Go ahead, find a good sun spot and have a wonderful National Cat Day! I need to attend to the litter boxes now, catch ya later.

Four Inches From the Floor


Does anyone breathe
behind those black windows?
If anyone does,
they're sleeping,
four inches from the floor.

You don't have any money.
Pretend you're a writer.
Studio apartment.
Make believe you're an artist.
Paint your radiator with mushrooms.

Four inches from the floor.
Ain't it arty to be poor.
Dye the bedsheets black.
Hang in the window with a tack.

Does anyone think
behind that black brick?
Old rice in the refrigerator.
Plastic dishes in the sink.
You can't leave the mattress.
Don't have any money.
Lay on the floor.
Think about writing.
It's so arty to be poor.
Studio apartment.
Paint your nails black.

Four inches from the floor.
Ain't it arty to be poor.
Dye the bedsheets black.
Hang in the window with a tack.

Go back to sleep.

I Know What You're Trying to Do, Jane

The dark moon remembers death, 
with your turtle-beak gasping breath.
Whimsy dances, further and further,
growing up, growing away,
blown by my fetid depression-breath,
which reminds me of your infection,
and how it filled the room.

Lifted, shoved, you through the door;
what was mortal clung for more.
Purpose fell, deeper and deeper,
fading slow, fading to light,
called by those on that far shore,
who remind me I am your guide;
you told me they were rude.

The new moon rekindles fire,
sparks my dreamy life's desire.
Horror rots, weaker and weaker,
growing up, growing into,
fed by the beauty of the light-briar,
which reminds me we are so much more,
and many more at once.

As I stow the lantern, take up the pen, 
I hear your voice.
You didn't know you would be this happy.