fears

coming from ambivalence,
looking right to left, and then
left to right as if reading some
language I’ve become too
acquainted with.

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

query

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

not at all rushed

I’ve got a feeling
you’ve been told
the same things.

fawned over, so
incomparable.

how many dimes
add up to fill our
modest fridges?

it’s fine to ask
in hunger.

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
old curbsides.

ignoring petals
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

no one tries to seduce me

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

ears that ring

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

milky nostalgia

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

fleeting

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