a journal with poems written on the fly without much ado |
Yoda Exposed jewels of light, eyes, in darkness shining, sparkling in command, ordering with superiority to put all problems on hold, beating out a rhythm of purrs, content, with perfect timing. This intractable complexity, garish, pompous, spun from feline feats of long proud history; whittling at my wits, an unsaddled spirit inside an opulent fur. His pattern, a fierce stealth for strangers, those alien parasites, house guests, whose names he doesn’t care to know, whose faces he doesn’t need to see. At the other hemisphere of the living room, leaping on a stiff-backed chair, his altar of consolation. One miraculous jump, a Siamese taking in the landscape, to do largely as he pleases, as if a sun stealing in under my skin, to make a gift of his warmth, then to shrug and turn his head impulsively away out of affection. Indecision A futile word or a silence wise, she’ll hate herself it’ll be her demise. The confusion’s mine, reversing the blow to sickness in me -the ire- since her two-timing man will set her on fire. A futile word or a silence wise, she’ll hate herself it’ll be her demise. but this torment is hilarious, a tattletale or not I’m a sweating rag for either way I’ll be the hag. A futile word or a silence wise, she’ll hate herself it’ll be her demise. |