Foot Fetish


I am in India, hiking through tropical scapes that defy reality, towards an immense palace of colored glass. The map is tattooed across his left cheek and every time we kiss it changes. We arrive too quickly and look out over an abandoned city of white adobe. He takes off my shoes and I walk on grass made of velvet.


I am inner city, in an abandoned lot, surrounded by chain link that’s too easy to break into. The lot is covered in a thick, tall dead grass. Freeways full of speeding vehicles surround the lot on three sides. I am there with two men I don’t know. I take off my shoes and my socks and run towards the back of the lot where a homeless man sits silently watching me from under a tree. I stop half way because the sharpness of the grass is cutting my feet, and there could be used needles here, and people probably pee here. The man under the tree is the fool.


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