A Word or Two on Cats

I’ve never felt very much

when a cat looks at me in

the eyes.  I can usually get

something from a dog,

but a cat’s glare feels

like a passive judgment.

Mammals in general are

not big on eye contact.

Chimpanzees for instance,

hardly ever look at human

beings in the eye with recognition.

Whereas dogs and cats will

stare right at you. Know you.

There’s an authenticity in

the eyes of cats and dogs,

and some would say more so

in the eyes of cats. 

There’s something going on

in their brains that seems

more methodical  than dogs.

Cats have a mythical curiosity

to them, revered in ancient cultures,

reviled in others. Harbingers of

doom or joy, bringers of luck or

conspirators with the Devil.

It’s difficult to name their

historical appeal.

We, as humans, only know that

in their long, piercing gazes, that

they see something in us, something

we may not see about ourselves.

They provide the means to ask the question,

“What am I?” and “Why am I?”

They, cats and dogs, remind us of our

truest selves and that’s why they

matter. That’s why we grieve when

they are gone. The small piece of

our soul, released into the

nethers, joining the great

choir of mystery beyond

the pale.  

Maybe it’s why I try not to

feel anything when a cat or

dog looks at me in the eyes.

They make me worry about

my own impermanence and

 my deep, hidden desires to be as

authentic, present and mindful

as humanly possible.

They probably know me better

than I know myself. 

The Girl with the Golden Eyes

The girl with the golden eyes

smiled at me.

I hadn’t expected it nor was

I adequately prepared.

I stammered and stuttered,

made a quick joke, fixed my

sweater and shifted my weight

on the balls of my feet.

She smiled at me again,

eyes sparkling like sunset on

a gentle lake, hued in amber

and bronze.

I meekly smiled back, feeling

sheepish, unworthy and

altogether immodest, mildly

afraid and excited by her attention.

She extended her hand, a gentle

smile gracing her visage, glittering,

in the dusky hour before nightfall,

and I took her hand in mine.

Her touch, a peaceful electrifying

tremor of calm and tenderness.

Her golden eyes met mine, my

forehead furrowed with mild confusion.

Her golden eyes shimmered as she

playfully laughed at my awkwardness.

I held her hand a bit tighter as we walked

toward whatever end there might be.

Moonset

I just want to stay up

until the Moon sets.

I could have said Sun rise,

but I think Moon set has a curious ring.

Why don’t we refer to the Moon

going down as a Moon Set?

We have Sun Rise, and Moon Rise,

Sun set, but no Moon set.

So I’m changing Sunrise to

Moonset.

And I hope to get through

it all without making a fool of myself.

Deli Mill

I’m forcing myself to come

up with something to write today.

It seems like I haven’t written

a word of any substance in a

very long while and I find it

distressing.

My creative thoughts are jumbled

in thought wheel limbo, churning

like an old mill water wheel in some lazy

river. There’s a flowery verse here,

crashing with a drunken verse there,

mixing with some mundane verse.

It’s all flowing downstream in a

mixed spiral of oil slicks, rainbows

and, I don’t know, baby food?

See, that’s a super mixed up

phrase that makes very little

sense.

It seems I have a lot on my mind,

sex, love, Friday, drinking, work,

joys, duty, depression, being an

individual amongst a symphony of

individuals. There’s a lot going on

in the old brain box.

Long.

Pause.

I’d describe it like waiting in line

at a deli counter, trying to decide

how many pounds of meat you’re going

to buy. Do you get the 2 pounds of

peppered turkey or get the roast beef?

Will you have your mind made up by the time

the burly butcher finally calls your number?

The thoughts are like all those meats,

sides, salads, cuts, behind glass, and you’re

licking your lips, looking for the most delectable

to sate your burning hunger, but nothing,

none of those meats are really doing it

for you. That’s how it is trying to pick the

right words to express, whatever it is that

is going on in my head.

So it’s like an old mill wheel in a river

and a deli counter.

And this is where it’s taken us,

to the end, of whatever this is,

a destination, likely unworthy of

the journey.

So hold onto your life preserver

made of bologna,

in the choppy river of mixed metaphors,

and incomplete…

Slo-Mobious Strip

In the end, it’s just like

the beginning.

Slow and relentless,

repeating.

The same questions,

Do they like me?

Do they think of me?

Am I being silly?

The same answers,

No,

No,

Yes.

A cycle of motion

turning in infinity

as fast as molasses

in winter, but not as tangy.

The mistakes in slow-motion,

the joys going too fast,

in constant pull,

incorrigible.

The same questions,

Does she like me?

Does she think of me?

Am I being silly?

Repeating,

Slow and Relentless,

the beginning

it’s just like the end.

The Seeds

Their youthful tears are watering

the seeds of revolution.

A culture revolution

based a classic ideal.

“Justice and Equality for all.”

A simple concept. Overly rationalized

through the two American Centuries,

and then some.  It is a beautiful idea,

oft ignored when incompatible with money.

I’ve felt those hot tears of youth

streaming down my own face when

the injustice and inequality of the world

seems overwhelming.

I’ve felt that stinging stagnation of

a culture benumbed into mediocrity

through familiarity. It’s just the same old

same old and there’s nothing to be done.

It seems however, we were wrong, and

youthful tears may be the salve or even

the venom to cure or infect the malaise

that has permeated this obese American morality.

There is no Justice, but equal justice.

There is no Equality, but just equality.

This idea is so clear in their young faces,

that the unfairness of the world is not to be accepted.

It is only unfair because we allow it to be by

choosing who is equal and who gets justice,

who has the authority and who doesn’t.

We are the makers and unmakers of fairness.

 I see my reflection in their flowing tears,

and I feel my own soul weeping, yet I hope

that those tears are not shed in vain and the

tears flood the fields of helplessness.

That the seeds there are nurtured and burst

forth in plenty, clear in their bounty,

ready to nourish a country, a body, a mind,

fighting for the most simple of concepts.

“Justice and Equality for All.”

At the Love-In

Perhaps the Love-In movement

was right. Maybe all you do need

is love…, love…, love.

Our World, wacky with the

piercing fangs of intolerance,

hate, mistrust, suspicions, anger,

rage-ahol, and general dislike

for that guy on the bus that smells

like he shit in his hat, might need

a little more love.

I like love. I like being in love.

I like being loved. You might say

that I love being loved.

It’s lovely. It’s lucky.

It’s not easy.

When it’s so easy to be angry,

to hate and fail to recognize

another human being for what they

are, is when we must remember to love.

It’s not implicit that we just forget

those that have transgressed against us and

failed to find their own love for us.

There are always evil people who do

not know what love is and are incapable

of expressing it. They cause pain and suffering

as an expression of their own pain and suffering

without love.

Those that forget their love, how to love,

what love is supposed to be, should be

pitied. We mourn for the loves we lost but

take comfort in the love they may have

found in the unknown.

Love is persistent, resilient and of

tougher stuff that we know.  It has

carried us to the heights of wonder,

the depths of depravity, and the

suburbs of pretty okay for

 a Wednesday.

The more we let love into our

hearts, the love of our collective

humanity; regardless of creed, color,

religion or odor, the better chance

we have to succeed as a whole.

Undivided.

Clothed in the loving warmth of the human

heart as expressed by, to and for each other.

The Love-In.