I am the "Lap Cat".
"Lap cat"???
Why am I
being called a "Lap Cat"? --
Then the "steak" (*** roast)
came out.
Oh yea . . . !
We be likin' the "steak".
In fact,
I'd do most anything -
even be a "Lap Cat" -
to keep the "steak" comin'.
Unfortunately,
two other critters
with whom I share this humble abode,
have discovered
my secret passion
and,
doggone it,
demand
their share of the loot.
In case you're bad at math,
this leaves less for me.
I'll just
have to
puke up the Meow Mix
a little more often
to accentuate my point.
The battle
of the (animal vs human) minds
has begun;
don't underestimate
the devious methods
of . . .
the "Lap Cat".

by-
Fred

My Dad
Didn't speak,
Worked endlessly,
Ate bowls of white bread
With milk and sugar
Before bedtime,
Got up early
By himself,
Percolated morning coffee -
Blip Blip Blip -
Into my bedroom
From the kitchen.
He watched over me
Silently,
Worried
Silently,
Protected me
Silently,
Loved me
Silently.

Why didn't you send that boy away?

Because you never would have spoken to me again
And I could not have borne that.

Now I know.
You were right.
And I apologize.

a candy apple red heritage soft-tail classic
on a rusted dirt road
i am built of where i've been

the mango groves
the east and west coast
and every camp-ground in canada
this map is my home
let me tuck you into the folds
and sing you to sleep
some place sweet
where the air smells of earth and rain

don't let the concrete tame you

the road under foot is not measured by the steps necessary to travel it
but the way one migrates over the breaking soil
resting between where we are and where we'll be
when our dreams run free
and the tent's set in the pines

barefoot
running shoes
doc martens
thumb to the sky
pack on my back
black top under bridgestones

let us fly

let us soar

s'go

i'll take you with me
like my sleeping bag
and skinning knife
and canteen

be the water that i drink

fuel the fires that propel this engine
drive me to the end of the road
where one can only go by foot
and feather
and foolishness

let's disappear in the fog of the north
the mud of the east
the heat of the south
the haze of the west

let's find ourselves in the topography of folded bodies
tangled up in a flesh scented tent

Go away little wisp.
I know what you are up to.
I pay the slightest notice,
you morph into an innocent, seductive puff
strutting to and fro
offering companionship,
comfort,
yes, even love.
I admire you; you gust, fat and fluffy.
I compliment; you explode into a cumulous mass hovering ominously above.
I worry; ashen gray lithely overtakes beguiling white.
Rumbling belly fills with rage and swells with forboding.
There is no longer an escape.
My thoughts
are pulled into shadow
and slapped onto earth
in torrents of unrestrained rage.
Completely engulfed, I choke, and
swirl in great muddy vortexes down lost drains.
Who am I?
Who are my thoughts?
I only have you to grasp onto,
and that is no solace.

Give me a pink hat
to match the blonde hair.
Give me twenty-five men.
Let one of them be drunk.
Give me a deck of cards
that sends me good luck.
Give me great heaps of money,
ready to serve.
And let's see what happens.

Mosquito's path
skittering 'cross
arm hairs,
loitering beyond
hearing range

Lazy flow'ry trail
leaving scent
a lovely cell

Celestial chanting
at conversation's edge

Dreams that steal 'way
in intimate folds
of everyday experience

All are discreet places
you may
hear my gentle call
to come home.