in the closet the cat

thin mints are addicting he
says as he walks out the door
with a sleeve

in the closet the cat prophet
sleeps, recovering
from emasculation. the young
man says to the somewhat stunned
from drug-and-alien- car ride feline
i love you prophet
you'll be okay.

grades and basketball injuries
negotiations for points and papers due
a blossoming after fever. wings sprouted
overnight, but tender still and damp
as peachfuzz in morning dew.

i was a smart woman, under mushroom cloud
stirring thick soups with undercored ladles.
friction of dirty oil, a subversive gum.

his pale stripes wash out after that,
no longer imprisoned in short pants
knowledge battles will and the keys
begin to rebel. they have their own stories
to tell, and it's not going to be prophet
who bats the ball back
into this court he's
napping in the closet of his birth













&00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000hhhhhhh
well said the woman in the card. she was a queen. one of four
suits with powers and insights into the subwoofing
areas of arising. you told me of the shaman, a woman
in the village of your story, the delicate way
she wove out of town at the exact right moment
as it seems to go that way
in tales that outlive
their makers.
the cards
have a way of revealing a veil inside a veil
and reckonings ripple thru light, exposing
nothing saved on film
unless you had a camera.







the cat's life is intimately changed.
his sister, due
to be fixed as well, nurses two kittens
the boy coaxed out of mother's belly before
the gray haired witch took them for slaughter.

i'm glad they survived.