They’ve congregated for most of
the day, giggling and humming
as flies unknowingly do, the
children sitting through a math lesson
headed by a lost pretender who
wants nothing more than to dip
those foundation-caked toes into
some cheap yellowed butter dish
that shakes at the base while water
spreads, stammers, wanting to scream.
Do not throw me
the softest fleece.
I’ll close my eyes
and turn away.
As for sand fleas, they have
left for prospects too damn good for
the crickets that dance on sidewalks
winding into corners that were never
so sharp, and really, installed
like a smoke detector whose batteries
see integers as a lazy joke dozing
away and nodding only when we
find the time to agree that
it’s just too hot right now.
Cat No. 84 of the 500 Cats Project
or home alone
with each foot planted
on the modest ramp
where plastic cars
hummed, crackling down
as droplets of dreamt confession
fell, agreed to release
themselves from a ceiling
stripped, painted indifferently
by the tips of sponges,
that don’t offer meat
the way skewers do, as seen on TV.
stretch and press
all draped plastic
and take a moment
though ducking under metal
lies null in the draft
that dances unabashedly
all the way
from thoughts’ openings.
Cat No. 67 of the 500 Cats Project
that claims your frustration
as you scratch the wrong symbol.
again, swerving into plastic bins
thanks to well-meaning migraines
while your brow line swells.
try again, grounded.
Cat No. 66 of the 500 Cats Project
rummaging in the exhaust
of tires interrogated,
brought to deflate
when the alibi of “dinner party”
failed to beckon
the nods of swaying jurors.
to find the ring
clanking down the garbage disposal
while Tim screamed, “Fuck,”
looking for a place to hide,
fork prongs bent between bluish teeth.
Cats No. 64 and 65 of the 500 Cats Project
chicken bones upon grapefruit peels,
bursts into a scowl,
the back does ache like weakened knees
as we’re not sure it’s winter.
my brothers are calling,
teasing and asking
where I stood a few nights before
while they just laughed,
busied enough to rekindle the need for upholstery.
I face the color and taste the nothings
of stale air brushing against uneven paint
and I blink, sink into observation
and think some more about how good it feels
to not wear an old frayed collar.
Cat No. 61 of the 500 Cats Project
leaves do fall,
a convenient rain
our wandering feet
and soaking between
that yawn within
a periphery wild
with plans to meet
our nearby friends
sometime, this clear winter.
Cats No. 59 and 60 of the 500 Cats Project
fix it up, and it does the job. we promise.
oh, in a month
the plans shall come
and feet will be heard,
third floor and up.
it is like Spring Cleaning
though cuticles peel
and lips split
as the wind plays
the rusted harmonica
of bad habits,
twenty-one days to crack.
the goal here,
while the bleach wipes
drench the tabletops
and wall clocks
steady like owls,
is hidden within a wall
where the mice escaped to.
Cat No. 58 of the 500 Cats Project