of Since You Went on the 14 bus
(“make arbeit, not frei” mumbles a shiny black pair of the Russian
(photo of Russian infantry boots here)
but enough about the boots of the girls students! i long for them,
notwithstanding, to destroy me, to walk on me in ceremonial
conclusion to the death of Patriarchy. how could there ever be
such a death? not ever, if it meant the boots of the girl students
were to pass away, down the long, damp alley of history.
make boots of the girls students at home!
1cup: yes! already the tannins!
2tsp: make expensive at home!
4: five large eels! dental floss!
1: new good hockey pucks!
$: penis of the white ghost!
i realise i cannot stop with the boots of the girl students.
it is the phrase, “the boots of the girl students,” which has me,
trapped, in a spell. and located, as i am, in the trees, the birch sap rising, the boots keep passing, anonymously tapping, clicking and
slapping, SLICING AND THWACKING!!!! Literally punching me in
the ears, gouging my thorax.
but i see.
i see you cannot picture the
boots of the girl students. i see you are not met by them, secret-police-
boots-of-the-girl-students, at every turn, at each twist of the stair,
within the line-up for Donut Thing, in the hall outside “Forensic
Snowboarding” YOU CANNOT SEE THEM, free, as you are,
in the flip-flop, sandal’d air.
they are short, with buckles, faux-suede; or
mid-height, a tortured brown, tight on the calves, like a bridle;
or high, swallowing the knees, a tsunami of a shiny black
leather, ruffed in folds, black leather, stinking of paraffin,
parts of the hands of the slaves that were making them
sewn tight in, for effect, for fashion, FOR FASHION!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
of course i am sick. but you may not judge. do not judge my
slack, blanched, and withered corpse. it was the boots of the
girl students what destroyed my soul. even now. as i write the
phrase, “boots of the girl students,” my chest aches, my fingers
gnarl, my mind races: did i bring the Dubbin? the tallow? the nugget?
will i find a closet? will i yet ever so soon be able
to finally grasp to seize to consummate my ardour for
THE BOOTS OF THE GIRL STUDENTS?!!!
Reprise: manic fanatic gets well soon
we are the walking thud. the clicking, endless, recedes, approach. we are the crushing heel. we are never. we hide in the hall closet until autumn. we know this mccann. we have him on tape. we know what. we have stepped with/on his toes. we are silent (arch) killers. the dawn is burnishing your eyes. the miracle of whip. the age of bootie, the age. SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEG!!!!!!!!!
the Board of Oversight