There's this cat
that moans and moans
like it's going to hell.

It starts up
crying around 4 a.m.,
this ugly, pronounced
violent and deeply intonated
yowl.

It wakes me and Heather up,
it just comes into my dreams
and pulls me so hard
that I stumble back into this world
against this wall of sound
so ugly
that I'm tip-toeing insanity.

I want go out there
and strangle the ******* thing,
I want to find it where it yowls
and silence it.

heather says I'm the meanest person in the world
for wanting to strangle an animal
to
peices.

But the thing I hate is when an animal
lets the whole world
know
that
it's dying,
it won't let anybody get any sleep
until everybody in the vicinity
is standing around it
in pjs, boxers, doo rags, scarves
slippers,
gowns,
that pink thing Heather
got from
Walmart
watching the light of life being reduced
until this dying thing
begins burning
precious oxygen,
oxygen that we all need,
and it just becomes a waste
and a nuisance.

This is the time of year
for lovers to break,
for rounds of applause
to burn
the
lives of millions
into a caucophony
of happiness
and unity,
for the sun to turn
over
in the sky
and get closer
with the Earth
becuase heat
is drunk love,
for clouds
to fall
and get skinny
as they writhe on the earth
and the earthworms
wiggle to the surface
for a drink,
this is the time of year
for maggots,
for destruction,
for putrefaction,
for decay,
just becuase it's getting hotter,
doesn't mean its getting cleaner,
the vultures circle
when the smell of meat
travels on thermals.

This is the time
to make plans
in order to break them,
when we make love on the beach
and get sand in our genitals,
it is because we cling to each other
far too easily,
and this time of year
will remedy
our attachment.

Spit it out, why don't you,
say that this time of year
is better
for self-loathing
and hatred
than sunny skies
and ice cream that drips
for days.

I think
you are so beautiful
Heather,
that I could search for clams
on the beach
and only find fish.

I am unhappy with fish,
they are too stupid.

But your open mouth,
and the pearl
of its tongue,
is just too much.

You have a ******* boyfriend,
with a ******* mustache,
and flannel
two sizes
too small.

My heart is big enough.

I could eat you in a gulp.

Your heart could be dinner
for days,
most likely years,
and if I could just taste
your complexion
I
might finally know heaven,
even as I talk about it
too much.

If I go to Hell soon,
I would tread the fiery waters,
fight the three-headed dogs
and a burgeoning Cerberus,
for the touch
of your skin.

Aphrodite is not beautiful,
neither is
Zeus,
you are the goddess
that puts
all else to shame.

"Where do you find
these
broads?"

I don't know.

But i find them
so that I can love them.

So that I can love them
until it hurts
and I am left with a stinging
pain.

So many wasps have stung me
before.

I have placed the royalty of their stingers
in the waste
of heart break.

The knives are finally out,
I swipe at a million hives,
until I have finally cut the wings
of one.

We rise,
on ocassion,
to drink the blood
of our brothers.

The original vampires
drink the blood of youth,
and bring about the
wandering
and
ill-placed
musings
of old age.

With bitterness
we control our own destinies,
it is not fate
that is cynical with luck,
it is us,
cynical because of fate.

When we take control,
finally
in the last days of men,
we will see compassion
for what it really was,
the Jesus,
the salvation,
the temptation
that we never wasted
our energy on.

I still think
that demons crowd the plains
of our thought,
like gazelles
waiting to be gorged upon.

Demons
keep us down,
keep us in the waterfall
of stupidity
and
self-loathing.

Don't look back,
the demons take control then,
they hold sway
when the juries of our souls
let them talk
without consequence.-

And when the time comes,
what will be left,
will love be left?

hatred as well?

Will the protuberant
gestures
of a worn-down society
still stick up
like bruised,
but not broken,
pimples?

Of what discharge
will humans finally be made of?

We have told ourselves
that we come from the *****
of God, and the ovaries
of Mother Nature.

But God drinks too much
and comes home wasted
far too often,
far too drunk
to ****.

And mother,
well,
mother does the best she can.

So what we come from them
is spurned love,
of untruths often told
over bed-time stories
when God was talking about
his drunken outings
more than
morals,
and we listen
with beady little eyes,
because God is drunk,
and try as we might,
we cannot stop loving him.

So we come from love
and hatred,
addiction
and
hopefulness,
Mother giving us as much as we can
until we betray her.

This won't last
forever,
at some point,
you will have to throw in the cards,
and who will be the joker?