typical attempts at rhyming

flowers do kneel, apt to reveal.

we love how the whites of
a suddenly swollen moon
crack beneath our shoes
as our laces become untied
with each shriveled conclusion
of another faulty argument.

what good does speaking
provide when raindrops
hit the old front porch
and flattened leaves bleed
to tell you as much?

the clouds are stubborn
like most bad memories
that won’t dissolve into
cups of lukewarm water.

break the bread, make our bed.

let’s repeat everything we
never learned to say
because homework wasn’t
cool to us in 2006.

I am the fuzz peeled away
when it’s time to eat at
the sour misconceptions known
to tie us down and placate
those who were never happy.

teach me to sit and weave
baskets while the line outside
spirals and cuts across curbs
that broke the skin left
behind by thrashing defiance
abandoned in a local flood.

all has been said, some misled.

Cat No. 119 of the 500 Cats Project

you keep singing that same old song

you argue.

that thing, you’re so good at it.

speaking without commas, howling infrequently but when you’re loud, everyone hears. the district knows, but most people are too tired to get out of bed and look out the window, seeing you emulate broken chalk, reading some minuscule number that denotes just how busy you really are.

or, just how busy you really were.

I’ve seen your eyes, clay cups the size of children’s fists.

you’ve seen my face, thinning while you hide and when you return, I shake like                                      toads scampering for life in the middle of our incomplete, mucky July and I wonder

if you could be A-OK.

closing time.

Cat No. 91 of the 500 Cats Project

acorns and leaves

Friday, October 28th, 2016

most things in life are accidents: the e-mail notifying me that “Why Are You Here?” was finally selected for inclusion in a lit journal, the call informing me of (much needed) medical resources. both within forty-eight hours of quitting my job. take the bus, wait, make sure I drink enough water so I can once again leave, disappointed that I won’t be harboring the second coming of Christ. make a little fist, squeezing out all the morning’s secrets, that mostly pertain to things and figures I hold a bit of contempt for, and press the heat pad against my skin, opening up the stubborn blood vessel that doesn’t give as much as it should. twelve-hour fasting, (bus) rides through neighborhoods with pretty mailboxes. as I mention these, I remember to see if my Cinderella costume got to my door. the only work-appropriate costume I could find, and the only costume I found versatile enough to work with until I turn thirty-five. here lies a sort of suffix I’ll say when I choose to buy more cardigans. I don’t want to type in an office. aside from the one I’m assigned to the earlier parts of the day, I don’t want to be in an office for a while. I do want to wear my Cinderella apron, and I want to collect handfuls of acorns, baskets of leaves so I can empty this drawer of acrylic paints I feel have been waiting to(o) long. fire engine red won’t up and leave, but it could tip and spill. red, black, silver, white all over my face this coming Monday as I hand out Snickers and well-sealed Zebra Cakes to whom I think are just a solid ten of the hundred in our apartment complex who aren’t too old to celebrate. maybe my cats could serve as greeters, but they think they are dogs, friendly yet frightening, as they waddle to anyone passing by, the tabby cat crying as if I don’t feed her enough (which would be false). I could always be a witch, you know. the one who isn’t quite good, but the one remembered for her two flying monkeys, whiskered.