Target practice May 7, 2015

 

I do target practices in my mind, my dart aiming for the center she exposes, a bullseye on this attempt or that, leaving a stain at the end, white not red, not blood, but just as precious. I am more than half drunk on wine when I do it, which always affects my aim, and so I have to clutch my dart with both hands to assure that I hit what I aim for.

They claim practice makes perfect, though I still crave for the real thing, doing it when it matters and not just in my mind.

Does it count if I only get a rim shot, or come close, but not quite all the way the way they say with horseshoes?

To east it in and move it around so that my dart hits the hot spot beyond the center circle, to that place deep inside, which I pound out, practice I know will never be real.

 

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Portraits in my mind 2015

I paint portraits of her

 photographs in my head

those glimpses she sent me

when we first met

that linger in memory in ways

from which I can never divorce

her eyes, lips, shape of that hat

she wears or doesn't

the urges that came over me then

 and since, the irresistible temptation

 I bring on myself

I painting pictures of her

from then because I no longer know

 what she looks like now

only how little my feelings have changed

the breathlessness

the ache

the pure pleasure of remembrance

 I know will never escape me

 each portrait as indelible in me

as a tattoo

and stings in the same way

when I recall them

 

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Where did she go feb 27, 2014

  

nobody knows anything for certain

 least of all me

where exactly she went and why

 and what were the circumstances of her departure

though everybody has a lot to say

 especially me

I do know the world here is different without her

 a missing piece of a puzzle

we might not have felt comfortable with

 yet feel even less comfortable without

how long will she be away

 is she ever coming back

 does she even have a job to come back to

if she does and will she want

 to pick up where she left off

when it was so disappointing in the first place

what will she do if she decides to start a new life

will she do what she's done before

 gone off leaving the rest of us in her dust

 and in all this who does she blame

 me, they, or others

 I know nothing about

are we all guilty

 though I can only speak for myself

and my own guilt

having tossed her away

 when I claim to love her

as so many men before me have

 forcing her to scramble to survive

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gray cat 2014

  

I watch the gray cat

rub its back against

 the stems of the rose bush

and I think of you

and me

how impossible it could be to embrace love

 without risk of being pricked

 to touch you means getting around the thorns

that surround your beauty

 that protect you even from those

 who would do you no harm

 you can't always tell

 what's harmful from what is not

 and at times even those of us

who profess to Love you

endanger you too

I envy the cat that can scratch its back

 and come away unharmed

 more so the bumblebee

who fumbles into your most precious places

touching parts no man can't touch

 without bleeding fingers

collecting from your core

 that pollen we can turn into honey

 

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Joey August 14, 2024

 

 

 

I knew the cat was going to die

Even as I got up to give it

It’s three a.m. feeding

The two-week-old refuge

Abandoned by its mother

As a lost cause,

While I was determined

To save it

Knowing I could not,

Was not good enough

And all I could do

After trying for five days

Is rest its tiny head on my chest

And listen to its whimpers,

Its small head smaller than

The spade of a tea spoon

I petted with my thumb.

I imagined it purring

When I knew it was in pain.

With its eyes still closed,

He never saw me, only

Heard my voice,

Felt my touch,

Caught my scent.

The mother had left

The tiny creature

In our neighbor’s driveway

Where it cried until

The neighbor rescued it

And delivered it to us,

Like a gift from the gods,

As if believing we could save it,

And at first, I thought I could,

Feeding it condensed mill

For the first day

Until the shipment

Of kitten milk arrived,

And though it cried often,

It greedily accepted the food

Via eye dropper,

Though we later realized

It was cold

And put a heat pad

In its carrier

To replace the heat

Of his mother

For those times when

We could not keep him warm

By holding him.

We did not do everything right,

Failing to provide him food

Every two hours,

And the heat pad aggravatingly

Shut off after a half an hour,

Causing him to get cold

During those hours we slept,

He was cold when

I picked him up after work

On that last day,

And I accepted the vigil

Of warming him,

Turning on the oven,

Carrying him wrapped in towels

As I pressed him against my chest,

He no longer wanted food,

A certain sign of him

Imminent demise

Still I held out hope

Staying awake

The whole of the night,

Packing him up

For the trip to the vet

In the morning

Where I learned

His body temperature

Had dropped dangerously low

And though they pumped

Up the heat in his carrier,

He soon passed out

Of our world,

Mouth open as if

To utter one last cry

Only I could hear.

I came home to

The vacancy of my kitchen,

The place that has served

As his sanctuary

And I ached to have

His small body

Curled up in the

Palm of my hand

As it once had,

To feel his soft fur

Against my thumb,

To see his small mouth

Suck the tip of the

Eyedropper,

The collection of which

Now sat abandoned

On the counter,

Pointless,

This visitor leavings its mark

In me as much in those

Five days, than other cats

Had over decades.

I know I will miss him,

Just as I still miss

Some people who have

Gone out without me.

I know I was

Inadequate to the task,

Aching to save him

When he could not be saved,

Thinking if I had done

This or that differently,

He might have survived,

A notion others dispel

But I know better,

Having failed humans

In similar ways,

With no way to go back

To repair it.

He’s gone,

In every place

Except my heart,

He will remain there

Always.

 

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Anyway she can May 16, 2015

  

In my twisted imagination, I think she’s slept with some many lovers, I would need a calculator to keep track of them, while I – a jealous twit – could fit all my on the inside of a matchbook cover.

I imagine her with everybody I see her with, lovers that are friends, or colleagues or bosses, or maybe even underlings at random, strangers in the night who she’d never see again at morning light, some more than once, some times more than one, men or women, tied up, she, then, front door or back, upstairs or down, right side up, upside down, inside or our, inspired by her need to feel it all in every way possible, life being too short not to grab all she can, in any manner, not always to trickle up, some times just to feel good in that moment, knowing it won’t last forever, and true or not, I envy her.

 

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One stick will do 2015

 

cold hands warm heart

or so the old adage goes

as I work off the chill

 like a boy scout

 rubbing as hard

 and long as I can

 until my fingers burn

the deeper they go

 the hotter they get

so I boil inside and out

my life timed to

the rapid beat of my heart

 and the rise of temperature

as I fill in all those soft places

 until I come to that spot that is hard

and scalding

proving that it doesn't take two sticks

to make a fire

just one stick in right place

and rubbed raw

 rubbing until my fingers thaw

 deep inside where softness swells

 and I rub that spot until it gets rigid

 and we both ignite warm

hot scolding fingers

 and of course you

 

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