coming from ambivalence,
looking right to left, and then
left to right as if reading some
language I’ve become too
the day becomes gray
and the ground feels
sharp, harsh enough
to awaken several snails,
tenacious in their nap time
and steady in solemn thought.
the stop signs blend into
some tangerine sunset, six
sides fallen onto the hot surface
as I look over my shoulder
to contest your fear.
Cat No. 126 of the 500 Cats Project
nothing short of questionable.
wrapped in the glee felt in snowflakes’
kisses, I slowly blink and breathe
in time with a bicycle’s push through
summer unbound, summer that has thrusted
its demands onto hope that rings
against clear, but speckled glass.
the thinnest twigs are broken.
tennis balls roll into candied curbs
bright as the brick of a first home,
and tulips sit in aquamarine cups once
used to serve spry ice cream and appease
grand expectations of the younger crowd,
hurrying into endeavors sharp and unplanned.
hearing the static, pining to dream.
Cat No. 125 of the 500 Cats Project
I’ve got a feeling
you’ve been told
the same things.
fawned over, so
how many dimes
add up to fill our
it’s fine to ask
but waiting on
your answer has
quieted the rain.
your truth could
sting the eyes.
all I have that
no one’s seen
in spry delight.
I stand along fine
grazing my face
as I fail to resign.
my tongue feels
sore with time.
cars in a hurry
to take a dream
a street too far.
Cat No. 110 of the 500 Cats Project
I am trying to be judicious.
collect the snow water, when in fact
you’ve never seen snow before, and
the most of it you’ll ever see evades
an arrest by the white unveiled in the
thickest strings of water, necklaces
coping with faulty clasps like terribly
starving person (s) swallow bad milk.
Losing myself to dry.
she wonders why she gets so sick
after five straight mornings, drunk
and still thirsty for the orange juice
not born of pure fruit, leaving spot
after spot, freckles on the grayest
stretches of a street she’s not sure
was the one on which she got lost.
Can’t explain what they do.
he told her that getting close to people
just wasn’t something he did, or does
while birthday cards and lollipop sticks
said otherwise within another cubicle
unfamiliar to aforementioned girl, one
wanting nothing more than the somber
but honest excuse, sterilized by vodka.
I am trying to slip through cracks.
Cat No. 96 of the 500 Cats Project
Mangoes and a mocha go so well
right now, like a hazelnut spread
consoling the minute sighs found in
raisins’ grooves, old fruit resting in
the softness of our local bread
while branches fall and everyone
decides it’s not the best idea to
cross an unmarked road,
something like a snake whose
colors change with every breath,
and even the zookeeper can’t
decide as to whether the thing’s of
a poison that ends the day, week,
month, year that’s taken leave
because mothballs are too much to
tolerate at times, too much to
notice, too much to make excuses
for even when a houseguest points
at your socks, big toe poking out
like a proofreader’s oversight, or
perhaps our complacency when
the sky’s too bright to say “Hi” to,
when the night’s too fickle for us to
prepare, and honestly, being told
that your pajamas are too lose for
proper sleeping aggravates like
trickles of sweat cooling the insides
of ears that ring with the tiring
screech of clumsy contradictions.
Cat No. 88 of the 500 Cats Project
bring back a good day.
you know, when kites were cool
and lemonade painted bedroom walls
in a not-so-crass way, and no one
seemed to give up so much and
pick at points lacking lead, graphite,
or whatever stains a callused thumb
rubbing on tabletops, over and over
while a phone gets lost in cranberry
cushions and mice start to sing
parodies of songs that we couldn’t
imagine capable of graduating
to something even more ridiculous.
it can’t hurt to smile more, I hope.
Cat No. 82 of the 500 Cats Project
what ripens doesn’t stay
and who is to tell
when I make my next trip
around the block,
up the staircase
burning in age, as the boot
gives traction to the few—
or no one
that stops by anymore
to wish me, yourself
and anyone awake
the best towards the end
of these flickering weeks.
Cat No. 71 of the 500 Cats Project
I receive like those cheeks
of captive pufferfish
children poke fun at
while adults fish for crabs
greeting anyone with an open mouth,
those locals – calmed and drunk
on strawberry coconut water
swishing at the harshest inclines
against the sides of cracked red cups
they blink as I stretch my neck
to find a pigeon’s story
in terracotta planters
I sometimes assumed were homes
Cat No. 51 of the 500 Cats Project
some chocolate syrup.
the things our young
despite the solemn vow
to never sit down,
slurping crunchy Ramen.
a makeshift interview.
invitations by laptop
upon tasteless plans
that cannot cross
Cat No. 48 of the 500 Cats Project
light off the horizon
bounces back onto you,
shielding your eyes
and patting your knees.
unruly bangs in flight,
disrupted and singed
like shavings of whiskers,
it is doubtful we’ve met
though the humming I hold
operates on AAA batteries
charged again, thoughtlessly.
the coolness of soil
in margarine pots
are the feathered pillows
you’d like to buy.
my shadow stays put
and my nods remain curt
while you turn towards home,
checkered tennis shoes far apart.
Cat No. 47 of the 500 Cats Project