Kitten's Litter

quite the poignant piece... it's vivid and forms a clear picture, and I even feel slightly guilty reading it, as I sometimes do when put in similar situations... but then whenever I've actually followed through with trying to help them, I've been let down.... like I was stopping by the I heart NY pizza place to eat, and this lady comes up and tells me she's trying to get to Maryland for some important reason to do with her sister and was asking for gas money. I told her I had no cash but would walk the fifty feet over to the gas station and put $10 on my card. She walked away.

 

As usual your stuff borders on genius.

 

The essence of Tragedy is the attempt to feign indifference.

 

'Leaving' was fantastic!

Loved the whole work, especially 'velvet trees' & 'rustle lulls.'

 

Your father drank too much,
his drinking buddies encouraged the vice,
together they would spiral downward
in back alleys.
Overtly, he kept on downing firewater
from little plastic cups
until his face was permanently set crimson
with blood shot, puzzled eyes.

Each episode was worse
and escalated the domestic drama
when he would come home at dawn
with a busted head and bruised hands,
our grandma sobbed as she washed him down.

And every time he spoke,
or simply opened his mouth,
his foul breath and slurred words
made you nauseous,
made me edgy.

Your father drank too often
to distort the facts and halt the time
(a self-destructive hobby)
but facts still stood and stared back
with glazed over, dead eyes of his
former drinking buddies.

And so he'd drink some more
to smudge the truth and certainty
of his own slow rotting.

He would enjoy rare moments
of complete detachment from all
the pressure and expectation
to provide food and shelter
at times when those things
were scarce.

Your father used to be a goalie,
tall, but quick and agile,
but now face down, hands broken,
your father, stiff, sleeps in the dust.

 

You are Brilliant.

 

Very nice read...I've enjoyed the ones i've read thus far. Keep up the good work!

 

we orbit round,
without intersecting
each other.

our
constellations
could tell stories,
but we just
do not know
how to translate
patterns.

how do you translate,
articulate chaos.

i've learned.

there are words
that cannot be said
aloud.

they'll change direction,
and we might come too close
for comfort.

silent.

we are safe
and parting.

 

excellent work, girl! I feel we're all pawns to planetary pull, sometimes, as well... this brought to mind a modest mouse song, "the stars are projectors, yeah, projecting our lives down to this planet earth" deeper than that, of course, and much more personal, but that's what gives us stuff to write about, right?

 

i hate gravel in my shoes,
i hate wet sand on my hands,
gritty tastes that scratch my palette,
and i hate lies
spit out of mouths, that i bought, i bought,
ate up and savored.
but like slits, a teasing sting,
a fixed reminder of the things that could have been.
i step back,
to better see beyond my outline.
i hate nervous eyes. don’t hide them
or i will fold back lids and fold back arms,
i’m pacing back and forth,
i hate the sound of alarms
foreshadowing a rerun day,
another number, an idle countdown,
i hate bad news. i hate the aftertaste
of spoiled plans that linger, leak
and infiltrate the mind.
i hate these broken intervals of time.

 

my favourite is 'departure'. very evocative!

 

I am an addict of old habits
but
its the urban suicide, the urban boredom
and the cold shoulder of the bureau of this and that,
it kills, along with the heat of the asphalt
and the puffs of factory clouds.
It got under my skin and then
into the blood stream,
until I was no longer

...all that I am composed of
she had to slowly watch decompose.
She twitch-twitched then turned away.

If it werent for her,
I'd be drugged out, zoned out,
zombie-like sprawled out
with Lays chips all over the floor
and cheap beer stains on the couch,
by now.

By now I would be sitting in a
pest infested cell of spit,
reeking of vomit and piss.

If it werent for her scolding me raw,
kicking me out of the apartment,
my rut, to go out and look for a job,
I would end up
a statistic reclining against
the wall,
with my eyes resigned,
but begging for change
or for a solar eclipse
or a meteor shower,
an earthquake, an alien sighting
or for the Second Coming,
anything but
decaying like
this.

 

Should I envy or be at awe
with those who know their course,
or at least direction towards which
to navigate their vessel,
(meaning, of course,
all of their efforts)
no smooth sailing but
cunning sharks and rocks
and rowdy waters
will crash against their sides,
as they take off into horizon.
And as for me,
lost in debris of possibilities
and many routes, I float along
the shoreline, tangled up
in seaweed.

 

I like "lost" quite a bit. I can relate to it, and I love the imagery you used.

 

Sometime you gotta feed the Gator;
Some suppose earlier better than later.

 

When they came,
they brought with them fireworks of noise.
They came through the streets riding elephants,
and clutching their toys.

I thought it was a circus.

I wanted to greet them,
and shake hands with the clowns.
But these clowns wore
frowns of steel
and vulture eyes circling,
like radars or searchlights.

I wanted magic tricks.

So with the flick of a wrist
the wizards could paralyze targets,
who ran like antelopes or crawled on all fours.

At night, black ghosts walked through the walls,
the windows or rose up from the floors.
While fire breathers burnt our homes,
I thought it was all a fancy show.

There were tightropes stretching
from one roof to the next
and little acrobats balancing.

Some slipped while others walked on
accompanied by a never ending drum roll.

I applauded.
I cheered.

Then we were told
we could all be part of the act.

Blindfolded. Hands up. Single file. Lined up

against the wall.

 

As I was feeling asleep, I rode on a wave. My board not brand new but hardly been used.
The water was salty and stung in my eyes.
My bad vision affected by the water's riptides.
But my hearing was purfect and I heard a loud roar of a wave that was crashing and I knew not what I was in store.
As soon as it hit me, I tumbled and fell
like a washing machine in its final attempt
To clean off the dirt I had gathered, I flew.
First a sandbar, then some seaweed, and a fishy or two
All whirled by my head whilst I dreamed more of you.
I was able to stand again close to the shore
It was early and my journey was far back home
I needed to go back in the ocean for more
But I didn't and now when the sun beats down
At the edge of the pool is where I chill to cool now.
And the water is always cold before you jump in
The deeper the better, don't want to be chicken.
In its safe shallow water, a young shallow grave
I pray for the next time so I can be brave.

 

I sit back, kick back and watch,
eyes half-closed.

My face is stuck in a permanent smirk.

(It’s not a scar)

“They’re cute.”

If I keep quiet, I will become invisible,
I will become the air they inhale.

Not poison, not crushed glass,
just idle molecules.

I mean no harm, I could even get up
and leave
but
apparently
I serve a purpose here
of which
I’m not supposed to be
aware.

Uninterrupted. They can chatter

as I listen and teeter-totter.

Wobbly arms, sore arms.

Here, there is only
the rustle of two voices
and unsteady pulses.

I think, I think I finally know
what I am now.

I’m deaf. I’m deaf to the
un-pleas-ant-ries.

Cute.

I bite my tongue so hard
instead of blood
I can taste acid.

 

"Circus" and "Ouch" are like the Devil's half-crazed smile. Absolute, the perception of a Comedy Divine.

 

hi there
not been around awhile

i like this roll of truth here.......
this poem is wonderful..
lovenpece from saff