Tuesday, September 26, 2017
Death of Cat
The Woman Who Knows Nearly Nothing
is tutored by lovers and friends
to their warm views of themselves.
As result of such expansion,
she knows even less etc.
And when help maxes out:
how very nearly catatonic she!
Her last teacher, Tyrone Everyslee Dolanest,
Irish Performance Artist, hits a cat with his Audi.
The death of a cat
must be accounted for,
and no one is willing.
All eventually insane,
but the woman
who knew nothing
to begin with gets
a pass, yet a gain.
Labels: cat, knowledge, performance, Performance Art, teaching, Woman
Sunday, January 24, 2016
Wordsworth
Entirely by accident or Fate?
They meet after a year. She has
softened, and would no longer
say such vicious things.
And he would check his thick head
at the door!
Now the old sickening chaos of their both bolting the apartment at once! hung in the present air.
Neither in a relationship presently, though
the recovery period was over.
Both made excuses not to, but they
ended up in their Chinese Restaurant.
Where the waiter looked puzzled,
but said nothing.
The evening went well, if hurt still tugged.
Until. "How is Wordsworth?" asked he.
The most devastating question possible.
"I thought YOU took him!"
“Well...” she finally concluded in tears,
“somebody adopted him or he’s dead!”
“When you came back for your stuff,
he wasn’t...?” He had to pin it on her,
guilt too horrible.
The evening ended. Both too shaken.
Wordsworth not deceased, but feral.
A table in a cramped room off the kitchen,
where the waiter left plates, before scraping
the contents into the trash.
Wordsworth, gray rail, squeezed in
nightly from the alley, but moved quickly
out this one after sniffing the chopsticks.
Labels: breakup, cat, chaos, Chinese Restaurant, feral, fighting, former lovers, guilt, personality
Monday, October 05, 2015
Too Late To Escape
Smitty never got too far from the prison, the warden’s
brother in the next town putting him to work in his
hardware store.
Ten years had passed since his discharge, so he
became a good sport when the mayor of the prison
town asked him to join the celebration as it closed.
Actually, was to be the world’s largest pajama party, but
he signed on only for the interview on Good Morrow, Y’all.
There, Hoak and Betsy ran him through their conservative-liberal
shticks. Both wanted gloomy remembrances of the prison, but
he talked of the warden’s children playing hopscotch outside
his cell, and his wife bringing a comforter from the house when
Smitty got the flu.
Thereupon Hoak sneered of coddling, and Betsy launched into a
sermonette on rehabilitation.
At the break, Hoak whispered, “More Cagney, less Morgan Freeman.”
They showed pictures when back on the air of the last huge pajama
party at Edinburgh Castle. Dour Scots for the most part, but their
women charmingly swimming in men’s pajamas.
They had a clip, too, of a Guinness Man who wouldn’t commit, but
thought it was likely that their pajama party would edge out Edinburg’s.
When Betsy pressed Smitty about going, he told the pair he had to get
back to Cat Felix.
Thereupon, in the only spontaneous minute that show had ever seen,
he produced a snap of Felix from his wallet.
“White with the one black eye,” laughed Hoak.
Gushed Betsy “He’d be my cutie-patootie!”
Later, Spotlight columnist, See-All, commented “Cat steals show
from usual political squabblers!”
The mayor’s dithery man brought him to the bus, first showing
off the new, glitzy shopping center. The bright liquor store therein
had lousy security, so Smitty boosted a fifth of Seagram’s Seven.
Labels: cat, Conservative, liberal, prison, prisoner, rehabilitation, talk show, TV
Wednesday, September 09, 2015
Necessary Ceremonies
Tiny “Murks” goes missing. And Hobnel sick almost,
while frantically searching.
But...a daily occurrence. And the elusive Murks
always shows up around dinner, meriting the
best little tin of cat food.
It grows dark, though, and we exhaust all
the hiding places.
“Dark cat on a dark night...maybe he's heat-
seeking.” From Zello, the beer distributor
who always wore Birkenstocks. "They say
you're never too old,” he confides to Nehru-
jacketed Doc.
Before you think we're a bunch of hippies, we're
a bunch of hippies. Never fully reclaimed by the
coherent world.
Bent, who channels Walt Whitman, finds Murks
dead under some wiry brush.
"No sign of violence," pronounces Doc. “Just
his time.”
Bent then embarks on a bad trip, and Doc quickly
places him into Shoreline Clinic. So he can’t compose anything for the funeral.
It falls to Zollo, somehow. "I'm...a blunt man.
A lovely, lovely cat. A miraculous creature
of God to take your breath away!"
Tillie then lifts the lid off the shoebox, and her
artwork, so we all could eventually see Murks
darkly nestled into multicolored scarves--
once she nudges one aside, its silver-
embroidered M.
Zollo loses it. "I never cry," he keeps repeating.
Then we all do.
We toast Murks at Kippy's Kool Kup after,
individually rubbing Hobnel's shoulders too.
Lillian pushes us aside, her profession and she
doesn’t abide amateurs.
Then we all beg her, and she massages each
in turn as Kippy keeps the Seven and Sevens
flowing her way.
Labels: bad trip, Birkenstocks, cat, funeral, hangout, hippy, massage, Seagram, Walt Whitman
Monday, July 13, 2015
An Old Smoothie
Melody wouldn't leave without Smoothie, the cat.
So she sat in blue bra and panties and beige
cowgirl hat, such outfit purpling equally in the
diving light.
Hetts took the dress from atop the Lego Italian
Villa, and handed her the ukelele after she finished
putting it on.
Her resolve about Smoothie vanished. She went
down to the cab.
The Frenchman showed up and Hetts gave him
the key.
Hetts could hear him enticing Smoothie in the dark
as he cautiously descended the grimy stairs with villa.
Some odd buzzes filtered down, and "I give you
Half and Half!"
That night he dreams of Smoothie as a one-eyed Calico.
Asking Benjamin at breakfast.
"Could be."
"I must establish that Smoothie is corporeal!"
"You've never established anything!"
"I...had Half and Half with cornflakes once."
"No one has ever questioned your daring."
“We should buy some.”
“Or virility!”
Labels: cat, characters, eccentric, friends, Half and Half, imagination, Lego, moving, vision
Saturday, July 13, 2013
Tie
The Tradition
-And the yearly messages from Marcel, the Farmer!
So simple and yet so exquisite. Genevieve the
cow, and Josie the cat, plus the insane chickens!
-Ah yes, Josie as a rangy beauty with tiger stripes.
Then the gentle speculation as to the barnyard Romeo-
layabout who fathered calico kittens.
-The one picture I've seen of Marcel. In misty hayloft, spare but blocky man writing his message with stub pencil on the back of a feed store bill. So so so charming.
-Who dares dispute?
-His last one, o the deepest! Stressing the Earth, the Earth, the Earth!
-Uh huh? Your triplets reflect the usual ones in his various messages. Literary attempts by a simple, good man? I think not.
-Please don't be a Frenchman, and debase and debunk
everything!
-I won't be, but yet you must pull up your Big Boy Pants, for any French person must hear one adult thought a day. And here is yours! There is no Farmer Marcel, nor Genevieve, nor Josie the cat. The first draft of each admired tome came from New York, thence to London for the literary flourishes. Last, translated to French.
-Good God! Just...give me a moment to say goodbye to my Marcel!
-Take your time. Include cow and cat.
-And my Gallic pride forever stung by this not being a purely French product! Even if a phony one. Why English at all?
-Because English is the language for utter shit.
-Horseshit or Bullshit?
-A tie.
Labels: cat, chicken, cow, English, farmer, French, hoax, language, pastoral
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Blogs
One fellow writes of vicious
politics today, & sticks
in paragraph about his cat.
I like people like that. Hit save.
Not sly asskissers knowing how
to go w/the flow (u know who u are),
but mortals in their
own whacked sphere.
Marching to different drummer? Yeah &
sufficient for present, though some-
times the drum gets caved in,
drummer down in the corner,
crapped out on some powder
or searing liquid.
One fellow writes of vicious
politics today, & sticks
in paragraph about his cat.
I like people like that. Hit save.
Not sly asskissers knowing how
to go w/the flow (u know who u are),
but mortals in their
own whacked sphere.
Marching to different drummer? Yeah &
sufficient for present, though some-
times the drum gets caved in,
drummer down in the corner,
crapped out on some powder
or searing liquid.
Labels: blogs, cat, drugs, drummer
