Toe-Crossed Lovers

I think my toes are Star-Crossed lovers.
It's written in the planets, where omens
come to prosper as sure as tomorrow.

I find myself in curious jams, which I just seem to naturally walk into: the occasional bank robber, an irate husband or more, embarrassing klutzy moments, and 'the proverbial foot in mouth' giddy bastard.

Will you take my Big Toe out on the last Great American Cattle Drive?
My Little Toe is dabbling in West Texan Oil Fields.
My feet are Giants,
Rock, and James Dean.
Before there was Steinbrenner and the Yankees, there was Johnson's Texas and NASA.
My toes, with the burning urgency of puberty, want it all
All God's little children got toes,
some be gifted, some be bone bare
some just stand around with their hands in their pockets
wondering just who the hell they am.

The other day, I had my toes in sand and foam of sea, walking along with sand in my pocket. Carrying sand like loose change, remembering the weight of loose change, and the unconscious comfort of having loose change. I wasn't looking anywhere, aside from inside my head. I stubbed my toe and nearly fell on a woman reading a book on the beach.
She became alarmed. I have this way with women, yet seldom do I have a comforting line. I had caught the title of the book, “Oh, you're reading 'One Summer's Bud'. I know that book. In fact, I once wrote a book called 'One Summer's Bud'. My picture's not in there, is it? My picture was in the one that I authored; first. By the way. Oh, yeah, it's a different book alrighty. But the title. It was the title that was mine. Title is everything. I mean, that's how you find books, isn't it.
No, I didn't actually think that you could be reading my book. It didn't sell very well, on this planet. It had huge sells across The Milky Way, though”.


She had paid her way through Charm School working as a lumberjack in the Pacific Northwest. After charm school there were athletic scholarships that would blunt a buzz saw. Then she met an Island Boy and ran away. Got into voo-doo, and crossed into the spirit world for a lifetime or two.

One summer afternoon she just appeared on this beach; she found a place to live near-by, and has been coming back every day to read. She's reading the worst fiction first. Because it's comforting to know that her life is far better than theirs, no matter how well-off their assets conclude: Poorly written, haphazardly conceived, boring dialogue, weakly developed; she knows she's better than that, even after the lapse of physical memory within the physical world for the last couple of years.

These were not her exact words. I read it from the energy that radiated from her cheek bone, from the way the light fell across her eyes, and the way her hair moved like aroma. I rubbed my sore toe, and forgot what it was like to know that you're rubbing your sore toe, while I read the heart of a friend.

“Can I ask you a question?', and she went on talking, without a way to get a wrench in sideways, “Why are you talking to me?”

Some friendships don't mean a thing if they don't have that BS thing, and some... well, you can't even imagine bullshitting. “Because, I know who you are”.

“That just can't be. That's all there is to it, and there ain't no more to it, than... it just can't be”.

“Tisk, tisk. Tisk-a-kiddy. Don't you believe that The Heart Ain't in the Details, Babe”.

“I know exactly what you mean. And it's all details. Pure Love and details.

“Then, we agree. We gotta find more places to talk”.

“It may take a Lifetime to arrange it all”, she said.