IN THE SKYS GREAT BOWL

the cats rolling onto his back
legs hanging / eyes watching

showing the trap of claws & teeth

baited by thick soft belly fur

of course i fall for it

~

its midnight & the lawn is wet

stars out in the skys great bowl

& the solar storms flares  

show up as nothing here

but i stay awhile / hoping 

they might / even invisible

be rewiring my brain

CRAMP OF YOUR CLAWS

 

you reach an age &

your world tumbles apart around
your gig-deaf ears

todays eulogies
old dust so soon

in the cramp of

your arthritis claws

~

&

all the dentists look like children

&

all the police look like children

&

all the parents look like children

&

all the children lay claim

just by e x i s t i n g

to a world

i

 am

   not

      done

          with 

              no

MONDAYS DROPPINGS

PRODUCTION

on the toilet
i am a man farm
making shit
for
no 
roses


AND EXTRACTION

and 
after 
it
is 
all
over
there is space

inviting reflection inside


THEN REFLECTION

real animals
shit on their boundary
eat something
destroy something
bloody their claws
and
fall into sleep
untroubled
on the worlds dirt

i am good for the first three

maybe
four


WHICH IS EXHAUSTING

as giant 
as a yawn 
and twice 
as needy
i sit 
on a folding chair

witness to the daily soft parade

histories headstones
and dead bouquets 
in
my
bag


SO I REST

i
am
mostly invisible

inside a kind of gas
and a £4 charity cloak

and
the
smell
of
fresh turned soil

BUCKOWSKI AND ME AT 43

i read buckowski
on the toilet
magically putting 
my guts in 
the plumbing

read his poem
about being 43
about the $22000 
in three months

his grey hair 
and pot belly
typewriter
in and out
of hock . . .

i stretched out
on the pm bed
on my side back
against the sun
hands in an 
almost prayer
in front of me

the endless 
lexicon
of workers
and managers
out there
behind me
making their
desperate moves

the little cat
comes to join me
so i know
i am doing 
it right

he lays down
in a mirror image
of me
his paws out
in an 
almost prayer

his claws touch
my fingers
his head rests
on the same pillow
his pot belly
his few 
grey hairs . . .

theres always 
poetry
endless poetry
behind the closed
curtains
and in
the dust

always fables
of the
storm cloud
written
by the
unkillable
husbands of
the moon . . .

my grey hairs
shaved away
my pot belly
slumped
same as
the cats
like two 
half empty bags
slung on the bed

he keeps his 
illness in 
check
eating right
doing his time

and so do i
and we close
our eyes
together
against
the incredible 
size of 
another
afternoon
and all
the things
to do

COMMUNICATION

his love
is
a
paw of claws

bites on my chin

a wet nose in my nostril

  and 
when he reaches out to paw my leg in passing
wearing his kitten face and wide kitten eyes
i
have
no
idea
what he wants
most of the time

long 
may 
our 
miscommunication 
continue