can’t sleep   in summer night swelter
beetle clicks on its back
the cat (and cause)   watches it 'do the Kafka'

I feel so at home

in the world, with the tomcat --


curled up on my bed.

They said you can't do that with a cat—
The world's not ready for that!
And at first they jeered,
but then they cheered,
'cuz my cat is the fanciest hat.

Bees nestle in sunshine flowers,

a once adrift cold cat now warm in her glory hours,

birds coo rounded and loud,

the awesome blue sky without cloud.

Although objectively wonderful I wouldn't like it as much if not for you two,

all your actions gilded love's hue:

I'm lucky I came up smiling from the roll of the parent dice

and this little back garden resembles paradise.

if you can look at a cat
but not see a creature
that is both cute
and cunning
a hunter
and a scavenger
loyal yet with a pure sense
of it's own self importance
you're not ready
for people yet

A cat's paw on top of my chest,
Is a gentle reminder of love and rest.
Kneading paws on my heart.
Knowing we'll never part.

A cat's paw on top of my chest
Gives me reason not to stand up.
I won't move till they wake up.
They are reasting in their nest.

A cat's paw on top of my chest,
A bond that will last for years.
Until one of us eternally rest.
Having you calms my fears.

My autocrat of a
cat
sat on the pedestal
and watched me type.
His eyes, slits, like
slivers of emeralds.

He took a paw,
licked it, and
washed his despot face.
He owned me.
I did whatever he
wanted.
He sauntered off,
then turned and
watched , as I
took liberty with
truth, for the
sake of
imagination and creation.

I dreamed last
night that he could
talk.
He just said two words.
"Beautiful lies."

Somewhere,
drones are dropping mortars on top of sleeping men. All the while the trusted corrupt are telling their truths to people grabbing what's left. Snow storms and summer droughts are no longer an event. While the world is changing in ways we already predicted, we choose to focus on why we're not the bad guys in this story. All of this, reinforced by the woke who are telling me nothing really matters anymore.

But right here,
I'm sitting alone on a winter night. I look across the street to watch a scruffy tabby knock over a dusty jar left on someone's window sill. Glass shatters across the lawn held tight by a blanket of untouched snow. I watch the shards cast miniature shadows, glistening as the porch light turns on. It was only for a moment, though, before I continue my attempt at writing about the beautiful things in life. Attempting - because these days it's difficult; because it matters. It matters to me oh so much.

There are cats in all my dreams,
And I don't know why

Cause I don’t dream of tuna
Or mice or flies

They sit on windows,
Waltz through halls

Stare from the ground when I fly
Nudge my knees when I’m naked at the ball

Watch as I drown in honey
Paw at the bugs crawling up my arms

Sit on my lap as the plane goes down
Chirp along to the fire alarms

Do cats run out of dreams when they sleep?
And so wander into other people’s?

Is that why, when I wake up,
My cat always kisses my temples

I’m busy as a bus.
Ten hours on the telephone, research resources,
school staff, counsel clients.
Some sleep.
Then invite Lorraine downtown, the lovely loyal
secretary, to hear jammin jazz crew. By taxi tonight,
sans subway.
I’ve never been to this joint before
but admire the women in their dresses and makeup.
In New York, they smell wild. Elsewhere
women are ranchers and gardeners.
We find a small table in the crowd,
order drinks. The band is four young black men.
Lorraine is black too, by the by.
We get up to dance and I leave my cowboy boots
under the table. I’ve always enjoyed
the way Lorraine puts her arms around me.
I’m the oldest cat in the club
which is frightening
since just fifteen years ago I was the youngest.
I wink at the trumpet player with my fairly abandoned mien
who comes over to our table between sets.
He likes Lorraine. They jukebox it.
She falls in love.