What if high heels was a time of day?
1:22PM on February 18, 2008

from the poem--In Another Room I Am Drinking Eggs from a Boot
by Frank Stanford


What if the moon was essence of quinine
And high heels were a time of day

Is the moon a drug to you? It is to me, perhaps I am a romantic at hart. Night is so primitive, a time to forget about all the trappings of modern day that hurry us and keep us from what is real. Each night before I go to bed I go downstairs and look out at the night. I love the feel of night on my skin, the smell of it and the sound of it ringing in my ears. Catching a glance for the moon though the trees feels like touching the secrets of the past and the future all at once. Not with words though, with feelings of the promise of a new day. Some people get that from the sun. I get it from the moon. Night for me is intoxicating. I take a small dose of it each night before I retire.
Lunch is a time of day were we all pulled out our brown paper bags and soggy sandwiches as kids and do much the same as adults. What If I high heels was a time of day? we have time to wake and time to rush. we need time to love. High heels should be a time of day where men pull out their silk boxers and women their high heels and we all just parade around and smile at each other. What a delightful mid day break that would be, or perhaps a transition between work and going back to your life. It would certainly set a better tone for the rest of the day then rush hour. For me high heels is that time of day when I have watched enough tv. When the Tv seems less interesting then the person sitting beside me. It's the time of night when I want to
talk in my low sexy voice and pull the one I love close to me. It's the time of night when I want to sip from the moon and forget about all the niceties of society. I want to slide my foot on his calf and whisper naughty things in his ear.

the whole poem:
Poem du Jour: In Another Room I Am Drinking Eggs from a Boot
by Frank Stanford
Hans Richter
What if the moon was essence of quinine
And high heels were a time of day
When certain birds bled
The chauffeur is telling the cook
The antler would pry into ice floes
Swim with a lamp
And we'd be shivering in a ditch
Biting through a black wing
There would be boats
There would be a dream country
The great quiet humming of the soul at night
The only sound is a shovel
Clearing a place for a mailbox