March 23, 2013

steampunk kitty saves the world


steampunk kitty cat
piloted the dirigible over
fields dotted with dandelions
and dropped catnip seeds through
a chute all along her route.  she wanted to
liberate the feline world and this was her individual uprising.
kitty kitty knew her way around. she never used
a copilot, but did have a tiny parachute
in the event of an emergency
adventure.  and she had really great goggles.

steampunk kitty cat tried.  she
tried to make the world a better
place, after her own fashion.
she tried to shove shoes on the
octopus, she tried to train
the mice to jump through
the holey cheese, she tried to get
the dog to wear lipstick, but her circus
never made it.  the acts were not
good, and the people
just weren't ready.  fleas
were more to their taste, but
she wasn't going near that
shit, no way.  so she wore the
shoes, ate the cheese, and threw
the lipstick away.  the notion
of dog lips made her shudder.

kitty kitty kitty cat had disdain for people.  she
barely tolerated being domesticated and had been
known to scratch and slash any flesh trying to keep her inside.
she dared anyone at all to try to get her to use a box, an act,
to her refined sensibilities, utterly distasteful.  but the backs of closets were good.
she was independent.
though she didn't really know what that meant, in a practical sense.

creating her next caper, and wearing
tulle and one tiara, she sat one late friday afternoon
in a cafe called the ruptured duck.   sipping a white russian, 
she wondered if she should call a pal to hang out with, 
to loll on pillows with and smoke hookah all
night long with and then entertain people with at dawn
by knocking over garbage cans 
and singing james brown songs in the alley. 
she decided she really didn't want anyone else.  meow.  
sidekicks were not her thing.

she ordered cream puffs
and sent a golden dream cocktail
to the handsome tom sitting by
the yarn balls.  after eating and giving herself a slow and
meticulous wash, stretching one leg at a time
as far as she could behind her ear,
she began to leave.  she slinked past tom-cat
and as he tipped his glass her way and tried
to make eye contact, she looked back over her shoulder 
and swished her tail toward his whiskers.  which
felt good.

in the cool air she remembered she'd
never gone that blimp route again to check
to see what had germinated
or if she had wasted all that rip.
without proper follow up:  mission fail.
naughty kitty, she said to
herself. no one else was
around to say it.  she was nothing
if not fair, though she wasn't down
on herself in a clinical, neurotic way.
she knew she was splendid.

 so:   
as for her next move in saving the world from all that is flat 
and unlovely, where was she going to get a
scooter?  she would look
fabulous on a turquoise vespa, she thought. 
while wearing lace up granny boots.  successful or failing
it may turn out to be, 
but: it was a plan.

the cornerman

oh that benevolent buckle-stopping
that came from his eyes, that
brilliance. pulling me from the
conversation with one wink across
the ring
                    then TKO:  out of chasing definition,
                    out of rising palpitation and finally, out of
                    those goddamned christmas eves of dissalvation. 

those eyes beaconing me, sending a tiny gesture
no one else would see and then: we were ha. and
i was again loose.  fine.  shook it off.  he gave me
spar and irreverent and they. 

i had all that.