Where’s the cat?
In the closet, plotting.

Her food, untouched. 
Her toys, chewed and discarded.
If a mouse walked by
drenched in tuna sauce,
she’d ignore it.   

I’m going to walk by the closet door
in seven minutes on my way to bed
and she’s going to charge and paw
my right foot, then stand there
looking up at me as if to say,

“yo, bright boy,
figure out why I did it.” 

I will sit with it
and sit with it.

I will sit with it
and sit with it.

I will sit with it
and sit with it

because I’m a bright boy
and I can’t help but wonder
about something as petty
as the cat
attacking my foot.

I don’t have any
unanalyzed fun, 
so why
would she?

Poems, poets, poetry!
I’m calling you out.
We’ve got a whole skeleton to pick.

Sick of your lessons and morals,
your loud slogans
about changing the world.

All I want from a poem now
is a shy approach; let it tug
on my hem.

All I want from poets is for them
to let their poems off the leash
and let them go where they want —

not every dog needs to hunt or herd.
All I want from poetry —
to feel against my hand

the nuzzling of an absolute,
necessary companion
who neither barks nor whimpers

but who would save my life
without question if I was drowning,
burning, falling, gone.

I thank whatever is wrong with me
for teaching me how to take
whatever goes right for me.

When I tunnel
the darkness
it heightens the light,

and I mourn so routinely
I explode with joy
at any unexpected grace.

I know how I appear to some,
how clumsy my stumbling life 
must seem to some;  laugh or rage

as you wish at that, as you see fit.
But all that poison you wouldn’t imbibe
I’ve drained and gulped,

and I dare say that because of that,
when the agony lifts now and again
I roar and grin and grin and win

where you might only smile.
I thank whatever’s wrong with me
for how I praise whatever goes right.