In the Voice of My Poetry

My poetry is about finding lost things.

If drinking makes you sick, don’t drink.

Find a clean puddle and dip your cup in that; drink the moon on the water.

My grandmother never wanted my grandfather to leave (he was an alcoholic). She had one sister who thought she was prettier than everyone else. Her grave has dead plants on it. And pink marble.

My poetry is about falling across the road as a bloody smear and making a new boundary, a new border.

My poetry is about an imaginary map.

Borders blur and the ink runs when it rains.

Wild roses are my favorite. The ones with all their petals falling off and thorns everywhere.

My poetry is about rotting and returning to the earth.

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This post is inspired by Bhanu Kapil’s Blog

Photo by Felipe Santana on Unsplash

Good Neighbors

So I’ve got some wasps trying to make a home behind the aluminum siding next to my front door. I was standing on my balcony zoning out after the storm and one of the wasps flew straight at me. Usually I move and make my slightly disturbed distress noise but because my brain has been in a fog all day I didn’t really register that the wasp was there. When I didn’t move right away it hovered in the air about a foot in front of my face and made this little loop in the air. I, finally realizing that there was indeed a wasp at face level, moved over a little to the right and said, “Sorry.” The wasp then flew through the empty space and into the gap between my door and the siding. I think the only reason I didn’t get stung was because it had a mouth full of food or construction material for its house.

Directions

For some reason we were talking about directions first thing in the morning, literal directions and written instructions.

Me: wow thanks for making sure the left and right side of my brain are working.

Mr. J.: Yes because that’s how you know to take a left instead of two rights.

Me: Two rights EQUAL a left so fuck off!

Mr. J.: No they don’t…(dramatic pause)…It’s three rights make a left.

Me: fuck off

Mr. J: wow you really learned a lot from those gen ed classes in college.

Valor

This is a post about pets. About cats. If you have cats, you can probably relate.

My cat’s name is Leela. She is a Russian Blue and lately I have been calling her Leeks becasue that is what my text message auto correct changes her name to. Apparently, Leela is not an actual word. Try telling her that.

Leela woke me up at 1:01 a.m. this morning. She usually waits for my alarm to go off before squeeking incessantly. She wants treats. And before you ask why I reinforce bad behavior with a reward, let me just say: she gets treats. She always gets treats. When I don’t get up with my alarm she bites my arm and jumps away before I can grab her. Wash, rinse, repeat. Meow, bite, evade.

That is my morning routine.

Today the meow, bite, evade began WAY earlier than usual. So after I tried telling Leela that I really didn’t want to wake up at 1:01 a.m. when my alarm was scheduled to go off at 5:30 a.m. I reluctantly emerged from my cocoon of blankets with many tiny bite marks on my arm.

I gave her and her big sister, Titain, treats and noticed that the food bowl was empty. That, obviously, was her motivation for waking me up. I filled the bowl and went back to bed.

5:30 a.m. rolls around and I am greeted by both my alarm and Leela screaming at me to get up. I hit snooze until about 5:49 a.m. Then I get up and give Leela, Titain, and Tiny Rick this time, treats. Yes, two of them got treats twice. Tiny Rick has FIV and doesn’t care if he’s missed out.

Priorities.

So then, as often happens in the early morning when I want to be asleep but am not, I have random thoughts. I thought of all those times when cats randomly look at blank spots in the world and stare.

Mr. J: How’d you sleep.

Me: Leela woke me up at 1:01 a.m.

Mr. J: Yep.

Me: Hey Mr. J, what if Leela and the others are in like a union and have been fighting demons and evil spirits all night and Leela is the one out of the group who makes sure they all get fair wages but in this case the wages are treats?

Mr. J: Or Leela is that lazy son of a bitch who does the least amount of work but expects to get the most pay.

Me: That’s mean!

Mr. J: It’s true.

Me: (Walks into kitchen. Leela follows, meowing.) What if Leela and the others fought a really tough, bad ass evil spirit at 1 a.m. and they got a monthly bonus?

Leela: jumps up on the counter and meows.

Me: (Smushes Leela’s face.) You always work hard killing the things we can’t see. No one can question your valor!

Leela: Meow.

Me: Yeah, you don’t give a shit, do you?

Leela: Meow.

Me: If anyone in the world deserved to not give a shit, it’s you. Well, really, it’s me but if I can’t not give a shit then you don’t have to.

And that has been my morning so far.