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


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

not our spring

I’ve never been one
to drink alone, or
point to green glass
bottles, assembled
so deliberately, not
at all resembling my
impromptu visits, the
clock holding onto
grooves in an old wall
mosquitoes spoke of,
but they only met up
to complain, not taste,
nor anticipate warmth
from sharp footprints
left on shivering arms
in smarmy fog, giggling
at groups of children
who stare at the sky
in confusion, waiting
for the day when buses
hum promises, heat
surrounding their ankles.

Cat No. 95 of the 500 Cats Project

my sixth toe

I have wanted you
to let me be, peppered
and baked with the realist
concerns rippling across
a thunderstorm runway
on a Friday I never knew

like bravery praised in the palest light, well wishers waving their tiny hands while following the rule no one sweeps up

and the dustbin scrapes
so gracelessly while crickets
lose their minds, exhausted
like a car’s plastic brakes
neglected and tasked with
too many things that even
an experienced typist falls
behind in a race that begins
on austere ground, everyone
starting thirsty, ready to drop

into a bucket spinning at the sides when children toss pennies and sometimes, a quarter as the whites of their shirts ask for the spill

Cats No. 86 and 87 of the 500 Cats Project

find me

the common day has clouded a thought
that fried eggs on toast at least tried
to nurture, asking for meat after months
of carrots turned gray, blue, and some other
color we’ve grown to associate with living unwell.

put in the time to find me, or blow
the whistle I’ll probably hear
far into dusk’s semi-solemn disclosure
crafted in a little more than an hour
to convince you mistakes never happen.

Cat No. 83 of the 500 Cats Project

needed silence

you say hello, the desire for
constructive conversation
melted halfway, ice cubes
thrown into a waxing cup
where coffee rests level
to small, sleepy secrets
that tease our clear beads
spinning on dry ground.

Cats No. 80 and 81 of the 500 Cats Project

taking care

I scratch my head, befuddled
and rattled, just a bit.

groups of three arriving soon,
extra packet of sugar inching
deeper into singularity’s core,
rainfall shines off tiny teeth.

I shouldn’t see the surprise,
mattress stuffed with old news.

foam laughing on a flat surface,
breaking into stairs the way
eyes become lime green flashlights,
extrapolating truth from debate.

I continue to walk cautiously
like children hiding candy.

Cat No. 78 of the 500 Cats Project