13 Ways I Look at VANS

A poem of blithe and bitter memories, while wearing Vans

I

It only takes a certain number size

To determine your new sole,

Your new identity, a new passion

For a new journey, one step

At a time.

II

Pebbles will seep in through

Your socks, but your miles are pinned

Into the earth, brushing by bushes and

Hurdling boulders, an authentic sneaker

To endure each step as its own.

III

The spark of friction ignites, as

Debris from the rubber sole

Grinds against asphalt;

One foot on the wooden deck, and

The other stomping the

Moving street, rolling away

Down the hillside.

IV

Crosshatched platforms unite with

The rubber-coated pedals, one

Foot stomping, while the other

Patiently waits its turn to

Do the same. An illusion of

Teamwork, that turns into the

Essence of automobile driving.

V

The atmosphere is calm, but

The world outside is a

Playground of sketches, illustrations,

The work of imagination at it’s finest,

Which is mapped by your own

Pen-work, and the canvas is

The housing of your toes.

VI

The only support is under

Your feet, a night of

Wastoids, Jammers, a crowd of

Boxers, that share a union of adoration

For that artist who seeps into

Your ears every chance you’re

Able to listen, the opportunity

Of a lifetime, that is only possible

By the support you don’t even

Acknowledge.

VII

Squeaking and squealing all

Across a wooden floor, your heels

Turn and move about, a mixture of

Rhythm and sole. Beats and boots.

Sweat soaking in your socks and

Blood rushing through your legs

Just to make an impression, a

Statement to express your fluid

Feeling of happiness.

VIII

Heart-injecting adrenaline sweeps

Throughout my body, we both

Look down at our feet, only

To look back up to each other.

Eyelids enclose my vision to focus

The sense that percepts the brush of

Our faces together.

IX

We explore, although we

Stride with different brands, mine

Apparent to identify, to be

Known, while her’s remain

Uneasy to speak, yet both build

Character; in the mud, we splash

Through, crescents as smiles, we

Push each other around in the filth,

Then to return to each other for a

Clean, hearty chuckle.

X

The palette of a watercolor kit

Spills into the sky, we sit next to

A baseball cage, my face hidden

Behind wires, a steel frame that is

The only firm support I have left.

I shuffle my feet uncomfortably,

As she looks up to me, her face

Darkened with guilt and sadness,

Or is it her makeup trickling down

The smooth pores of her cheek?

She looks back to the ground..

XI

The moon shows only the left

Side of its face tonight, a

Humble illumination to guide the

Path of my steps, devastation and

Embitterment race through my mind

As I don’t even know what to

Process; morris code being

The only medium of the

Communication I receive, acting as

The pacemaker of my heart beats.

XII

Rips and tears scorch the canvas

Walls of the protection I’ve been

Granted for so long; burns and

Wounds are scratched into the

Stitching; a rage that destroys can

Overwhelm even the simplest of

Relationships, even that between

Man and apparel.

XIII

Shoes are replaced, soles are

Ever changing, and the journey

Can always start new, with only a

Certain number size, but that size can

Always change, it can always

Be different depending on the owner;

But the size has to be right

In order to fit, a note must be made,

So the next steps can be taken,

When she finds her next pair

On her doorstep.