I’m wary of owl eyes
You have them
(Has no one told you?)
and a nose
not button-cute
but commanding
All in all
bird like
but one of prey
Formidable
is what I think
(Unfairly?)
I don’t know you
I shy away
from your art
What has made you?
Do you love?
Do you live?
Do you feel.
Monthly Archives: March 2020
A dream Dad, a burning yearn.
Why’d you lead me into corn-stubbled hills? This mind of mine swirls with overthink. Come on, old man. We’re supposed to be waiting by the highway for that Buick to pick us up. It is to take me home. You’re just a distraction.
Suggestibility is a downfall of mine. I’ve followed too many false prophets. And, why do you take the name of my dead Dad? You’re not him. So I’ll turn and defy you. Walk right by you. Screw the corn, it’s without meaning. Highway it is for me.
Hah! I look back and see you following in your rubber boots, making dusty puffs in the dried mud, defeat and aggravation on your puss. Now, over the last rise, there’s the fence by the highway! The beige Buick with the young kid driving it…
He must have been waiting and didn’t see us, ’cause now he’s pulling away.
I shout. Shout No No No! and he sees us, stops. Smiling braces, freckles, ball cap. Say something, Old Man. I done beat you, you couldn’t take me to your false halls.
We start to roll on the smooth road. The young kid is from my nucleus. He’s been sworn not to say much, but he tells me the car has to go in for repairs, and he’s going to drop us in town for some “entertainment”. And, Old Man, I know you’re a lecher, and I do believe that you and Alfred, here, have been talking. Entertainment. Yah. He drops us off in the red light district, and you try your come hither again, but no, not this time. So you shrug, and I watch you descend long long stairs into a floodlit mine.
I know my lot is going to be something better today, and I don’t even care about the Buick no more. I walk slowly, through side streets of old houses. I wonder why I’m so warm, and then I realize I’m holding a cat. Then, through a hedge, I see a house with a picture window.
The living room has a soft glow of orange, and there’s someone in a rocker. And I stand, a voyeur with his cat. Kitty purrs now, and I can feel it through my chest.
A slow hand parts the lace curtains, and I see knitting. And I cry a man’s tears at the rosy cheeked face of Mom.
“A living thing” is on Spillwords!
A feint hope
A sudden cessation
A last surprised breath
A fall
Then nothing
An ignominious end
To a mediocre life
A clamber and a clamour
For divinity
Yet still better than drawn-out agonies
Words and words and words
Feeling the insistence
Of a slow knife.
Thin Lizzie
I am with the thin cat~
her love, she shows~
uncaring of sharp bones~
face pushing, pure purring ~
knowing~
how long she will be needed~
to carry me home, after toying with Joy~
and just how long I might stay.
The tail of the thin cat
It is two in the morning,
and the toik toik echo
of dripping water
seems conversational.
Whisper-hisses ask,
in fancy,
~How long is a piece of string~
~When will withdrawal end~
~In what manner will I die, and when~
Good to the last drop.
Stay with the thin cat.
She can tell.
Aremyfeetofftheground 