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If my eyes are windows,
i'd prefer them latched shut,
not with sleep, or drunkenness,
but with the hopes of,
and i'm not being cynical,
that when i open them,
i won't be surrounded by the smog,
the **** storm, the 21st century
excuse for a culture,
provided to you by use of TMZ,
MTV, BET, any acronym,
but behind those eyes,
storm windowed, bunkered,
rests a mind that knows only doors,
to open and close as it sees fit,
allowing whatever it pleases to pass,
but not without judgement,
unlike those unruly eyes,
allowing light to shine through,
and darkness to permeate.
One night, after she had one too many whiskey sours,
We sat on her beige couch, her legs sprawled over mine,
Swimming in a world of spins, beady eyes boasting sobriety,
Though her liver lasted five rounds with Boom Boom Mancini.
She pawed at my moustache, lathered thin with pomade,
And as her dainty lady fingers, delicious and thin, stretched outward,
Her nails, painted jack-o-lanterns, elongated into semi-sharp claws,
Her naked digits grew hairy, grey and tabby, somewhat shabby.
The arms stretched around my belly became legs of wobbly nature,
The breast that I had adored before, lost the curves,
Continuing down her back, alas to the ***, causing a prehensile shift,
To an archaic tail, one not nearly as inviting as the prior,
Trailing down her legs that used to be bare, neutered by Nair,
The follicles grew rigid, stagnant towers of black and white,
A coat of alley hardened fur now covered her whole self,
Matted with mud or something more foul, it carried down to her toes,
Now paws, unbeknownst to DNA, Scientists, God or whatever,
She was genetically manifesting her 6 year old, little girl aspirations.

But the face, O! The face, how it nestled deep in my nook,
The crook of my shoulder, burglarizing the warmth from my body for herself,
Swaddling in her makeshift womb, her face peeked up at me,
And like the least likely suspect in a line-up, I could not believe my eyes,
At a sight I did not recognize, one that could not, should not be feasible,
Her nose, once upturned with my drunken blather, was now wet, cold, and
Pink like her ******* scattered on the floor. Her whiskers
Mimicked those of my own, yet longer, stranger, like arithmetic to a baby.
Those supple lips disappeared completely, leaving behind a sand paper,
Rough grained tongue to lap at the bottom of my beard.
Her ears grew larger as if to hear a really big secret, or just
Big enough to hear the subtle purr of my heart.
The eyes, once splashed red with alcohol, now yellowed windows,
And the cries she emitted, from her little lungs bouncing around the box,
Emanated with more intensity than the most passionate bedroom theatrics,
Mewing and cooing her transition from female to feline.

I could do nothing but stare into my beer, for I knew what she was going through,
A twenty something woman, maternal clock ticking, finds refuge in
Little kittens, equating the cat to child, until it finally consumed her.
Her body changed, mind still the same, mouth smelling like Johnny Walker
And Chicken of the Sea.
women love cats.
We came, we saw, we kicked its ***,
We left the room, went to my full bed,
And within minutes, your head,
Found the spot on my chest, right above the heart,
The spot, you know the spot,
And your eyes closed, blue eyes shut on blue sheets,
As my eyes concentrated on the flickering screen,
During the time in between Rosanne and the Morning Show,

You slowly succumbed to the sand man,
It started in your hands, the little phalange,
Twitched, with an itch, no,
It was something biological,
Happening in all women,
The shake, the rattle, the roll,
Which no one can explain,
Right before the REM cycle,
In the proverbial washing machine of dreams,

Your hand, just one, flicked and squirmed,
Then a leg, taut like a timber hitch,
Your hips shot upward, a nocturnal cannon,
The bedtime for bonzos twitch,
Your hair, everywhere but nowhere comfortable,
Like that rogue strand aimed at my eye,
A smile playing coyly on my face,
Because I imagine you, attempting a pole dance,
Your little lips sputter with nighttime stutter,
And your head fills with true romance,

Those five to ten minutes, when your breathing slows
You’re skipping through the meadows in your mind,
I’m lying close enough to your side, to feel your breast,
The wiring across your pink bra,
The t-shirt you borrowed months ago,
The bobby pin you just found on my floor,
These keep me up, these keep me thinking,
When all I need is a few hours of sleeping,

After your fireworks display of flailing,
You must have hit me in the face, the *****, the arm,
A few times, a laugh plagues me deep down,
I can’t let it eep out, can’t make a sound,
Something subtle enough to stir you like soup,
So I do my best pondering, do my best like cub scouts,
To find some rest for my absentminded head,

Just a word to the wise, advice from an idiot,
You may be asleep, for a few seconds, and when I am
Wide awake waiting for my forty winks,
Know that your body is involuntarily dancing,
And I soon drift off, on a sailboat of sleep myself,
Only to begin my own shaking,
How silly we must look,
Dancing to dreams.
I’ve lead this nation through its greatest
Civil unrest,
Like the last hand left clapping at
Curtain call,
I stand tall, a little too tall, stove pipe
Black hat,
Huzzahs and here here’s, I’ve had
My share,
And my critics would rather load
Their revolver,
Than blow buckshot with their brains
And tongue,
Which is why I’m stuck inside my own mind,
Comatose, near death, and all I can think of is my
Little boy.

White walls, white women, and **** in my
Bed pan,
Through my shattered cranium, I can still see
And think,
Slack jawed and glaze eyed, this isn’t right on
My son’s
21st birthday, who will be there
To buy
His first beer, or cool glass of
*** punch,
Mary Todd abstains from the savage
Fire water,
So Edward, knobby kneed now, please tell
Me who?
To share a malted Schlitz, or fine Pabst
Blue ribbon,
To teach you the proper way a man sips
The foam,
How to crush the julep leaf before crushing
It in,
Your table will be full of well wishers and
Whiskey drinkers,
Your belly will be full of well whiskey and
Sour mash,
Your woman, how beautiful she will be,
Glossy eyed,
Your brothers, yes, your companions will
Be there,
Alas your dear ol’ Dad will not be present for
The speech,
As I have addressed so many
Times before,
But you can tell the story, of fore score and seven
Beers ago,
Your father lay vegetated, weak, tired
Of dying,
With the thoughts of honey hops and
Bitter barley,
The sweet wheat, and your transformation
Into manhood,
You’ll be as lonesome and lost as the
****** Confederacy,
Child, know that your father can not tell
A lie,
That on that day, I will be tapping
A barrel,
In the land beyond the sky, stirring the foam,
Humming happy birthday.
What would you be thinking about?
Abe and I have similar beards.
maybe similar drinking habits?
I'd like to think so.
Sprawled on her twin bed, hungover, this story’s sad and true,
She is an early morning Whippoorwill, I an impotent worm,
The sheets, satin blue; her shower, comforting and warm,
She shakes and shivers the dust from her wings, I rediscover my underwear.

She is an early morning Whippoorwill, I an impotent worm,
Through bloodshot, insomnia riddled eyes, I glance at her,
She shakes and shivers the dust from her wings, I rediscover my underwear,
She straightens her hair, her visage all aglow, unusual at this hour.

Through bloodshot, insomnia riddled eyes, I glance at her,
She stares into her vanity, vainly she catches my gaze,
She straightens her hair, her visage all aglow, unusual at this hour,
Her smile sings Frere Jacques, her lips wet with French kisses.

She leaves for work, I stretch for the package of Reds, our vice in my hand,
The sheets, satin blue; her shower, comforting and warm,
Suddenly an invalid, blind, holding two cigarettes for just one lonesome man,
Sprawled on her twin bed, hungover, this story’s sad and true.
This is a Malaysian form of poetry called a pantoum, the only form of poetry that gets more fun the more times you say it.  There's a repeton joke in there somewhere

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