Cat

I shant have thought to be a cat

who's curiosity is true

to think but what would mean of that

ignorance but bliss too?

To see the world lust as a place

to explore and play and roam and live!

Abandon left in perfect pace

To give their life a place to live

Wherever whatever it were i'd spy

Would be mine as real as mine own eye.

Miss Blue Eyes

Miss Blue Eyes,

why can't you be free

from the torments of this

world: the weight of molecules

colliding to make you have to

react.

It can be so nice,

my arms I hear. Can hold

three people and them weightless.

If only for that fleeting second

the hummingbird taught me, I could

make you weightless too.

Wait less is what I

want to do. But more than that

I want you to be well, and good,

and confident that the constituents

of your anatomy will elect you

their favorite leader.

I can try to campaign for you

if you let me in your screen door and

through the window white. If

you let me cook you hamburgers,

or spaghetti with a fine marinara

meat sauce, like I did once before.

That was nice, Miss Blue Eyes,

for me, at least.

And though I've given part of

my heart to you as I do to all,

it weighs nothing and I'll never

ask for it back either. I just

ask that you know how hard

it is to sit idly by. A car mechanic

with no car and no hands.

I just ask you to let me

know when I can be with

you and if I make you

feel nice.

I think if you do then that

piece of my cardiovascular

whole will grow and grow. If

it gets to big and you get scared,

just set it in my mailbox. But pull

off a piece first, it's for you'd

like it.

As hard as it is to say:

Don't worry about me,

I'll be fine Charlie Brown.

Machine

Perched high on my

silver mountain

the blood lined linens

are spun with the

plumes of purple peacock

feathers they weather the

whethers or not in their

maytag container. Soaked

spun washed warm with

the ungaudy bleach they

come out pearls. Shiny,

spherical, white wonder

worn out.

The Grapeskins

I.

Squeak.

As we brush together in cheeks

Squeaks to match

the matchstick's white blaze

of indecent exaltation.

Squeaks like the macaws yellow

cries for the clawed confusion

of impermanence.

Squeaks.

II.

We merely squeak, already

torn in half by teeth like thor

hammers, cast from dark crimson

clouds, silt walter vapor, and dust.

We spill our water guts blindly

in the molar embrace. Now,

nothing more than purple and green

flecks floating in the dark.

The match merely chauffeurs

combustions. As the destination

is reached: white, orange, and blue

vibrant burnt bursts of heat

and light illuminate. It's purpose

is achieved in it's seared charcoal

skeleton, bent the only way

fire bends.

From it's perch the macaw merely

squawks. As it sees brief instances

of it's green given world

changing. It's jungle camoflouge

is unfit for the brooklyn pavement.

What with it's centrifugal salt and pepper

plume. And it's rust speckeled azure tipped

wings. It's flight prevents, groundedness,

It squawks.

III.

What if it were, we were the last,

The three of us and none?

Torn up grapeskins, a bird, a match

Would our importance ever come?

Would our mind's macaw fly away?

Leaving my matchstick and just me

or would it in it's sadness stay

In attempts at wingless free.

Or would it occur that we'd just cease

As the humans all are gone?

Would existence matter if it did not please

The ones no more, who defined the dawn.

We are but grapeskins we cannot laugh

So we squeak in cheek at what man can't grasp.