tangy foreclosure

the radio acts up again, because
spanking never works.

and so these wrists ache.

I can scream louder, but the same
mundanity from 2004 falls to the floor
where medical bills conceal postcards
written from a friend visiting cousins
in some part of Japan that’s not
too crowded, not too cold for your
mercurial leanings toward adventure
on paper, in life, on faded lines.

don’t call her Mom; it’s not
what she ever aspired to be
while night had a while until
cars of tomorrow hummed over
the snickering of jaded crickets
unable to love or express wants
the way pretty people do
within unplanned neighborhoods.

and so these lashes sting.

the suitcase opens up again, because
kicking only hurts.

Cat No. 107 of the 500 Cats Project

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dreaming in traffic

I apologize for letting
the blood show, and
I cannot take enough
of this time that’s left
to elaborate on sleep
and how it is good for
you, them, neighbors
who sing so goddamn loud.

when will I start to
understand what it is
to hold consequence?

driving by, soda cans –
leaves and the ants are
dancing, playing dodgeball
like some claim they do
with landlords who give
discounts depending on
whether they got lost in
this blunt standstill city
shortly after happy hour.

soon, I’ll hear again
and the music will
ring sweetly and I
won’t be able to tell
you the difference
between prayers and
quivering grievances
thrown onto the pane
of one glass door.

Cat No. 106 of the 500 Cats Project

no one reads minds (but you know this)

an error in judgment, something slight
like not returning phone calls on time.

you didn’t think you lost your way,
and if anything, you practiced efficiency.

misspell another name, let it out your
large dry mouth – one syllable off.

it’s okay to hang up on those without pockets,
and lime green shoelaces don’t count.

I’m sorry these are the things that
you didn’t come to hear this morning.

you’re sorry for waxy penalties
traveling down what’s left of a wall.

whatever agreement we sign on,
whichever streets we’d like to avoid.

telling me how you thought I was perfect,
and how that all ended when rent went unpaid.

I would like for you to forget, walk
along brighter lines, and breathe in the rain.

you want what your words don’t describe
so I find myself afraid to simply ask.

Cat No. 105 of the 500 Cats Project