My cat, in terror of the vacuuming,
Hides in my lap: an anxious wreck of nerves.
I pity her ignorant trembling
And run my hand along her feline curves.
Which of us the fool: her, weary of swerves,
Of unpredictable, machinated screams,
Or me, thoughtlessly mandating her purrs?
Who are they for, her vibratory streams?
Proof that nightmares will only haunt in dreams,
That cleaners will not suck us all away;
Proof she knows I can save her from extremes?
Who comforts the other? Who’s fears allay?
My cat sought solace from that machine.
What peaceful worlds do I forsake to clean?
Poetry
This is my note taker. I am not here.
I am distant. It is cold outside.
We exist in here. Not exactly warm but it’s home.
Have you met my note taker?
It is he, the one near you.
I am not within. I reside elsewhere now.
I decide, he takes notes, you listen.
Or don’t. You have to, though.
Sorry. Not really.
Meet him or don’t meet him.
Think of me inside or out here.
Be warm or cold; take comfort or don’t.
You will not change these notes.
I walk tow-
Toward, I think toward.
We all do it in small scale
Aiming towards an idea.
[Something about heroism here]
We all walk. We-
What was it? Towing our history
Por- no idea. I left and came back.
Did you follow? Or were you ahead?
Not my concern: a genius
Lies in wait of all discipline
Undisciplined, he – or she -
[Many ideas here:
all irreconcilable]
Move in waves. Wave to us. Drown.
Help the sparkling tin can. Help us.
Help us speak… help- Forgot.
[Something about Lacan here]
Trust the map is there.
I did not put it there.
Walk in that direction. The
One towards- just look at the map.
Gender and identity are undisciplined.
Genius is an age of aiming
Without a target. Did you see the tin can?
[Something in that direction]
I left and came back.
