1.  i'm allergic to cats, and that doesn't mean anything to most people but i hope you understand why i included it.
2. i open fortune cookies with you in mind.
3. you are my worst kept secret. my therapist knows everything about you.
4. every inch of me, all that i am, secretes and exudes "accident." but you. you were so intentional to me.
5. you are a sunrise if i've ever seen one
6. i want to make you jealous. i want you to see my heart and wish it yours.
7. you make up every song i love, every poem i write, every picture i take and every reason i sleep at night.
8. i love the pauses you take between your words. i love that you know the weight of the poison that is human interaction.
9. i'm so sorry you ever had to learn the weight of the poison that is human interaction.
10. the mere idea of letting you see into my soul is petrifying and if you ever read this poem, please understand the strength and stupid it took me to let you.
11. i wish so badly to just lay shoulder by shoulder with you and wonder why the universe let me know you.
12. i hope you never understand the feeling of missing someone who just doesn't miss you.
13. i miss you.
14. it has been thirty days and i am doing better all the time.
15. but i still miss you.
16. but i have me, and for that, i am glad.

i never seem
to get enough
rest
these days
always waking
up
tired

to start coffee,
****,
fix my hair,
sit in bed drinking
the coffee
plumbing the depths
for
ways to get through
another day,
****,

try to remember ways
that worked
before

maybe a quote
or a character
a poem
a song
a memory
an illusion
could even be
another person

but time draws
ever nearer
ever closer
until
at last
that silent cheetah
is sprinting

before i know it
i'm sitting
in my car
turning the key
with whatever
semblance and steel
i finally gathered

-a real live
cubist representation
of my
self
driving to work
at 3:49 a.m.

passing  
three black cats
in
the street
that watch me
carefully,
the glowing night
white-hot
in their eyes


satellites of some
indifferent future

hidden with
the devils
on the horizon

Surrounded by peals of
thunder,
Little Cat rides the tree,
Gripping with talons
****** deep in the wood
Lashed by the wind that
blows no good,
Soaked by the rain,
So misunderstood,
Then lightning strikes,
Oh!
Poor Kit-e
'spose she'll make a
change,
From KFC.

I watched the morning newscast
and found my mind straining to
get out.
Out into a widening desert,
sky open and black above save for
the piercing light of billions of stars
like holes in a living room curtain.
You can call me crazy for it,
but I thought I saw Ginsberg
looking at me through the window
with a sunflower behind his ear.
In fact, I'm almost certain this was anything but an hallucination as my cat pounced at the window
(she never liked my poems either, Allen)
and startled me back into reality.
The television, right, the newscast.
Nuclear bombs and
tariffs on Mexican goods and
oh look, the president is playing golf with the Queen.
I turned it off when I saw he hit a bogey,
parted the curtains, and thought, "That's it, I'm pleading insanity. See you in Bellevue, Allen."

I'm a rough tough *******
But believe me I didn't grow up like this
Well life was easier then
Just follow the footsteps of big strong men
And there's nothing wrong with that
The only problem is it's a dogs world and you're a cat
Cats are good cats are kind
But sometimes I like to think with my own mind
And so when dogs will shut you out, shut you down
Some might simply frown
But as I mentioned before I'm rough tough strong and mean
And when I'm ****** i'm less like a cat more like a machine
And it didn't come quick I spent years in doubt
Just trying to figure it out
What made me different what made me a freak
And that's how I spent week after week
Doubting and dissing and hating myself
Until it stared destroying my mental health
And I was tired of hating I needed a rest
So I worked to become the best of the best
I'm not a cat nor a dog I'm sure you can see
I'm a very special breed, I'm me
And maybe I'm not the very best of them all
But you can bet your *** I'll be the last one to fall
So at the end of the day I don't ask that you fall to your knees
Simply step aside while I do as I please
Cause I'm a rough tough *******
And I'm done listening to what men have to pitch

First days of spring
How many poems have been written about you?
Could you count them on all your fingers and toes
finally free from wool socks
or on your highway medians’ flower buds
barely visible from the rolled-down windows of passing cars?

Let me add one more set of words--
images of a Saturday afternoon in April
cats snoring
pressed against sun-dappled window screens
and daffodils adorning
even the smallest patches of earth
between city streets and sidewalks

And most of all
that sublime knowledge
a proof of concept
that bulbs become blossoms
that winter layers will be shed.

The things I thought were dead and rotting
were only dormant for a season.
The chill of winter--which will come back--
fades for now, replaced by milder breezes.

The dull walk to my parked car
a trudge that seemed so long and dreary
is now a brief journey
dotted with colors and  
full of the splendor of living things.

As you walk over
what you have done
and where you have been
presents
itself,
in instant glory.
Oh all the places you have roamed,
all the houses you've made your home;
good old Twist
may we always greet,
every time
I see this street.