FEET.

They say that hands are life’s own personal memory store

but I would have to disagree

that 

a foot can tell a thousand stories more

The natural navigator of our impending paths

 

It recalls the exceptional 

disreputable 

fantastical stories

journeys of youth made through the forbidden territories

The tracks unearthed through the cracks you trace with your fingers

and the dentures and blemishes that tenaciously

lingers

 

A foot can tell a thousand stories more

of the passages taken through back-alleyways

The pilgrimage taken to reach

that

higher place

The standing meditation

a first date’s hesitation

a trip a stumble or fall–

the uniqueness of 

your
journey

 

In war it is the hand that pulls the trigger

but the foot that stamps out the flame of hope

marching to the 

pum-a-rum drum of destruction

coerced to haul itself to the front-line through instruction

The natural navigator of our impending paths

 

A handshake between politicians seals the 

vitriolic peace decree

but a foot takes the first step forward before the hands can agree

A child may use its hands to rush in and explore the world

But it takes a baby time to get up

walk

and twirl

 

Hands are social animals

Signing papers

coveting capital

Feet on the other hand

are our own personal slaves

Never free long enough to make another’s acquaintance

Always under the body’s politically 

constitutional
surveillance  

 

But when did feet become political?

When feet are 

just
feet.

 

When did our lips

ears

eyes 

and mouth 

become political?

When did our bodies become politically charged

and
monetary barged?

 

If I could read your foot
and you could read mine

I would remove the political spikes

and the social-ones
alike

and let feet be feet again,
accustomed to navigate our 

impending 

paths 

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