On a fast Tuesday, a tired townhome sold for a low price that was an amendment to a poor soul’s administration of arithmetic. The bread from his boss had dried and hardened and when he bit, the brittle flakes dimmed the shine on the buckle of his designer loafers, a downward drift that while particled and random, comingled as vermin, accepted by a farmer who was overwhelmed by the kicked up pebbles that came with too much land . Far too many thoughts for real hurdles that would lie ahead, yet the shoes had been dependable, and so had his commitment to the indecency that comes from sharpened tools that were buried beneath a roofless shed. There was a time that he heard a muffled trumpet accompanied by a soft guitar whenever he found the geese beyond the cold bricks of his dorm room, freshman year scholars, constructive impetus was everywhere. But the birds could fly off at a moment’s notice and, now as a man, it was mercifully decided that he could too. He ascended the screen door and then the roof and finally the chimney. The evolution of smell from mold to tar, to ash blurred the applauding trees, but the city lights in the distance bounced in all directions. Fatigue left his childhood benefactors crying, and then the rest of the bandmates filtered in…..

I am a wee bit under the weather today. I have been up since 4am (what else is new, right?) with a sore throat, stuffy nose and an upset stomach. I’m no doctor, but if I had to guess I would say that I have the flu. Since I don’t have much of an apetite or energy for that matter, I guess I will be spending the day in bed. I should clarify…I will be spending the day in Ted’s bed just in case the alien in my stomach wants to come out. That way after I am done puking, my bed will still be nice and clean. After all, it’s important to get as much rest as possible in order to fight this bug. And how am I supposed to do that in a bed covered in vomit? Let’s not forget that Ted should have stayed home to take care of me, but since he is planning on going to Las Vegas next month he doesn’t want to use any of his personal days. I guess blackjack and hookers are more important then my health. So, I’m not only sick, but I’m alone. I remember in the wild, my mother used comfort me whenever I was under the weather. She would hold me in a warm embrace and lick the back of my head. Anything to make me feel better. Sometimes she would even sing to me with her soft and beautiful meows.  It’s days like this that I really miss her. Sure Ted is great…for the most part, but nothing can take the place of the mother and child bond. And since I have nothing better to do than to disect my snot, I think I will tell you a little bit more about my mom.  Now I realize that it’s been a long time since we last saw each other, but I can still picture her and her great big smile. She was always smiling. Who wouldn’t if you had a son like me, right? She had piercing dark eyes and her fur was gray with numerous black spots. At this point it may appear that my mom is an English chimney sweeper named Danny….but nothing could be further from the truth. Her dark complexion shined, like a black pearl at the bottom of the ocean. She was not a big cat, in fact she was tiny just me. When I was two monthes old I was already the same size as her (and I was the runt of the family). But that didn’t matter….. she could hold her own against anyone including dangerous predators and even a philandering husband. I guess that’s why my dad stopped coming around after a few monthes….he simply got tired of a butt kicking (well that and he had a new grilfriend every week.)
 
 
 
…but you know what some how I’m starting to feel better.
 
This may not be the most polite way of doing things….but tough tuna…..I’m sick and I’m alone.

Everyone should have a theme, a tattooed widow’s peak, a toothbrush covered in smut. The stains would train upon veins that strain-soil and toil from the groove that’s never cut. No matter how bright the sight, a babbler’s might inspires the rhythm of a tambourine, have you seen- light years of mood and theme, a shirt that refuses to tuck? Quite the scene, sitting on a dream in between- the source and the seam-where streets are lost directions and modesty is stuck…..

7/24/12

Luckily, Ted just left for an all-day work conference so it looks like I am home alone again. Sounds familiar, huh? Well I was going through some of Ted’s papers (doing my best to make a huge mess) and I came across something that piqued my interest. It appears that Ted has a very impressive postcard collection. Sure, the backs of them are tainted by the memories of cheap women and fraternity type shenanigans, but the pictures on the front are absolutely breathtaking. There are majestic mountains, beautiful beaches and trembling cities. (Pretty impressive alliteration for a cat, huh? ). This got me thinking……While I’m aware that most of these places are very far away and the resorts are probably pet restrictive, that doesn’t mean that I can’t find an exciting destination that would be ideal for a feline vacation. Since, I haven’t been out of my front yard since Ted adopted me 16 months ago, I’m thinking I should plan something simple and relatively easy to get to for my first trip.  So far I’m leaning towards the canal down the street that is affectionately known as the Stench Riviera. If that falls through, then I’m thinking about Mt. Trashmore which also doubles as the area landfill. It may not feature downhill skiing or snowboarding, but I’m sure the cuisine would be outstanding. Now I realize that these places  may not be recommended by Fodor’s or reviewed by Rick Steeves, however, for a small cat who’s strapping on the backpack for the first time they will provide a great introduction to world travel.  I can only imagine what kind of adventures await me, but regardless of the experience,  I am very confident that I will come back a more enlightened and well-rounded member of the animal community. In the meantime, I would love to hear about some of your travels. Don’t be afraid to include a few funny stories or embarrassing moments from the road. After all, they can’t be any worse then what’s on the back of Ted’s postcards.

Not sure why, but most of my impurity originates from the middle of the couch, where soft cushions bounce firm-appearances harmonize for the zippered gap-a genie’s cigar and a puppet’s bazaar- reverted confection -the unusually plump and usually damp. An impaled response is nervy when twin hitched to the vented side of a jailer’s map, the remission of the stuttering sequence-rattling and flexuous-spreading skin and teething muscle, hovering over the graveyard of oily socks, walking crumbs and the journaled promises of a flincher- to grease up the matches or whittle the judge’s gavel-the alley tilts safely in the back. By way of a lemon’s spray, spines touch down with tarots in tandem, aura avantgarde, sash of simultaneity, who earns the praise and who claims the rainbow? Polar bears battling the jagged seas while resting upon the purest land known to the slumbering stars. There is a swallowing need for desperation, for unhealthy art. Unhappy rebels find stripped spacing, producing false prophets and horizontal drops of tempered muse. Claims wrapping the city blocks of lumpy adventure and garnished heirlooms masquerading as the dust that climbs the walls, sweeping the high sides of the scarred cabals, tidal hope racing evolutionary dues. I would not enjoy the job, if the payout was any less therapeutic. The inevitability of leaping pads picking at the chords, moving the fabric tightly together, the pathway to a land whose melodies move the steeples-from scarves to sea. Equal parts moth and me. Trust the wind as it picks up, the tiniest of wings, the tightest of hope for poem and palm. As the rain falls, so goes the green balm, in the fresh smell, all roads visible and embryonic, emergence is evaporation, just as escape is a dash that is soaked inside a patch of unabsorbed cologne. Off the loan, exodus to excess, carrying the message of impunity-it is a divine journey to be seasonal and sad, just as the foam recedes to the apolster’s hand. Misplacing comfort amidst colored numbers and logic that careens-salvation earned is camouflage properly leant, topped by the velvet charm and the errancy of the dancing mourn-penitent by way of a soggy gift. Ply a simple trade for laughter, rubbing the dented lamp for seductive slander, let the jubilee table the seeds for remander-a vacuum can be a lover or a rift.

Feet up, shoes off, chair reclined, listening to the stairwell reverberate with calls to higher beings and wailing melodies whose feelings have not yet been invented, nor words aligned with rooms that are tossed. English? No chance. Patwah? Perhaps. The calf now creased heavily by the end of the desk, pale without a tinge of troublesome yellow-trappings that went out with the rumbling thunder and the char of the descending kings-now left with an edging frame, as vindicative as the earth feebly stroked for bellying parallel to the escaping idols on the smelted raft-rolling tablets, munition grafted, callouses soft. The drop-off, a cliff and a gorge below tunneling through a watershed of burnt up banana peels and lush green plants that rise and fall with each flexion of the foot, ashes burrowing into the heel asking the finger muraled diamonds to follow where the hatchet cleared shrubs fill the mind with extra air, musky fumes spinning spears taught. At the bottom of the stairs, sobs overtake the science of dawdling. A curt drumroll and a fuzzy bassline, we have acetized guests… the seat returns upright- modernity buys silence with a cough. Time to back up all files…socks skating upon the wooden floor….an elevator rings the tambourine, culturally, no bad, makes no worse, assessment is collision curvature…another request of chunky beams -cathedral lights of the slamming steel door- in the boorish parking lot, the engineer feeling the creative panic. Thru elevated glass…a handshake dives low, the beat of the oars worships wide of the intruder’s fence…

July 21, 2012

So Ted has been back for less than an hour and I am already wishing he had extended his stay or at least gotten detained by airport security. I personally would have opted for the latter. An over zealous TSA worker with a few rubber gloves would have given Ted the wonderful experience of what its like to visit the vet.  Speaking of the vet, I feel like I am in the waiting room. The uneasy feeling of wondering what is coming next has been transplanted into the middle of my living room. The peace and quiet of having the entire house to myself has now been replaced by the roar of the television. And the joys of reclining on the comfy couch have been greatly restricted. As I write this I am currently holed up in the bathroom. Apparently, Ted thought it important to throw himself a welcome home party….how lame. Who throws themselves a welcome home party? First of all, Its not like Ted was coming home from a semester at school or eight years in the federal penitentery….although that’s where he belongs after leaving me at the mercy of those nutty neighbors. Nope,  Ted was only gone for three days. Second, isn’t it the responsibility of your friends to throw you the party? I realize that Ted doesn’t have many close associations, but surely someone could have stepped up and invited him over if it was so damn important. At least I would have had a few more hours to relax. Instead I am doing my best to keep out of sight, as Ted and and a bunch of idiots watch football. I know I am only a simple housecat, but I have yet to understand why humans are always yelling at the TV during sporting events. AFter all it is only a game. Try watching National Geographic some time. That channel invites emotion. It still bothers me that despite all of my loud meows and ___warnings,  those  African antelopes  continue to wander right into the jaws of a waiting lion. I know that these giant cats  are distant relatives, but I cannot help rooting for the underdog. But at least the action desert is  quick and the outcome is definiteve. I think human sports could take a page from the animal kingdom. All those stoppages for commercials and injuries is just too much. Could you imagine if someone tried interrupting a lion attacking his prey to get in a few words about an advertising sponsor? Or if a doctor came out to stop the aggression so that he could attend to a sprained ankle or a sore whisker? Nope, would never happen. Maybe that’s what they need to do with human sports. Everytime there is a stoppage or an injury send out a lion to liven up things or too take care of the weak. You know what they say. Survival of the fittest. I know it will probably never happen. For one thing, the players union would never go for it….unless it got them bigger contracts. And then you would have to compensate the animals. We may eat carbage or smell each others butts, but that doesn’t mean we are stupid. We realize the importance of currency and all the wonderful treats that it can buy. I guess that type of fun isn’t quite ready for prime time. But it may very well have a place in my living room, because as we speak it appears that one of Ted’s friends just cut his hand trying to open a beer.  I guess better sneak into position for my big debut.   Watch out Tom Brady, you are next!

The self-adulating damsel who twirls harsh love and silky destruction on the edge of a tulip’s wings. How does the boy scoped of unvaccinated triggers protect himself from the infestation of happiness- packing pimpled wool into star struck wounds-itchy barbs -needling the body count with a tepid lurch and annulled retreat? I imagined that was the flexing pressure of the notebook, lungs tightened, penciled shavings coloring freckles to cancer, scribbling with so much fervor that five thousand miles away the elephants circled to protect the young. What had she done now? We could all relate to the emotional graffiti, just ask the man yelling at the parking meter while the woman pushing the stroller fails to appease her small, yellow dog. I suppose commitance was purported to be torture for those who partook and for those who confused zipper mesh as punishment from the big blue sky. I caught myself editing the brainwaves as the number two slowed and the waitresses flipped tables-back and forth they went- orange peel mist and pressed cloths, subservience dotted with a flower’s patterned pleat. Peering downwind, pupils slithering between passing trollies and resting complaints, elligible assignment born of pleas expelled through the propulsion of a belled sac -poisoned milk and stinging straps-a birthright of emotions sawed off in a musty shed and smothered under crumbs from a collapsable, pounded cake. I put my coffee down, not because morning is inevitably disarmed, but to see if lifted hands would attract a pool of wayward grounds and warming, gooey cream. To the poor soul who surely had no ideas as influential as mine, if we both lived under clear water, we would be as trivial as the arm that reaches for what the head warns to keep away. But if thick dirt was our home, no shoveled discovery was ever unjoyfully received. Pebbles ricocheting off the grass, perfume pirouetting at its aromatic peak. A lowering sun was unquenched mitigation between loose lingerie and weeds that scream. There was little that could still be solved beyond a trailing horn and voyeuristic routine. The next customer’s voice peels skin inside my cheeks… covered in lust from alienation, the boy erases the stroller…dopamine steals traffic from the street….

July 19, 2012

Last night as I was reflecting….. in the litter box of course…..on the sumptuous meal that I had just devoured, there was a sudden ruckus at the front door. Before I knew what happened, there were three unruly kids running through the house. It seems that neighbor brat….as he will be now known as, had decided to invite his two younger brothers over to my house for what can only be described as a freak show. There was a 5-year-old jumping up and down on Ted’s bed, a two-year-old throwing whatever was not tied down against the wall and of course there was my nemesis burping the alphabet. With Ted gone, it was up to me to defend the house.  Since I was a kitten, I had always dreamed about being in a Rambo movie. Of course I knew that I was way too small and weak to go head to head against an entire army.   But given the right situation, I knew that I could kick some serious ass, and against this group of invaders, I liked my chances.

 Taking a page from my movie star mentor, I decided that I would employ a sneak attack from around the couch and under the coffee table. Unfortunately, I am not nearly as crafty as Sylvester Stallone (although I am much more talented and better looking), because as soon as I emerged into the open I was spotted. Damn… .thwarted before I could deliver  an ankle bite or even a shin scratch. I was hoping that the 5-year-old and the 2-year-old, or as I prefer to call them, Dumb and Dumber would dispose of me in a quick and relatively humane manner. My mistake. Like Rambo, I was famcing a devious adversary with little sense of right and wrong. While there were no bamboo cages or electric shocks, I  was  faced with a much more horryifying situation. Placed on the kitchen table, my legs were pulled and prodded for what seemed like hours by all three boys.  After finshing my examination, the 5-year-old thought it would be fun to play fighter pilot.  Apparently, he felt that the red stapler and the tape dispenser that were sitting on the table would make excellent dive bombers, and that my belly bore a striking resmblance to an aircraft carrier. Like clockwork, one would take off and one would land. A quick service announcement: remember the words Jake and Osbourne, because if in 20 years you are boarding a plane and you see a pilot with this name…run! Get off the plane, out of the airport and if possible out of the city. For starters, Jake has no idea what the term soft landing means, nor does he realize that a plane needs wheels to land on a runway. There were a couple of times he landed the stapler so hard, that I though it was going to pass right through me and out my back. I guess it’s a good thing that I watch the Rock Hard Abs dvd on a daily basis. Because my muscular physique (with a slight assist from the 10 lbs of food that was siting in my stomach) was the only thing that saved me from being turned completely inside out.  Even more alarming was the fact that Jake deemed it important for both planes to “meet” in the sky. Sometimes to exchange pleasantries and other times to play aerial demolitionderby. Either way, this game ususally ended with both planes making an violent crash landing on my runway.  Speaking of violent, I was slowly beginning to reconsider my anti-aggression stance towards children. I know that cats are supposed to be the ideal pet because of their temperment, but this was really pushing it. Maybe if I took a small chunk out of the 5-year-old’s arm, I would be doing the entire cat population a huge favor. Word would get out about my horrible act, sending shockwaves throughout the pet owning community. No longer would cats be recommended for families with small…and in my opinion…dangeorus children. The only suitable alternative would be to ship us to homes that would be idiot…I mean….kid free. There would be no more fur pulling, whisker chewing or eyeball poking.  The only things we would have to worry about are when do we eat and should I take another nap?

 For the second time today I was drooling and it wasn’t because of the Spam. I had lined up Jake for what was sure to be a painful and “unfortunate” mishap.

As I opened my mouth, I could almost hear the celebration in the feline community. But just as I was about bite down, I felt a swift smack on my butt. In all the excitement, I hadn’t noticed that the boys father was now standing behind me in the kitchen. Maybe he overheard me talking to myself, or maybe it was the sight of my teeth, but he was on to me and made it known that he did not approve of my plan. The boys took this as their cue to depart and quickly scampered home.  I was now alone with the largest human that I had ever seen. Readying for battle, I fluffed up as big as possible and cautiously inched towards my opponent. I knew that I had little chance of victory, but I was determined to go out like a soldier. I had been tortured by three mischevious children for most of the evening, the last thing that I feared was death. After what seemed like a marathon staredown,  this mountain of a man approached. He said nothing but quickly placed a small bowl of dry food at my feet.  After that he was gone. As I tried to understand what had just transpired, I realized that I had done exactly what I had set out to do. I had survived the enemy and drove him from my house. Hell I even got him to pay tasty reperations for the unalwful invasion . All this excitement had made me quite tired….so I decided to enjoy the spoils of my victory in the morning. As I drifted off to sleep…I realized that even though I’m not the strongest or the biggest I sure do have guts… And if Sylvestor Stallone ever wants to trade the jungle for the living room….than  maybe just maybe… there will be a place for me in a Rambo movie after all.

A metal table with three empty chairs, the rose designed top, carved petals and ellipses, peering into patches of weeds and fractured brick pavers, waggling crow’s feet-anxious in the spring time-working the tapping puddles underneath. Or perhaps the splay of pointed forks and jagged knifes hurled down by a present-day Zeus or an allowanced woman who did not allocute to the emptiness of being friends. The man who now hovered above was tall, with grey hair- light enough to infer the imperfect condition of lust and aftermath-the once blonde streaks of ambivalence prematurely giving way. He was lean but gym ready, well-dressed but offset by blue wrinkled flamingos and creased shorts that were olive suede. His shins and arms shared the same amount of curled hair, matted in totality as if hiding freckles smacked lips with clever contest, constants against the contessa whose rotated forearms tracked amplitudes of the cooling wind. The way he rubbed his wrists and circled behind every approaching waiter promised that luck had nothing to do with expectation. After 30 minutes of shape shifting and eyeing seats as patient daughters, I was not convinced that absence makes the heart grow fonder, or lack of purchase voided the practice of leaving a conciliatory tip……

July 17, 2012

Well the meal turned out to be delicious! Not sure if it was because of the chef’s abilities or because I was so damn hungry that I would have eaten tree bark. Of course, not everything was perfect. I think the block of cheddar cheese may have been a bit much and the Spam could have definitely used some seasoning. But then again, one would have to know what Spam is in order to make it tasty. From what I have read on the internet, I have concluded that Spam is pork and ham combined with several additives and preservatives, that not only causes intense indigestion in cats, but also allows anyone who comes in contact with it to glow in the dark. If that second part is true, then it looks like I will be a walking glow stick for the next month or so, because I didn’t exactly leave any leftovers if you know what I mean. But all in all, I think I did a good job for my first outing in the kitchen. After draining the water, I was pleased to see that the casserole was not too watery or runny. It actually held its shape quite nicely. I was all set to take credit for that until I realized that Mr. Mouse and the fishing line had become embedded in the food. Let’s be honest, it’s probably no worse than what you would find in your burger at most fast food restaurants. Besides, both the fishing pole and the mouse went above and beyond the call of duty in my hour of need. They not only stirred my food but were also the glue that held the casserole together, literally.  I may actually write the toy company a very nice letter commending them as well as a copy of my recipe. Although, I should definitely wait and see about the glowing in the dark business before I do so. As for the presentation, I was fortunate to find a few moth wings and one lizard head to serve as garnishes. It’s not exactly a lemon wedge and paisley, but under the circumstances it will do. I also remembered that it is very important to pair an appropriate beverage with one’s special dish. Since I am very sophisticat-ed (pretty clever huh?), I decided to go with a nice glass of Bumble Bee Tuna Water vintage June 2012. Im not sure if it was as good as the Starkist April 1998, but it sufficed.
The only regret that I had was that I didn’t have any ingredients to make a dessert…..beef gravy served over a spider would have been perfect. However, the amount of dinner that I prepared was more than enough to fill me up. Looking back on the entire process, I can tell you that it was well worth the effort. Sure there were times where I wondered if my meal was ever going to make it into my mouth, but I stuck with it and never gave up. And for that I am extremely proud of myself. I also proved to myself that despite being only 8.5 lbs and having a brain the size of a golf ball, that I have the apititude to learn new tricks. Oh wait, I think that’s what dogs are supposed to do. Anyway, I am very excited to see where my curiosity takes me next (there’s the cat reference I was looking for). I have discovered that there is a wealth of information out there for anyone who chooses to embrace the ability to learn. If anything, I hope that I was able to inspire everyone who read this to do something great. It doesn’t matter if you are a great big human, or four legged furball, you have it in you to acquire a new talent or improve an old skill. I hope you will take this advice to heart and challenge yourself to learn something new or do something great in the coming weeks and months. Please keep me posted on your progress, I would love to hear what path you have chosen.

Predicaments can unnerve; fabrication can amend. That is the Optique-the vigilance of foreshadowing impulse overturning an operatic note of sanctum -flapping haphazardly-like a deck of cards-shuffled at the circular edge of a turnstile door-bent backs leaping-crispness filleted- the beige carboard pulled open and upward, while a puffy heiress works off a debt to the circus maker’s arm- past the salted lips and fluttering shawls that cede a templed vanity, plucky audibles, robbers enlightened by ransacked moons and apologetic alarms. I am short, shuffle my seeds and am kingmaker to all chords, laborer to ember and octave. Occasionally, I ask the flask why being overlooked with laughter is familial to the wavy barbs of an overaged libation-a regimented, but unassuming mash swooshing amidst steel caverns of acidic staging, rounded by a leathery scarp that pimples skin, until the sky sweeps the sand to the edge of the brick-colored stars–impasse to cigars–at ribboned mast, hoisting an ashen glow of a spinning, smoky leaf – insolvent for twilight and temporal wings- luring puffs thru thicketed dew and clearing homerooms- a fledgling exhumed by billowing fractures of milieu and motif. I suppose the dubious procession of events-estranged and palliative- unnerved, manic tendencies opposing revelatory order-are more impactful as a pair of doves to a shadowy riddle than the swelling buds that roll the bubbles, compliments to the outswing of a touring grave-we graze until crumpled and sore, yet hauling more freight than railways can abhor-fears inscribed by doubled bags or hopes strapped by crispy, rubbled pages. In a more congruent passageway, my reclaimed honor scurries out past the chalky blue waters that line the boardy shores-swollen cupboards of posture and peace- serenity deflecting detection- a rarified obedience of holiday, denying the revelry that structures a spiritual softening-backing away from the matron ruler that carries the cup with sour taste. The differing of degrees- gradually chilled and darkening green- a mattress of moods searching for ankles from which to swing, breeching the twisting glare-where the once fluorescent hinges that were now pale and rudderless wait for cover and color, leaving the midnight offering full and the slippery handles ornamental- a high curtain blocking the cane from leading a reading without the spittle to spare. And then you were running, not for candidacy but for conscriptive art-a muted vine touched up by a swirling arc. I, flip-flopping the orders of operation- who was the beneficiary of a ripple overflowing- an executive that donates a log or a beggar who lends the oar? Still, blackened rhymes steer a destiny, compulsively changing outfits per staticky charge-symbolic of indirect invitation, all shares recounting the honest details of interest passing over – longing for acceptance consoles convenience, as solace celebrates the lout. To a catch, humanity is the exception-yellow eyed and thrashing-overplaying the laughter that binds opening pleasantries to the crumbs of the fifth course, but yet, the strong right angles of wrist to elbow, bicep to upper arm-never drooped or never raised. I bet you never cashed the credits for that run. Quite the feat, backing the street, cotton swabs to pad the misses, preachers raffling the parlent hisses, pinhole mirrors forcing rushing headlights to stand down, late night feedings and eclectic vagrancies, warped palms reaching far beyond what my strain had pledged, and what the bull had fetched by way of bribery-shined apples covering cloudy tears, early orientation at the ethereal emporium. Equitable charts, equal parts, liturgy flavoring sorrows with an unstirred swath of credible guilt and humorous shame. But at least my blame plucks the frosting from the waves, driving foam further and further out to sea, without the contrast, yellow would never heed me- the floating pull- stoic as a peddler not needing to bend-while underwater weeds follow orders to organize-to empathize-their sway is a current’s reward for an unapportioned sequence of alluvium-if only the spineless were as latent as the backstop- as extreme heat acquiesces to enduring pressure- to a new deck’s painted smell-unpacked and uncut-and yet, the tipped edge of artistry and anecdote hopefully goes unnoticed as a plentiful means concedes to a mismatched tell, tiny lights on a turtle’s shell-cramped swirls in a vagrant spell. The sun saves its most challenging questions for the unpatterned soldiers who sip their coffee far away from the dress socks peering under the backroom stalls-five steps fluffing the fiefdom. Are you amicable to wordplay dressed down as a series of suited coincidences? Innocence as a nickname-a busted, chubby king, innocence as a habit- a shortened whisker found inside the melting cubes of a politician’s lemonade. In the shade there are only interchangeable marks for me and you-the lore balances the whims-as envied as an unbroken horizon pressed into action on a gambler’s limping ship- new hands at first light, a magician’s revision of escape– drying off in a fitting room where nothing fits, but the procurer warms by prodding the hems, all patterns owe their sales to the limits of sanity. The insanity of piped hymns-never slagging with full conviction, nor cursing the first row of pews for bumpy luck. If you apologize loudly, the rhythmic scheme is closer than what the whispers sell to stay. Maybe your natural order anchors the entire, privileged burden, still no matter the tremors of last resort, muffled bells claimed as loamed retort, promises to dip your toes, uncurled from time to time, patience is the aversion to an ode that makes amends-a pilgrimage to pocket change-consternation amongst the feathered, chirping aside a clown’s limerence , soggy martyrs unsure of who is the leak and who flicks the story from the fluted thread- burrowing rust, buttered noon dust- a pale pen tilts the sane from the echo’s refrain-bluffers twist the sheets in their own bed.

Another year, another adopted bottom-another ledge fluffed lower on the stairs. I am now but three rungs from announcing the curtains level, the second side of a coin staying on, past the jittery doorbells and the streetlights bleating yellow. Even if reflective candor was eloquently tapered, make that delicately hemmed, perched at the very top of a winding case, balancing the venerable and the babied-I would still seek guidance for revising all idioms-hounded by mounting time and masquerading drivel-parried guise, cratering bloom, serenades to splay. In a better way, the beginning is continuity lead astray, and the middle-a parlance to the floating uniformity of reason-as the bulky courtship stirred by chilled hands and a leapfrogging payoff of referral and reprieve fidgets in the finality of its milky wake. If avarice is the most rigid of riders, embedded within the radical directives of a natural order-culling the sanguine and the shiny-shall we abolish a bruising kindness that tables the indulgence of pursuit with a wine induced malaise? This census of elastic style, sense of vibrant lucidity suits me just fine. Unshackled levers turn the same outcomes as extra time, to the sudden, cutting points- bubbled effigy is a cumbersome waste- you would not want to pay rent for the skylight no matter how many rays of brightness the dollars filter in. This fifteen, this birthday, is a series of aqua flashes, a strobe effect of gated thoughts, well-trained problems, negligent possibilities, rewound solutions and then eventually, puree in a silver cup. By all accruals, every day is a staggered year, full of festering and festivity, effusive ingredients- if your cornered lids know where to look. To impart a hint, there is nothing to be found other than fumes and dead trees amidst a storyboard or typed letters to a pal who amends his friends. Does one leaf wonder if a new sapling makes their field an orphanage? Does the crow who finds a crumb on the beak of the sparrow call on the lizard to explain the taste? True, the stepped carpet that hides the scowl from the wooden planks is more than just casually compliant, after all, slivers are hardly a motivator for the recruitment of fustian disciples. The woman next door is placing her photo albums in the trunk of her car, despite the wrappings of my jovial interference, it will never be more than 1pm on a Wednesday, we all grow together by way of the next open step-or if you erase the fate of unity and plan….a toast to the butter that dresses the cake.

As commander of the Lemonface Brigade, I sour upon discord that lends itself to daring raids and unnecessary sackings. Misty clouds drip sunspots straddling the upward pitch of old bones and neck strains – retribution is a shallowing actor. Rolling over is deemed an expanse of imperialistic aggression, like rubbing a tuning fork against the soft beard of the Shepard-sullen profession-in hidden fatigues or fatigued from being hidden. To the north goes the spoils of the wallpapered stairs, to the south, there is drying copper. The yellow has a habit of jumping aboard the darkening feud, while still soaking wet, allying within the suds of the orange lather. The bongos go boom just outside the ribbons of light, I must tread lightly if I am to catch them-my subjects are known to become abhorrently pleasant for far less-shiny burials in the roots of blooming ginger.

July 15, 2012

“Things have gotten pretty interesting. Almost immediately after my last post, the sun disappeared into the darkness of an afternoon thunderstorm. To be clear, there is nothing that I hate more than a thunderstorm. Well, except for a human that will not give me treats when I ask for them, but that’s irrelevant at the present time. Before the weather change, I actually had the good fortune of catching two lizards and a moth which has served as a nice pick me up. Call it 5 hour energy for cats. I was all set to retackle my cooking situation, until the first loud BOOM! Luckily, I wasn’t standing near the stove or else I may have frightfully jumped into the vat of boiling water. As it was, I had just entered the friendly confines of my litter box for a quick session of relief and relaxation.  To all of the humans out there don’t even think about raising your nose at this ad mission. I have witnessed many a human houseguest does the exact same thing after a large meal or a tough day of work. Maybe that’s why in some circles the bathroom is referred to as the office. But before I get too graphic, I think I should return to the topic of today’s events. As I was saying, I was in the litterbox when I heard the first of what was to be many loud crashes. After the first loud noise, I did what any, intelligent small animal would do…..I freaked out. I tore out of the litter box before I was even finished with my “relaxation” if you get my drift. Normally, I would feel bad about the stinky mess that I tracked throughout the house. But that’s what Ted gets for leaving me alone to deal with the harshness of nature’s elements. I guess I will just add that to the list of things that I will be blaming on the neighbor boy. You know what they say, payback is a bitch. So far, he is also responsible for the destruction of a toilet paper roll, chewed up blinds and several severed lizard heads. Maybe I’m pushing it a bit. Anyway, I found refuge in a large walk-in closet in between a rack of smelly shoes and a messy pile of dirty gym shorts. It may not be pleasant, but at least it feels secure.  Although, I do wish there were a few windows in here. That way, the bright flash of lightening would give me a few seconds to prepare for the impending, loud thunder. Instead, I am left cringing with uncomfortable anticipation as I await the next crash. After a couple of quiet minutes, I did manage to bravely venture back into the living room, puffing out my chest to proclaim victory over the evil that had interrupted my wonderful afternoon. But a few more explosions saw me relinquish my throne as King Glen, conqueror of the skies. Defeated, I beat a hasty retreat for the closet, determined to hunker down until I was positive that the storm had passed. I may be here for a while, but I refuse to give Mother Nature another easy victory. I will use this time wisely to reformulate my strategy, so that the next time I will be ready for her treachery. I may have lost the battle, but this war is far from over.”
 

In perfect thought, only temptation flatters the olive branches. Effigy is not an overwhelming favorite when it comes to novelty and grace. What happens if you grab the wrong pith of vinegar? The salt instead of sugar? At least a headstone calls to the heat that it can measure- only time can holdout against the anchor and its wage. We all lose perspective-compulsively- from loopy ideas to taught structure, just as morbidity is fur against the face, scheduled shrapnel in the wind. Polite evasion is throttling back your rights, and ceding receipts to the wish that steals the stillness …like perfume in an alleyway…breadcrumbs are known to be pretend…

July 14, 2012

“But enough about that. It’s time to test my ability to learn. As you are well aware, I have spent the last few weeks scouring the internet for all things pertaining to food preparation.
During this time, I have learned how to filet a fish, sauté a chicken and grill a steak. And while these would all be important if I was planning to open a restaurant, they do me little good.

My needs are much simpler and more immediate. Ted is gone and I need to find a way to feed myself. Period, end of story.  Before everyone is up in arms and decides to call the humane society, please know that Ted did leave several bags of dry food and a few cans of tuna for the next store neighbor to prepare. Sounds good on paper, but if you knew the next store neighbor you wouldn’t have much confidence in me getting many meals. No, he’s not some sort of an irresponsible halfwit or a heartless ass. He’s an eight-year-old kid. That’s right. Ted has left my fate in the hands of someone who can barely dress himself and who’s favorite hobby is picking his nose. Knowing Ted and how he operates, one can conclude that this had to be a cost cutting move. What eight-year-old is going to understand the concept of fair price? Hell, give him anything shiny and he will run around in circles and jump up and down. Hmmmmmm… kind of like a dog.  Wait a tick….I think I may be on to something, but I better save that correlation for a later blog post. For now, it is paramount that I learn my way around the kitchen.  I did some solid reconnaissance last night during the few hours that I let Ted sleep. Due to the nature of my mission, I only woke Ted up at 2:45, 4:15 and 6:25 for several brief snack breaks. Don’t judge, exploring is hard work and damn near impossible on an empty stomach! Luckily, I was able to ascertain the location of several key cooking utensils including two large wooden serving spoons, a small paper plate and most importantly a medium sized pot. Being that this is my first attempt at cooking, I decided to refrain from using any cutlery or fine china. While this limits what I can prepare, I’m fairly certain that it will save me the indignity of getting grounded for the gazillioneth time this month. The second part of last night’s adventure left me a little concerned. Both the refrigerator and pantry are scarcely stocked. I know that Ted’s leaving definitely affected his trip to the supermarket last week, but I could not have anticipated the lack of ingredients that I would be working with. While I am extremely confident in my newfound culinary skills, I am going to have to be more MacGuver than Betty Crocker if I am going to produce anything that resembles a satisfactory meal. So far, my only assets are one block of cheddar cheese, two slices of turkey, a half-eaten container of spam and one ziplocked bag of 4-day old Raman noodles. I have to admit it’s difficult to conceal my disappointment. After learning about a myriad of wonderful recipes, I had really hoped that my first homemade meal would be an undisputed success.” But with MacCauley Culkin responsible for my care, I guess I will have to make do. Before I get to work, maybe now is a good time to see if anyone out there in the OAC has any suggestions or better yet any safety tips. This will also be my first attempt working with electricity. So keep your paws crossed that I make it out of this unscathed.” Until next time……….