Tuesday, July 31, 2012

The Cat Who Died

That cat that died
smelled from a
long-endured ear cyst
like old sweat. He
pooped the rug so we
mourned conflict-ridden mourning.

When we buried him
we couldn't say a prayer.
He died among a foreign people.
His god would not hear the prayers
of aliens. We lived side-by-side but
apart. He had his god we have ours.

Monday, July 23, 2012

The Pet

I think I got away.
She isn't following.
Up, the overgrown path
through the weeds, I feel
a thrill of risk because of the ticks.
But there is the sun and the meadow.

Then I hear her call.
She has her own brand of
meow. She calls me back
like when I call her in the morning,
"Franz-waz! Franz-was!"
I'm surprised that she followed me so
far down the road into the unknown.

Down the path I go calling,
"Franz-waz! Franz-was!" and listening
to her answer. As I reach
the bottom of the hill
where the road meets the woods,
I see her pacing, looking for ways in.
Come to me, come you bad cat.
So far so far. I almost lose her.

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

Death of the Daughter of the Creator of Archie

In the dark time
the gentleman took his pen
and sketched
what caught fire and
created smile-light.

It went to California where
the sun never sets and
the cactus is brightly baked.
How American is that
thing of little jokes.

It founded a kingdom
with joys spread over
generations. Where will the spreading
end? The joy of the pen
comforted her and brought her life and fortune,
until yesterday.

Wednesday, July 11, 2012

The Duration of Mourning

I hear the murmuring.
Is it the strength

ebbing away? Just
damned inconvenience,

when adulthood fails.
It's like the days

from my memory.
How fear wells up

with all its push-me-
pull-me.

Push-me-pull-me
waiting for rest.

Another's sorrow so
becomes my own.