There’s a monument at the end of the trail less traveled.
Solemn, incised in stone, it reads,
“This is the end of the trail.
Did it meet or exceed your expectations?”

I don’t want to live in a universe where cats are considered liquids— They’re bad enough as they are.

So some idiot decided that cats fit the definition of a liquid—
“a substance that flows freely but is of constant volume”.

Obviously the dictionary is wrong, wrong, WRONG.
I shall spend the rest of my dotage developing a definition that will not accept cats as liquids.

Perhaps “A freely flowing substance of constant volume that doesn’t meow.”— Perhaps not.

But wait,  cats don’t fit the definition after all. They don’t stay the same size, especially when frightened or wet.

I bet that idiot spends all his time watching cat videos and has never hosed down fighting cats in his backyard.

Dotage saved for more important stuff :
Continue study of Schrodinger’s aversion to cats, look for hidden messages in Emily Dickenson poems recited backwards, master fake outrage.

My first day modeling for Monsieur Magritte,
he asked me to take off my clothes,
and stand facing the easel.
During the next break, I snuck a peek.
There I was , fully clothed,
wearing a bowler
but, instead of a face,
there was a green apple.

As I found out, this was typical.
I have posed as a tree,  and a cat in a hat.
My shadow has been a window.
My face has been a bird,
My torso a bird cage,
A pipe was an organic extension of my nose.

I never understood why he needed a model at all,
perhaps an immediate someone to share his visions.
The money was good, and I faked it.
Wouldn't you?

Night of the morning of short knives,
drills and screws, glue and cadaver bone

Early to bed- Ha! in bed all day.

Eyes closed, mind Percocet blank…
Fully dressed— bare **** gown, oxygen monitor, IV, **** bag, wound drainage can.

Oxygen monitor beeps and flirts with 89%
Silencing deep breaths, Buddha breaths.

What’s with my tummy, **** or not?
soothing infusion, preventive IV drip

Vital visits (4), blood pressure,
pulse (yes), and extra oxygen check.

More oxygen beeps.
If it beeps and no-one comes, does it count?

Three drainage dumps,
Purple red spattered gown and sheets

The inept vampire lady appears.
Can’t see, feel, or find a vein.

First of two that night, the glucose *****.
Revenge, the ******* offered.

The empty IV machine beeps back at the oxygen monitor

The sting of a forced catheter.
Have a pill, dear, you’ll just *** blue

Another anti-**** infusion.
Maybe if I could sleep it would all go away.

It’s four am and not a wink.
And here come the hiccups.

Beeping oxygen monitor, barfie tummy, drainage dumps, vampire lady, sugar *****, blue ****, empty IV, hiccups and a partridge in a pear tree.

But I’m probably getting better.

I woke up underground.
It was eons since my last meal.
My tiny brains were flooded with hunger pangs
I was not your green comic book T-Rex,
I was scarlet vermillion and brilliant oche
and I was confined in the dank earth.
I flexed my armored reptile muscles
and pushed and dug upwards.
I broke ground and saw a feeble sun,
but I was in the middle of a picnic!
Wilted chicken salad and greasy brats,
and some pale mammals,
with crunchy arms and legs.
I left the chicken salad for the flies.

at the outdoor bar on the beach
And all the golf carts gather around.
Some Elvis and a few more beers
No millennials until sundown.

In that little deuce coupe,
the Beach Boys run around,
Surfer girl's a Pasadena lady,
And surf boards are all aground.

Now I long for yesterday
When oldies were the craze.
There goes the sun and I say,
Hey Jude, here's to better days.

I ride back to the boonies,
thinking when oldies were newsies.
Wake up little Suzie,
we gotta go home

A taunt and a challenge
Roll down the hill in a rusty 55-gallon drum
No brakes  just trees
A bumpy jumpy rolly ride
Disorienting dizzying
Hit a tree spin out
Bruised and staggering
Stumble and fall.
Where is the bravery-stupidity line?
At the top of the hill.