cats

Woke up to the 7 degree sunshine, blue blue skies, the rusty pump call of the blue jay, I searched around but couldn't find it. I just realized I can't know the difference in sex; do all blue jays look the same? Males are larger, but they have the same plumage. My female cardinal is bigger than the male, but there is also a smaller male although I haven't seen him in awhile. The cardinals have gotten very puffy, and very, very red lately. I watched two cats fucking today. They were on the little shed roof to the yard south of us, and orange cat and a white cat I thought cuddling, I thought how sweet, cuddling in the sunshine cold, but then I saw his teeth were sunk in biting the fur on her back, and she was just laying there, both nearly falling off the precipice legs sometimes sticking out trying to keep balance. After, she kind of growled at him ears flat and they parted. I could hear wailing yells from her from off a bit, then saw him stalking her on a fence and she taking a swipe at him. It was over for her, and he looked like any dumbshit creep just hanging out for no reason being scary and overbearing. That was the part that made me most uncomfortable, the white cat frozen on a fencepost while the orange cat just glared at her, not letting her move.

the luckiest girl in the new world (3/20/08)

I just got home in perfect timing, just between rainstorms. I stopped making fun of myself and said hi to my room, in a happy tone. I found the cat, invited it in, opened an aventinus, and gazed longingly into the shattered remains of my reflection. That last sentence was a joke! I am so funny! I forgot to laugh! Not! I am laughing! ANOTHER JOKE

this year already better than last; an example

Saturday 2 January 2010

I am nervous. The heart goes in and out the veins, the heart thaws me numb. I have the dog panting at my side, the guitarmusic panting in rhythm, my own breath beating, the blood beating. I have been watching too much show, but today, but yesterday was my last day alone. Jon is back, invisible but with traces; the rabbit is gone, the kitchen is clean. And he is going to return from Arizona. I have to pick him up at the airport at 10:30 pm. I am about to have an attack. My fingers can’t find the letters, I can’t find a way to be. I do not want to see him and I feel certain of that, but then I do not want to see anyone at all in my house. I want my own little place, which has no one. I love the dog & cat. But I would rather give them up for my aloneness. I cried without tears, it was raining so I don’t know if it’s true, on the walk from the bar in between friends & acquaintances & coworkers; we left the bar on new years and I wondered, is new years over yet. And I could only think no, I don’t want to keep up like this, I don’t want to go anymore, I don’t want to deal with anything. Like being a human. I don’t want to look at him and listen to how much he missed me because I missed him, yes, on new years when we’re having a party it would have been nice to have him. I missed Kari but was mad, annoyed at her not being there; but who can I tell this to, I am no writer, after reading writing makes less sense, why do I think I could. If my only method of escape is this? how? I can’t write, I can’t put the letters together, nothing is honest, even, save for automatic spell checker. If I am to escape, just constantly for myself. From myself. I just need a break from being me. From the internet distractions, the sounds, my visions haven’t been. My tears haven’t flowed, my breath hasn’t come in gasps, I am not of passion anymore, and he will see this when he arrives. I want to trick myself, to say well now that he’s here I will be so happy! Finally the emptiness isn’t! But when he comes, I will have to be here, too. I don’t think there’s any way to live here. I want to be alone. Without roommates. If I really do go to college one day, in new york like I think, well I’ll have to be damned prepared. Also, I will be ready to be around others. I’ll have to be. So alone in new york. So alone but never far enough. Here the expanses can be great… and still so lonely. I liked the big dark house, empty but for us. I liked not thinking about anyone coming home, or complaining inside about my lackings. I like not thinking about anyone. But I hate not thinking. I numbed myself around, and am, just to avoid the true honest thoughts. I don’t miss Adán, he is a distraction from the real empty pain I feel when I’m alone, the pain which leads me to search frantically for something real to devour, and I am numb and searchless now. I can’t see anything. I am blinded bored.

8:42

It is restless. The struggle over I over it. My mouth is dry as can be, there are songs coming out (songs coming out of me) and the programmed static is like rain on a tin, and the things which jar and strangle. F pyramids. F hillary.

I was struggling okay all these things I have to articulate, and do I hear sounds of voices. Ah, the bright lights. I am panicking, learning forcing to force by means of love. The soundtrack of the night playing, of course, the important role. The progression of moment through music. Of feeling and the tinkle in the lobe of a basedrum.

            I suddenly relaxed. After hanging up all my favorite dresses (duresses) aloud saying, “I must throw all these away!” suddenly so jovial! Ah, the mere trash! I have to stop watching that trash, any trash. My trash, my treasure. Why does my heart explode my body? The theories, I see!

The height of the night, the eggs of sweet little salmon

passed around to us on loose baguettes. I used to know

the finnish word for baguette. If only.

Reluctant relaxants. Cigarette in the yard.

Unpaired socks are called loose ends. For right now

they sit on the feathered nest made for all of us. I

have never laid there.

hearts and bones……..hearts and bones………hearts and bones

The timing will tell a story if remembered. This is about the arc of a love affair. I haven’t a story to tell. My life, as I already described, is a numb skull.

But the dog is perfect

so the fleas too, are perfect.

“Why won’t you love me for who I am where I am”

this is a story! It is true, I dare it!

If gayle could only have married paul simon

would she then be called gayle simon?

They would have looked lovely

in pictures together.

Then to be called gayle marie, of course.

No, I do not think it’s the time to try to write a poem about my mother. For she isn’t really my mother, except maybe once, or for a time, but then only because I felt like mother is this faraway, unobtainable being, who can’t care for you or protect you but who wields absolute power. Is there a better phrase. Absolute, without a doubt, oh, doubtless. Incontrovertible control. Yew

She was my mom, of course. Molly’s mom. This is a replication of the cabin. I could try for an upper upper situation.

The soft faraway look of the dog, eyes semiclosed, gazing panting gently, and the pink earlymorning at far rockaway some hog july summer relate in an instant, stirring a spark up. But I was so desperate for those occurrences. Something in me has since died. And I am wont to bring it back.

Alas, at this fair hour I anxiously await the welcoming home of my beloved. I am aching inside, tiny dagger-stuck innards. The whistle of a train!

a perfect definition of drinking the cold cup

I am easy, too. It is true. And the warning, or the discouragement from ease, from a friend or two... they would say a worry which is meant to cling me to an ideal aloof. I am sitting here now; it's officially november because we can all tell... it's the still skeletal yard trees, the weird quiet in the morning, the unlikely solid overcast, thorough, final. Some near-winter punctuation. The dregs of sentimentality. It's a new frost! from the stranger cat, a white paw pressd to my leg, his one eye is green, his one eye is blue. The arm hug of claws.

Am I the only fearless one? is it impossible to be the only fearless one. When I charge with ebullience: fear is the killer; and I charge again, burbling, gushing, effluvial: communication serenade it all about... and to never, ever use love in your sentences.

little rift in shortest summer

Can't I not help it, but the weather somehow took a dip in me. Like the last one left, I'm here in the hollow sounds & shapes. But with all sounds of the dogs who live here, too, and they don't want to be alone. They chase ghosts and feel sad about things, but I don't know it. And I don't think it's true. They hear rain in their bones hours before the first drops. I feel it in the texture of the air, and in the speed of my brain at work. I like all the colors of it, and how it makes a sort of round terrarium out of my house. with just two dogs & me in here. All the lush of the plants outside & drinking, and the cat too out there all wet maybe hiding greeneyed glaring from beneath the neighbor's parked car. In the real wet all there. I can't tell, but the rain just glanced off my skin, even as I moved in slowmotion. All the cars silenced by it. Every rush at pause.

twitch and turn

yell, hello through a sunset pink towards cloud. It, a foreground to a yell, a pale dust blue infinity. The yell a hello, the cloud a wisp wandering waywards, still (not at all), but temporary. (These eternities seem never temporary). With the words read before, thoughts before still (no never), just moving timewards. Like a moment of pink cloudwisp and a backdrop of sky. Spied before, bits just the same though this time all just to never be repeated. Once and once again. Once and against, this same old different infinite sky.

This time my view edged with pinetrees, like the pines are lash edges of my eyes. Like a screen around a vision. Like a little curtain underneath.

And the cat, all precious, and the weathervein, and my own veins pink blooded and my selfmade weather inside all edged coniferous. My coneforest looks out through twin eyes. Embolded and southbound western wed, sunset engaged and all matrimonious in twilight expectation.

fortunately, placed

cat
cat cat
cat cat cat

cat cat cat cat cat cat
cat cat cat
cat

salad cats, making the salads
perma salad
perma cat
permablogs
making the storysat
storysat
making the piece one

views from belows

And to think:

now, if they would have looked in through my kitchen window, would have seen me nude. as I now go nude through rooms, as it seems I'm alone finally in my big apartment. Save for the cat, and the coffee, and the epics (thoughts, musics). I allowed myself minutes here to do justthis: I will drink quickly a cup from coffee, and in the new sundress shrunk slight & ripped a new one. Makes it iffy for a button, a buttonhole no more more like a button tunnel. When I finish the coffee from the cup it's just a jar I have to find, one with a lid, and I'll fill it up with the brown black drink, and on the train to Russia. Floral print seems to me what a Russian would want to wear. 

A few words which spring to my fingers from a personal lexogram: about the feelings felt:

maudlin, mellifluous, mercurial, mucilaginous.

or, Love, times

dream, Monday morning

I strolled along a boardwalk, with the cat Mexico inside a mall.

A person, nondescript couldn't determine sex, passed walking two animals on leashes: identical fox creatures somehow. Orange bodied, white faced and chested, but with brightpink wings folded at their sides. One was tiny, smaller than a squirrel while the other was large and stalky, like a boar. I stopped to admire such fine creatures. Mexico was a dog really, and jumped around sniffing the fox squirrel. 

How much joy there is!

the cat barks at the no-see-ums

I flipped a switch of ghost, liking the term of a dirty switch and grabbing hold of it to self-entitle. Cocoa butter, a roll of toilet paper. A french press copper ashtray jar of lavender stems a bottle of black ink.

Get lost in the moss. My little stone's throw from a battering brook, a beating from that wayside burble, stones (like I) tossed in and out of tiny wakes. Buried bruised in sparkling pink of bath.

References made shatterable, from rhyme 

unravelling ribbon, spells outcast

my imploding pink sheath.

one salty song for spring

The cat bats at something I can't see. Joseph says cats bat at ghosts. It smiles an uncertain smile, but most of what I'd like to say hangs in the reflection of moon against a glasspane, something that is nonexistent on this darkest clouded night. The cat scratches at the door wanting to leave, and I feel proud. The particular moon, one undoubtedly crescentshaped though haven't seen, truly, on this last morning in march, the first of the shortest spellings. One unseen by me, for the mentioned darkness above, erasing any spatterings of stars or a little slip of moon, even.

In this particular bedroom, one particular for many reasons, I can always it seems see the march moon on an early predawn morning. Usually there's a bright fog piercing softly through the mottled glass of the bathroom. Tonight is a moonless night. Though maybe is just moonless to us still it's mine I can't see. I know its pending shape so can picture it beautifully in the mind.

An upward glance. Warm brown paths unmowed, unplucked. Growth unleashes but is walked upon; the gentle fronds part. A rustle of tufted tops. Tickling a shin, grazing an ankle. Pale orange sunset over a simple hill rounded. The brain a simple patter pitter, just a dust rock skipping sidewise from beneath a meandering foot. A spray in clouds of little dirts, tiny explosions laying soft in patternless waves. A print to blow away in a matter of seconds or months depending. Circumstantially skidding softly down a slope, a loping of hands and knees operating openly. A small gash, a twig on the river. A canal, a rope tied to a tree, a wig of black lichen blowing. A small checkered warbler making a moan from a nearby branch.

Contentedness abounds

music for mine masts

I can't even spend the seconds writing in my own personal journal anymore! It's as though those days are dead n gone now, that all that's left for me is a carpetless existence; I am sitting in spandex shorts, racing stripes along outer thigh, a black silk slip ("HAPPY VALENTINE'S" you'll hear me mutter sexily as I rub hands up and down over my own silhouette, insinuating that which already is but obviously isn't), wool socks pulled up to knees and a sweatshirt I decorated with a crosssection of a volcano, a magma chamber glorified. And the old blanket draped over, strong and poortasting coffee made from a french press but purchased begrudgingly from dunkin donuts. Colleen ringing in years, the devil's backbone wilting subtly in front. Trying to keep it from the cat, trying to keep all matching pairs of shoes together, wondering why I've pocketed myself in a bikeless existence, for now only is there a blanket of snow outside. Hasn't melted evenafter a day, which impresses me. And only hours left until the day is over; I agree it's as though I have two days with sleep in the middle for I awake at 12 noon and then to the restaurant as we all call ours individually at 5 then a night to begin at 12 midnight. And sleep once more from 5 to 8 am, and again & again. Who has time for anything but blasting oneself out of one's gourd, carelessly cavorting, straddling barstools and prancing, attempting to maintain a sense of balance. When the eyes dry up to little sands and the head spins just slightly, aware of a coming dawn not unlike yesterday's. Luckily everyone I know swims the same, though we're just floating along in a boat built by us but not actively. We all spin up the sails lazily and haze around in a sun, wet on occasion by the spume from the forward bow, tangled just for seconds in the cords and all the shiprelated words which I can't bring to mind.