Untitled Short Story. This is not a title. Dammit.

"I don't want to fucking hear it."  It was her go-to line whenever she didn’t feel like talking.  It was usually followed by a quick turn like a pirouette and a brisk walk into the bedroom. 

And the fight was over.  I cut into an apple and started eating.

I have never been confrontational. Not as some part of a clever strategy, I’d smile or laugh when a bully pushed or threw a smart remark my way.  I didn’t blame them for pushing me around.  If I were them, I’d do the same thing, I thought, like a perversion of the ubiquitous Golden Rule.

When I was 13 my best friend and I used to shoot off his pellet gun. It was old and rusted but fired true.  My parents would never have let me have one let alone shoot it around the neighborhood. They were too worried about me and my indiscretions.  It was my favorite part about going to Greg’s house.  His face was positioned all too close together and somewhat bug-like Kafka's Gregor.  He had the unfortunate habit of sucking his teeth as he breathed through his mouth like a trough.  Anyway, we’d take out the pellet gun and shoot cans, mostly, in his backyard and aim impossibly at black birds as they swept by. Out of birds and tired of cans we looked for other prey to satisfy our predatory child-instinct. I grabbed the rifle and lay prone like I’d seen in the movies and took aim at a white rabbit fifty yards away.  I was a lousy shot.  Greg took aim and crouched right next to me and got it with the first pellet. 

We stood over the tiny spasming bunny. Its eyes were wide in terror and confusion like I’d seen people do in the movies. A rich redness pumped out of its neck in beats. He’d hit it square. We just stood over it and watched it for a long time. I hadn’t shot it myself, but I had killed it too.

It was a good green apple.  Not too juicy, because I don’t like juicy apples.  I like a firm meaty apple.  I think about that rabbit all the time.  And my little bunny, pouncing around the bedroom, eyes wide with passion about something. I think about the rabbit and I get some small relief with the knowledge that I can pretty much kill it whenever I need to.

Magnetic Inspiration Sought and Found.

The only drawback of making poems with words of the magnetic variety is that they always sound so fucking deep and meaningful.  The challenge is to make them actually MEAN something. 

The first two are the ramblings of an old man who has had a stroke. The second two are of the deep meaningful variety.

It’s funny:

My life would read

In words

If not for

A good brainbleed.

If my body could move

There is a climb in this head.

I’d step; then go.

I fight to speak instead.

The Angel I dream of

Is a puppet

Played by a man

That is me.

She                        is strange and sweet

                                                              maybe good.

                              is the spider.

I                            see only girl

                             am a boy.

In Memoriam 2.0: A shout out to my cats.

My parents brought them home from the shelter in a box.  One was a white long hair mix, the other a short haired tabby.  Maybe a result of the last time my brother named our cat (he named her “Cat”) but probably because they already had ones, we were told their names were Bianca and Missy.  Bianca would become known as Beebee or Beebs and Missy was always Missy.  Beebee was assertive when she demanded attention but would otherwise slink away under the pressure of an attempted pet. Missy was sweet and loving and beautiful.  For all the femininity her Shakespearean name implied, Bianca was the tomboy and Missy the princess.

Like all things too sweet, Missy’s time was short. She got a brutal dose of kitty cancer and we lost her.

I was about 9 at the time, and I had already experienced human death – my uncle had passed away when I was in 4^th grade and, in the halls of the synagogue after the service, I distinctly remember suddenly recognizing what “forever” meant.

Maybe in an effort to replace Missy, maybe to give Bianca a new pal, it wasn’t long before my parents brought home another surprise.  She was also a tabby and the cutest fucking cat I had ever seen.  Never to forget her life before, she had been given the name “Allie” at the shelter.

Allie had the face of a kitten even into her ripe old age.  She was like one of those old movie stars that still has that spark in her eye in her 80s. 

Bianca and I were close and I spent a lot of time with her, but my brother Warren was her favorite because he’d spoil her with tuna fish and pretzels during the Nuggets games. Allie was every bit as explorative as Bianca but also lazier. Alley would chase me to the kitchen sink as I washed my hands to drink from the tap.  I’d turn it on to a trickle and she’d lap at it like a water fountain.  My mother eventually had to buy a special trickling water bowl because Allie would only drink from a moving stream like a snake who must eat its food live.

In our living room, the high octagonal shaped windows would cut sunbeams through shadows on the carpet like hotspots and Allie would stretch out in one like a sunning lizard. Her smile was as obvious as her purr and she’d arch her back as I pet-scratched her belly – the few times she’d allow such a thing.  I’d work my way up and scratch under her little head and she’d crane her neck forward and up so I’d scratch her bony jawline – like satin on a wood frame.  And then the top of her head and her ears and she’d move her head to position my hand where she wanted it.  Then I’d grow tired of it all, lay down next to her with my head on the carpet like hot sand and fall asleep with her next to me.

Bianca passed away some years ago – she made it well into her 20s.  I haven’t given her enough credit – she was an amazing cat and companion to me and my family.  She was long, slinky and beautiful.  She was a hunter.

Allie was gentler, like Bianca, and arrogant when she wanted to be.  She’d follow my mom into the bedroom at night – two ladies getting ready for bed, while my dad finished his shows. Over the last year or so, Allie kept them up at night, mrowing at their bedside for a lift to the sink where she could drink.  They obliged, of course – no one could refuse her mrow.  I told my mom what a pain in the ass that must be, and she said, “She’s brought us so much happiness and comfort; it’s sort of our duty to repay her the favor.”  It stayed with me, because it’s absolutely fucking true.

She as diagnosed with cancer, I think, a few years ago and was given 6 months.  She lasted until just last week.  She was 22 years old. Or around there anyway.

When people wonder why I like cats so much, this is why. The one dog I had as a kid tried to bite my face off.  So fuck you.

As a last minute addition, I wanted to send a shout out to Spooky, my friend’s cat, who tragically passed away this morning.  Police are still investigating, but early reports suggest a drug deal gone awry. Or maybe a possum.  But probably the former.

Spooky was a mischievous, independent cat.  She was smart, loyal, and affectionate.  She was stunning.