Writings To and Fro

Dog are supra

specially shaggy Spanish curs

shaking la cola, but

cats are better, all bumble purry

whiskers like broom straws

nasty paws and scathing

claws cackling careless as tats

nothing so cunning as a scratchy cat.

as Mr. Cat

sashays his furry blurry

bottom from side

to side with twangy twat

prancing mincing four-leg ponce

fussy puss, you classy flounce

don’t bare your dainty teeth

at me, don’t hiss me a dream

or spit a tear

don’t cry a river, just

pounce, you charm-driven

tattery scattery cat

don’t swear me a whisker

or swish the mice away

just let the sissies play

Ethan or maybe Josh,

find him a posh agent and a publicist;

but even on his own he’s a celebrity,

will attract a grand fan

base complete with groupies,

transform into an Instagram star,

an influencer.

He will inspire a fashion trend

for accent stitching,

start a Patreon account,

collect millions on a GoFundMe page with his heart-

felt musings.

If people call him names or try to shame him

he will assert the right to be his authentic self.

Believers will form a defense league,

a protective society,

organize a retreat in his name.

Life will be good for Ethan

or Josh.

Is a shrouded ombre cumulus cloud

Actually she is a theosophist

I smelled her out immediately

She stinks pink, that’s how I know

Izzy comes from a crag-ridden Carpathian crow-infested city

Or maybe not, maybe from the Andes

(I really adore hearing Izzy spout spiritual in Spanglish)

Mucha mierda, she perches on a peaky monolith and mouths off

Since she tastes pink she is philosophical

to think it has come to this: my gata

is a pedagogue of the arcane language of the cosmos

Crouched above Madame Blavatsky’s head like a halo

Izzy laughs and leaps into the air

Little missy clears her throat as Izzy spits and hisses and scratches

Well, she will spit and hiss and scratch some day, will roll

around on Madame’s rug to get her lizard belly scratched

A cat like Izzy is as rare as a Flamenco dancing mule

Hearing the symphony cojelo con take it easy

Curled next to the mouthy footstool upon which Madame rests her feet

Izzy dreams of ombre

I don’t feel good, this sickness

came on abrupt and sneaky.

First, there was this little bump

inconsequential stumpy

lump that overnight blossomed. Second,

I blame Miss Petunia Pain, queen

of fever and just plain mean.

Miss Petunia, I asked

how come you snuck up on me

dreaming of lucky birds and ducky bogs,

how come you seized my little dumpy bump

and started gnawing and pawing?

Miss Petunia smiled

and said, I am always just around the corner, silly.

Crow is perched on the end

of my bed, looking at me with black pricked eyes;

his pickled feathers are glossamer as pitch

but when he squawks

all I do is shrug

in blankety defense. I say, talk

English, you are in America now,

heathen tongues not allowed. Crow

stalks up the coverlet to the

pillow, hums his beak along my cheek:

a weighty, hammy bird, a bird for the ages,

strung and tethered

speaking the darling language of love.

When I wake up this morning

Stumble shaky out of sheets, walk to the window

Fog blanks out every view

overnight icebergs have flowed close around

can’t see beyond ten feet

that is, I am swallowed whole by a stratus seeker

Expedited to the eighth dimension

Me and this capsulated house

Alone in some universe.

This is not a how-to manual even though my personal approach to heavy breathing eroticism is technical rather than spiritual. Isomorphic philosophy provides a poignant transformative framework which if properly crafted should result in orgasms that multiply like golden codfish on a wooden pier, Saint Peter may his name be blessed waving evangelic fingers over the sea. Or maybe I am thinking of a golden codpiece. That is to say, Isomorphism is merely coded for a way of life, and its teachings, which I am pleased to import, will allow you to retain vigor indefinitely and produce wellsprings of fundament lust coddled on a cranny scramble of sexuality. I have this on authority. But I am a how-to guide, after all, although I fancy myself an adept instructor having learned the tropes at an early age from Master himself, Baba Isomo.

hashtag world war #death of the Jews, #there is only love and death and this third thing which I cannot now remember.

I won’t succumb to misery, misericord, mercy: #one point five million Jewish children died in the Holocaust

Or did I just dream a contrary philosophy #Auschwitz how can you stand and watch them die #children under twelve went directly to gas chambers.

hashtag Melancholy Baby, how did you die today, cuddle up and don’t be blue #I have not yet found the silver lining.

Slick slack slop a slippery slope goddamn sly stingy strangling Semites spoke #Der Sturmer

After all I graduated top of my class #barren having learned all about love and death and perhaps another thing #hundreds of thousands of Jewish children died of starvation disease exhaustion.

Phasia is the utterance, ass.

hashtag hate of the Jews was nothing new wink your evil eye and swear by the elders of Zion you fucking Nazis.

hashtag Babi Yar remember thirty-three thousand Jews murdered outside Kiev in a ravine #twenty-nine survived.

hashtag hide behind the pine tree walk barefoot across the snow #one child and one child and one child #love and death and for the life of me I cannot remember the other thing.

when

we lived in the woods and the baby was a baby

the three of us

plus a cat and blackish dog stayed

Together in a shack bigger

than a refrigerator box; at dusk we lit lamps,

breakfast lunch and dinner cooked on a wood stove.

Rolled cigarettes with one hand and

Smoked looking out at silver birch trees

and three abandoned pickup trucks.

No telephone no electric

no lights in the distance, the air smelled

of wood smoke and kerosene and brown rice.