1.
Your specimen:
the cat.
He lies, a stretched out
blob of
whirring, whizzing particles:
You can’t see them –
he can.

2.
His fur is
dried old carpet
left out on a front lawn:
homeless,
floorless;
waiting to be claimed.

3.
His eyes are
blank marbles
flicked by sticky fingers
in a game.
You won them
by cheating,
and stole them but they
turned to mush
in your hands, they
fell through your fingers, and
stained them with purple:
it would not wash off.
It grew:
an omnipresent reminder
trickling down your arms,
pooling at your elbows.

4.
You raise the scalpel:
it is a crescent moon
speckling down to
illicit behaviour
below.

5.
The portraits on the walls
applaud
when you make the first
CUT.
and reveal the
gooey caramel
dripping, circulating, inside.
It sticks to
the blade, forming
clumps of purple
that harden to a
crystallised-honey form.

6.
Later you sleep
with the cat;
he lies on your bed
and purrs
(does he purr?)
and you label the jars:
“Dissection 15”.

No wonder I couldn't find her
She was out all night
When I opened the door
My pet cat rushed inside
And looked at me with her
Big round eyes puzzled
As if asking why didn't I
Opened the door sooner?
As if I read her thoughts
As if she understands
I said, "well, you didn't
Tell me you went outside?"
Greysha is a beautiful cat
Doesn't go out with the guys
Obedient passive goes about
Minding her own ways
Wasting time to look prim
Always around the house
And keeps me company
Now purrs lay beside me
Tapping gently her soft paws
On my arm nudging me
To pat her and stroke her
White and geyish fur coat or
I don't know what's going on
In her mind perhaps she's
Just being naughty or maybe
It's her way of saying
"I am sorry."

Counting each petal as it falls
For each is entirely
their own delicate fragment of beauty
If only I could admire them all

Their candy sweet, summer born perfume
someones turned the lights on again
my life simply, smoothly resumed

Looking back, I dont know how I could ever live a life so consumed- in anything but the blushing pearly hues that form so subtly as each magnolia bud begins to bloom.

I could sit here forever with you.
and enjoy every single one of your treasures
if you'd allow me to.

I want to get lost in you.
For lovely, there's a little piece of magic
in everything you do.
You've got me under a spell with the way your lips move, or the way your throat purrs when you sing me your lullabies and blues.

Small paradise, outside the old family house, beneath the sacchrine flowered tree
It's so beautiful to be in love with you

So beautiful, that you're in love with me.

forgot to button up
veils,scales, umbrellas
see this dragon rained

couches where dreams are cats
no body
just discarded fur and echoes of purrs

after reading the label it rubbed off
maybe its tasty
pretend until the last drop

apologies repeated sound like dogs barking
attention slowly goes missing
a chair to block anyone from entering

holidays celebrate themselves easily
the grocery aisles let them be known
No wristwatch no calendar
window dressings tell parking lots their stories

faces bloom less then flowers
secret coffeehouses for shameful breakfasts
phonecalls peppered with obvious lies
surprise its your turn

The air conditioner hiccups,
as the second half of
Cole Berlin crosses himself--
a face deeply creased by consequence,
looks to the west,
a surrendering sun fractured--
broken by hundreds of stories--
tons of concrete--
mountains of glass,
and the gentlest gloom.

Mr. Berlin's body devours itself--
as the critics and even the diehard fans
run out of time to play "remember when".
The reality enters,
at first no more than an annoying stomach pang,
then growing,
feasting,
shouting,
until each cell knows--
no time for the comeback.

Whatever beams of sun were once banded,
now dismiss themselves,
as night subs in--
Mr. Berlin, closes the curtains of his mind,
falls to the floor,
"Sorry folks, no encore this time".

A week he lay festering,
no more a replica--
only a ruin.
A fly in a web,
rotating on a world without end,
the record, it spits, skips, smolders in ditch,
contaminating the soil,
the virus gently purrs perfection,
no hiccup, no hallucination--
only swag up for collection.

After the milking's done,
Farmer gone to house and bed,
Rag-tag tabbies, half-breed furs,
Assemble by the milking stool
Yowl a bit, then settle down to purrs.
Rosined up, a straw-***** bow
Emits a violinic fiddle's skirl,
And one by one the mousers
Stand on twos to take a matted floor.

Come, let us see you pirouette,
You puissant pouncers.
Lightly spin those furry toes;
Sheath deep those claws to put
Perfection in your prances;
Balance on your tails, and spin;
Exercise or exorcise in cattish dances
The feline feelings you are in.

Dance happily and furiously...
Or sinuously and slow...
Whatever moods mouse-
Murderers can feel or know.
Enjoy the dance, ye half-breed cats.
Never mind the jealous schemes of mice,
Nor terroristic plots of leagues of rats.

Animal House

Sweeping dust
storm,
Gazelles leap.

Careening reach,
dizzy heights
Shy Giraffes
necking in
undergrowth.

Creeping tide
menageries
mystic sloths
limb and oath.

Sea mist
breaking wave
Sun prancing
Dolphins
embraceable
moonbeams.

Lizards
shedding skins.
Trine children,
Pan animals.

Golden gleaming
processions
growling purrs
Carnivores
give
Herbivores
last rites
confessions.

We are
the animal house
the  hourglass
menageries.

bleating hearts
imminent deaths,
fleeting breaths,
unimaginable
love.

She is visiting
Blue eyed as a Siamese
she curls up and purrs

Even when I am
Six feet under
The ground
I'll still be
thinking
About
Cats
Their
Lovely
Personalities
Their fluffiness
Purrs and meows

She came to the farm a shy stray,
hid in the woodshed for days.
Food and water we left for her
kept her alive. In time though
very nervous, little by little
keeping some distance, upon
the porch she climbed.

After a month she ascended
a chair next to mine, where
in the spring sunshine we two
set side by side. Not touching
or speaking just biding our time.

One day she reached out a paw
placing it on my knee, politely
asking permission to step onto
my lap.  Her fear overridden
by the need for companionship.

She prefers to remain mostly
outside, but everyday she comes
to my door and with outreached
front paws she frantically scratches
up and down on the glass begging
to come inside.
I feed her then feeling safe she sleeps
awhile on the back of the couch,
eventually seeking gentle
permission to sit upon my lap,
on a soft blanket kept just for her.

She purrs with contentment while,
taking cat naps now and then, as I
stroke and caress her head and chin,
occasionally opening her sparkling grey
eyes to study my face, as if to be reassured
it's me touching her and that I'm still there.

In her eyes if that is not devoted love  
and gratitude I see looking back at me,
I don't know what else it could possibly be.

The cacophony of metal cutting metal screeches,
burying the sound of 2,000 automobile engines, one train,
and 45 yapping onlookers.

I am self-actualizing.

The ******* Oriental who cut me off
learns the meaning of justice in a hair-split second.

I howl as I force his car further to the side of the road.
He's yelping, feeling fright claw his once-proud brain.

I look up, trying to keep my car on the road.
We tear past shopfront after shopfront,
patrons wailing, pointing, finally finding
something mad enough to put down their forks.

I see skeletal trees,
overshadowed by a red wrecking ball,
an out-of-business record shop,
the metal still crying the most demonic
siren's song.

Further I push him,
he's on pavement,
my little Oriental enemy.
I look at him again.
His knuckles are milk white,
his brow covered with perspiration,
his mouth bleeding from his own bite.

Then he hits.

A stoplight post of solid steel,
with three or so feet of concrete surrounding.
I learn he isn't wearing a seat belt.
Glass grinds his delicate skin, he catapults through the air,
then flattens against a newspaper dispenser.

Then I hit.

A **** Suburban in front of me,
who had stopped to watch the carnage,
now found itself partaking.

I have my seatbelt on,
the bags deploy,
thumping my head and
chest like a crippled bolt of lightning.

The Suburban spins into oncoming traffic,
getting further rearranged by
a pile-up of moaning metal.

My truck comes to a stop.
Smoke cascades languidly,
as humans shout in unison,
"I hope you have good insurance!"

I walk back fifteen yards to the
newspaper dispenser.

The Oriental man twitches,
blood pooling about his head
and left arm.

I stoop down closer to him,
look at his silent Rorschach ****** features,
gaze over my shoulder.
The Suburban lies in smoldering ribbons,
driver probably trying to get into heaven.

Shouts continue, building upon one another,
a crowd gathers around me,
whispers all similar to "what the hell happened?"
flame up and burn through the collective.

"Did you know him?" a small black boy,
with teeth of snow asks.

"Not real well, but don't worry kid, he wasn't a good man."

I rummage through the crowd until I break through,
I hear sirens of some sort in the distance,
unclear of cop or ambulance,
I survey the damage to my truck-
a light busted out,
bent bumper,
and what looks like a few holes drilled into the grill.
I open the door,
clumsily ruffle the airbag,
put my key in the ignition,
and to my delight
when I turn the beast,
it purrs submissively.

I grin, let my fingertips
briefly dance on the steering wheel,
and put the truck in reverse.

The night sky is wrapped in curls of black
and the air purrs, fizzes with the sound of hot
fluorescent lights, choking the air with vacation colour,
blinking fast like there’s something in their eyes.
Gulls guffaw in circles over 174,
where inside old wallpaper is torn
and dated lampshades dangle from above.
Two pegs on a line outside my box,
the bed is rickety and isn’t as fit anymore.
The novices, the returnees
seek silver and gold in the oasis
before their feet sting in scorching sand.
Win what you lose, lose what you win,
hold onto it before it tumbles back onto white cushions.
Money hiccups out of ugly machines
when they have a session of indigestion.
Young girls, carefree and cute walk around in a daze
as chubby men waddle along the pavement
thinking of that next pint.
Lined up at the bar with peanuts and bottles,
the large screen projects to all.
A clink of glasses and a click of snooker *****
past nine, past ten, past eleven as well.
And then the plug is pulled out,
everybody settles down to sleep,
but we all know they’ll do it again
when tomorrow’s summer evening calls.

Upon a hill hopped a rabbit,
Little to knowledge of talking
He eventually picked up the habit
And finally learnt how to speak.

His first words were to a cat,
'Miss, might I say you're beautiful?'
He asked looking for a little chat.
'It's fine by me' replied with slight purrs.

'Do you mind if i sit next to you?'
Asking once again to the purring cat,
'I just want more orange, less blue'
The rabbit said with a little sigh.

'I know some don't carrot all-
And it hurts my little feelings
Because though I'm not tall
I have a heart as big as my chest'

The rabbit looked in her direction
'You sure have a large meowth' cat said,
'You sure have perfect complexion'
The rabbit replied with cocksure glee.

'You've got to be kitten me' cat snickered
Cats eyes gleamed under the light of beauty
'At least I'm not a hare in your burger' rabbit bickered-
Back and forth till their smiles shone bright.

'May I say one more thing?' bunny asked
'Yes purr sure you may' cat replied.
'No star can leave a light like your cast-
Because you are the brightest and most beautiful
star to ever lived on this Earth'.

**1837–1901 Rosoideae

Regret,
           One word,
Timeless damage condensed to
           Six letters.
That are scented like cheap, Dollar store, perfume
           Titled “Heavenly”.
The stench that you burned into my nostrils,choking me,
            Suffocating me.
A word whose name taste like poison on my battered tongue,
             Bitterly sweetless,
Just like the ***** pouring like fountains from your fingertips,
             Sugar-laced manipulation.
It’s adorned with purple, the colour of the rich,
            Of royalty,
Yet, worn by a wayward, penniless, and perverted sinner,
             Guiltless, guilty.
It’s a word that purrs, “You’re so mature” as its filthy palms grasp my flesh,
             Robbing me.
Robbing me straight from the cradle I slept so ignorantly,
             So soundly.
Stripping me naked as I was born, yet wasn’t I just yesterday?
              Too young.
Far too young to carry the weight of your skin,
               Your sins,
                                           My regret.

Grandad Cat
curls his tail
and wants to tell a tale
to his GrandKits Cats
He claws them before him
and he meows a catchy tune
that he shall
tell them a tale

But little Toby
he purrs:
*No, Grand – you're such a bad story-teller
cos you only have
one tale

I take the calories for the calm
The more I take, the more time I have till the anxiety comes back
I see the world through an out of focused lens
Just barely making out enough of the edges to navigate
The nerves and veins in my brain are constantly half full, half empty
How do I get through?
Every push forward is short-lived
I take one step forward
And then push myself 10 steps back in an instant
The calories can’t numb the pain
Can’t push away the parasite of exhaustion gnawing at me in every moment
I’m sinking, sinking
Into oblivion, into the dark hole that welcomes the likes of me
The self doubt crawls out to the surface slowly
“You know you can’t get rid of me” it purrs, “you know you’ll never be enough”
It’s claws caress the insides of my brain
“You can never escape me” it hisses
It laughs, and sinks it’s claws in me further, deeper and deeper
It drags me down further
The monster in the dark
I’m on edge again, gasping for air again, utterly resigned to my fate, again
“I will never escape you” I whisper
Eyes wide in terror, I succumb to the horror of myself
Sink my nails into my flesh, perhaps I’ll wake up from this nightmare
Perhaps, perhaps, oh God please let this be a nightmare!
I plead till my nails draw blood, till my resignation turns into outright terror, till my terror turns into gasping screams
This is not a nightmare
This is life
And actions have consequences
What has passed cannot be undone
And I will never escape.

I sense a lot;
my saturated feelings
consume me, eat me,
clench my heart,
and softly pet it

as though it purrs for me to move,
to breath, to keep existing,
when no existence is enough
for me to feel alive
and present.

kneels in gravel—
paws folded under,
claws hidden--
sometimes for hours.
In dark, in day, in rain,
in gray growing gloom
same color as her coat,
she genuflects to her goddess,
twiddles razors with feline ennui,
rules the empty deck like a furry
Queen of Hearts.

Her benefactor borrows her boredom
From time to time--
the lady with the cream,
red hair, and quiet conversational tone.

It took a week to coax her in—
the elaborate kabuki of cats--
and the lady laid out house rules
in that voice.

No names necessary;
friends forging a contract.

No sharp kneading in the belly,
out at night
no pregnancies
no fights.

Agreed.

Appearances are regular now.
Screen-door meow for entrance,
purrs to the delicate stroke of long fingers
and soothing human talk.
Food dish is usually full.

The lady neglected to cover
the topic of gut-piles
on the welcome mat.  Porch Cat
is most proud of these,
offers them as evidence
she’s keeping her end of the bargain--
with one exception--
in the dungeon of night
low dark howls rise to screeches:
ancient instincts, modern setting.

Lady flops in her sleep,
winces in her dream.

Lightning lash,
Soft, sharp tear of flesh.
Porch cat has new wounds to lick--
a task to occupy her time
waiting at the door
for morning to filter
into the city.


11/5/10

The Kitten Quiet, Stalks Her Prey
The Sparrow Flies On Golden Wing
Espy The Sparrow, The Kitten Purrs
Come To Kitty, Sparrow Sing!!!

A governess, a guardian of the young, so known and dear as to be called “Mother” and a noblewoman, just barely 12 by age, named Portia, sit talking as the sun sets the stage for a cool, cloudless night.

“Mother, who invented candlelight and the slow, delicate brush of lips?”
“Some rakish boy, pawning his experience for present pleasure, no doubt.”
“Say true, Mother. If you were a man, would you find this common body worthy of love?”
“You show no blemish child, and display a certain bony voluptuousness - I should think.”
The governess begins to comb and braid Portia’s hair for sleep.
“I saw Portincio this morning, in the courtyard.”
“The boy from Padua?”
“He’s a man Mother, and his cast portents a passion so sweet - it shakes my very frame.”
Mother chuckles, “Even hopeless birds sing in cages.”
“I am not hopeless!” Portia writhes angrily, like a snake about to strike but mother calms her.
“Shoo, shoo, now,” Mother purrs, brushing all the more gently, “I meant nothing of it.” After a moment, she continues, “Love is more than coquetry, little one, and it soon passes - like a parade, or a rash. For now, be happy, you are like the chaste stars - unreachable.”

She asks me,
To calm the ocean storm inside of her.
To harbour in her fickle fears,
And quell her urge to fly or run away.

She asks me,
To silence her cacophony,
A chatter's choir, passion’s angry mob,
And I soft my fingerprints, a lover’s mark,
On the pout of her red, red lips.

Talk to me in confidence and whispers,
She purrs,
As I undo the buttons on her dress,
She says,
Tell me,
No,
Convince me
You have missed me.

She shifts her shoulders,
And
A curtain call of fabric falls free,
Her dress,
A parachute,  
Floats into a pretty bunch,
Settles round and round her ankles in a heap.

Sigh.
Sigh as if I'm your last chance to be free, she says,
Her hands in yoga pose behind her back,
Her bra disappears,
A red memory of elastic,
Tribal indents in her skin,
Temptation’s fragrance overwhelms,
Becomes a taste.

She turns her back to me.
Her thumbs hitchhike inside her *******’ waist,
She slips them down
Steps out of them,
Naked in high heels, she pirouettes,
Hands above her head,
Her *******,
Stiff and brazen buds,
They point and accuse me,
Of some premeditated crime.

Her voice in echo, hardens my intent,
She offers me a carafe of oil,
Warm wet,
Her fingers find the best of me,
Through the thin fabric of my disguise.

Make me shine she murmurs,
Make me slippery and easy to handle, she begs,
My slick hands fill with her,
And I fall fast and forward,
To slip and disappear into a passing cloud.

Your Crystal like body,
Shinning with cracks.
malicious sparkles.
Sharp facets.
Every chip, every drop,
That should have crystallized,
And then dropped off.
Has not.

Gorge on pain,
Revel in confusion,
Misery isn’t hereditary Like your back.
You can be happy.
Not seek out pain.
Is this what you want?

The girl I loved,
Is gone and missed.
Replaced by a miser of woes,
An unhappy beast.
That spits and sulks
Gone are the purrs.
The felicity.
The light.
I dated a wannabe corpse,
Not something I like,
Revel in your pain,
You can do it without me.
Everything brings you down,
Especially me,
That seems how you like it to be.

The girl I loved,
  Is gone and dead,
As are we,
Stop ******* with my head.

Love me.
Hate me.
Do both,
I don’t care.
Do whatever you want,
I’m not there

Riding against the east,
A veering, steady shadow
Purrs the motor-call
Of the man-bird
Ready with the death-laughter
In his throat
And in his heart always
The love of the big blue beyond.

Only a man,
A far fleck of shadow on the east
Sitting at ease
With his hands on a wheel
And around him the large gray wings.
Hold him, great soft wings,
Keep and deal kindly, O wings,
With the cool, calm shadow at the wheel.

Crossroad horizon colored purple blue and burned
Sister sadie purrs as the register drawer rings
And the horses all gallop and dash entrancing the sun.

A naked flower forms meteors in metered time.
When I was nineteen I lost every single fear.
Tear away the fabric, rip away the sheets, open up the signs;
There just ain't enough time in this world to be unkind.

Understand thy fellow brother.
See their shining God as ye' see yours.
Another night away from her
Is like being shot down double musket undeserved.

A lonesome river runs through the mountains gate.
A man who believes in himself understands that fate
Is neither fair or generous, only a state
That cannot be meddled with or stripped to debate.

Golden fawn springs from the bush to the forefront.
Twilight salutes in a dutiful stunt.
When I don't love, I don't live.
And when I don't live, I don't deserve to be.

Crystal bells, silver whistles and jade scorpions
They hang like a gang from my rooftop.
Apricot juice, dandelion wine, and attic finds
Are all a child's dreams until they stop.

Day here, day gone.

She complains about life, as
I wonder about the knife
Which Macbeth did hold,
Flashy like a maroon marigold.
Was it silver or was it a copper mold?
There are some secrets in this world
That should never be told.

Brown sister holds her books tight to her chest.
Her brother has been lost to some kind of quest.
The yellow ball sits on the edge of the corner pocket.
She grips in her hand an old rusty locket.

Near the Richmond train and the Sacramento river
Sits a dead man with eyes spilt into a frown.
His wife left him one morning to marry his brother John,
And he sits, waiting there for his soul to come along.

Abandoned love's color is that of a charcoal dove.
The bones of the pure cannot be broken or charred.
Blanket of stars partake in the ceremony of the monkeys.
I see the shaman and he's dressed as if he aims to be wed.

Oil on the streets. There's oil on my hands.
There's oil everywhere around us, but in the land.
Can't see through these eyes of mine anymore.
Can't breathe through this mouth or nose of mine neither.
Somethings telling me I've got to change my point of view,
Though where to start, I haven't a clue.

I like this place.
I like what I can do.
But some days,
I just feel cruel and I
Act like a drunken fool.

There's a place I can smell in my dreams, in my sleep, when I feel what we truly have.
And when it goes away, the only thing I can manage to feel is 6 feet down low and sad.
Let's get out of this place as soon as we can. I'll pack the bags and you pack the animals.
Out on the islands, away from all of man, we'll live by the eastern wind unplanned.

Clock strikes the fortieth page of the hundredth book of the eighth king.
The day man truly dies is when he forgets how to sing.
I cannot elope my mind to the calculations of times subtractions of the body.
Either everyone comes,

Or nobody.

Café for Cats

Take your shoes off
and close the child-gate
we don’t want the cats
out in the street please
thank you : our cats
your pleasure their purrs
together
make for a blissful moment
in a hectic world
on this busy street
don’t leave without
taking a cat on your lap
stroking their pedigree fur
all for you and coffee too


Street Art

Prevalent in these parts
the impromptu sketch
the wildly alternative mark
on arches grand designs on
construction-site hoardings
and take this side of a building
here untouched by windows
a canvas blank of brick where
Gulliver’s sister lies gagged
and bound in a Lilliput house
her knees poking through
the upstairs floor


tokyobike

in pastel-green apricot-pink
a lithe machine of delicate frame
and slim-line wheels
would look well in the hall
and out on the street
if properly socked with
your oh so short skirt
the gym-honed thighs
the custom rucksack
tight on your back


Whirl of Leaves

The breath that blows
these notes across the page
the murmuration of fingers
against those resonant strings
up and down to and fro
on music’s path go
the flute and the harp
pursuing the ground
into the autumn air
chasing the wind
until . . .
at a passing wall
they are stilled
into motionless
their rise and swirl
emptied of breath
no more to blow
or pluck these dancing
murmuring
wind-driven notes
but into fermata’s
grasp    

(where despite
a futile final flurry
a long bar’s rest
takes hold
till Spring)


St Paul’s by Night

From across the river
an unexpected view
not just that gracious dome
but the building below
substantially whole complete
for once not hidden by proximity
or an errant developer’s whim
the progress to the great south door
unimpeded when we walked
the well-tempered bridge
as high on the lofty cranes
bright red stars guided
our journey home


Askam Square

In this London square
the trees hold still
as sculptures in
the nothing air
no breeze to animate
their leaves except
a steady gaze might catch
a gentle oscillation
here and there

La Maison vert foncé

So very green this perfect Hoxton house
it could be in a petite ville Française
incongruous here – but such a treasure
geranium-filled window boxes
lace curtained attic rooms
just-have-to-have-a-look inside and see
the dress-maker’s table the library of books
the posters artists’ prints and all
a purposeful lady sits typing at her desk
costume directions for a Pirandello play


Daughter

Last year she’d bought a boat on the river
this year she’s in New York for the week
Keeping tabs on daughters can be wearisome
you hope for hug and to hear that certain voice
see eyes that haven’t changed their depth
since a child when you marvelled at their colour
so - it seems you won’t be seeing her this time around
but she’ll be in touch when she gets back she says
and ‘we’ll talk’ . . . she says.

Urban Fox**

dogs don’t have such a brush of a tail
a flattened skull or triangle-like ears
one was about to cross our path
thought better of it and retreated
behind a bush content to wait
till we’d passed on by
I
writing just the other day
about the fox of Chinese lore
remembered this celestial dog
had nine tails, four legs and a golden coat
served the Palace of Sun and Moon
transcended both the yin and yang