Calling The Cat Back.

Let’s set the AC at a temperature that freezes my soul. To preserve it from the canker spreading across my organs like pus-oozing sores. What is this pus made of, you ask? Nothing. It is the gagging vomit that heaves up nothing while twisting the stomach inside out.

Turn green, turn green, red of my fucking life, for once turn green.

Everyone wants a piece of control but there is none left to steal.

The larder runs dry. From the cobwebs lining its shelves I sew a dress and then, as an afterthought, cut it up into ribbons. These ribbons I leave in the scorching sun so they turn to dust. The greedy wind takes this dust away to a land of no consequence. Then I start all over again.

Thank God for Mondays!

Did I chase peace out the door like a stray cat? It doesn’t come around anymore. I keep a bowl of milk on the window sill each day, but still no cat, and all I get is spoilt milk.

The Poem Conversation

I hear your words muffled at first,
Like a glitch in static, like a memory of a memory,
Like music heard through a closed, wooden door,
With my hand on the brass knob, I pause,
Unwilling to open, unable to let it remain closed.

 

For I have seen and seen,
How the music ends in a blink,
When someone enters the room.
And I have lived that silence filled with shiny words,
Your mask so rough it keeps slipping.

 

If you were a place, you’d be a second home,
And I guess when I shook your hand,
I must’ve let go of my jar of labels,
As I write you, to you, for you,
I find more of me than you.

 

In the ball room outside,
They rush to put us in a box,
We must be something, right?
Something defined.
But we aren’t or are.

 

We are old souls,
On similar flights,
“Did you see that cloud?”
“Yes, and I loved it too!”
An imperfect, perfect harmony.

 

In dusty rooms, once in a blue moon,
About shackled speech and angry hearts,
I write letters to you,
But that room is locked,
I don’t have its key,
Those corners know me more than me.
They won’t let me in, unless I need.