Monday, February 20, 2012


jujitsu mind-control, 4 chops of surgical peyote lightning
on my geriatric cat, 1 speculum for all intents and purposes
wielded by carrion on itself – it's as grave as the atrocity

the cat had narrowly avoided fooling around
in the backyard hammock – why else would
his asshole look so funny?

a whoosh of life's 9 heartbreaking lawnmowers
already inflicted on him
a streak of silver baldness,

he kicks and farts in his sleep, meows like Jimmy
Hendrix or Bruce Lee,

voodoo mistaken (naively, by me, the other members of my family,
the maid, the dog) for a transfusion of synthetic noise
via his cerebral cortex into an inanimate dollop
of inglorious railroad poop

hauled in from miles away, in the dead
of night, and – still in the super-villain grip of sleep – affectionately
dropped into his litter box,

wished upon, kneeled meditatively in front of,
neon specks of enlightenment blooming across
his mindscape as the wooly fungus of the dollop's spirit
is consumed

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