yesterdays poem:

we play games
we read books
being massaged by a ghost
while watching the history of hip hop

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return you to the now

it’s weird having you sick
non functional
wrapped in sheets
sheened in sweat
you are sweet
and disconnected

i spoon into your fever heat
my hand upon your belly
upon your brow
we can arrest it in the how
and return you to the now
drink your tea, eat your chow

another fucking cat poem

he’s about to write another fucking cat poem
says inner voice
about the failure of wisdom in trying to arrest a cat
such witticisms backing up behind the metaphor
what are these cat poems for?

if he had dogs
would he be barking?
would he be larking
around with cerebus similes?
would he see we’d tire of these?

we wonder
not to steal his thunder
but one more cat poem mewling
makes us think of the fire the book will be fuelling