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.
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.