she sings and dances and
pirouettes her gritty marrow and then
sits next to the venetian blind windows,
she asks "---what good is misfortune
if you do not benefit its wisdom?
"wisdom is over-rated, like 'truth,' it
only awakens the utterance if conscience,that's
why most men keep guns and brandy in the study,"
outside the window, a dog is barking at children making it home from school.
the drunks are lost in paralyzed self hatred.
the observant is busy killing the
mosquitoe on the nape of the neck.
the innate ones sit on bar stools with lipstick smeared journeys of hurt,
she squints, into the sun over the palm trees,
"this is the consolation for death"
"the comedy shows,the Malibu beaches, shrimp
and fettuccini, Law and Order on Thursday night,"
"where we begin and where we end," I concede, "between those two things is vulnerability,vulgarity and temerity. well,besides
good food and a nice apartment to lay your bones,
everything else is useless."
my cat, hugs the wall, goes behind the tv,
she hates cats and balloons, maybe not my cat specifically, just in the formal sense, the behavorial sense. she looks in her purse for a cigarette.
my cat alertly goes out onto the balcony,
swatting at the long leg things intruding her
the summer has been good, except
for a hornet's nest
near my balcony, that's giving me
and my cat hell
(comment on this poem)