Too much space

I have high expectations for my lover
they need to worship me like my father worshipped my mother.
I have low expectations for my cat Oyster
I know she'll be heavier each time I hoist her into my lap
If only lovers weren't like cats
every year a bit more fat, a little more detached
How quickly they become a predictable stat I can plot on a graph
There was the one who thought he was Jack Kerouac
always on about the stars or the sunset
There was that delusional Chuck Palahniuk character
convinced meth was a production incentive
I bet you'd never dream Kansas could breed such dysfunction
Maybe the sky is too overwhelming to inspire compunction
Even Oyster the cat can do that.

Kelly in the Kitchen

I like the sounds of Kelly in the kitchen
the Kelly songs of the kitchen
that sing when she's in it
singular as an instrument responding to its musician
svelte kelly, a strum of woodstick
in her metal mixing bowl
sweet measuring spoon of melody,
cabinet bass, ingredient beats,
concocting something smooth together.
it's our therapy, her sounds,
the way a shoulder suits napping for the movements it makes
settling into the position of being needed.




.

what's it about?

it was supposed to be about kelly and me.
she'd come home while i'm doing something,
maybe staring at the starts in the window,
talking to them,
fingering them;
she'd tilt her head and look cartoon-y.

but it is later when she steps into the hall and i am cleaning out the catbox,
when we are talking about color,
which kelly doesn't believe in
she says, sometimes.

'i was reading about visual perception yesterday.
cezanne, he ignored the lines separating things.
he'd just use color.'

there should be a plant in the kitchen again.
it can serve as evidence that the sun has been here.

i am anxious.

it's actually about jared, i have come to learn.
he just got a bad haircut.
he climbed the tree outside work,
and ate a burrito.

i climbed into the tree with him and asked
'if someone could see outside the visual color spectrum,
would they see more colors?'

he says that's like asking if a tree falls in the woods,
does it make a sound?

'it makes waves,' I say.

it is when he explains to me why men are more likely to be colorblind
that i am surprised how delighted i am
by a bad haircut.

bit-o-history

For 5 minutes on wednesday mornings, I let myself dwell on the past. For five minutes on wednesday mornings I think about problems I've already solved, resentments I've long ago assuaged; cigarettes I've already smoked. Sometimes I even allow a 'what if?' 5 minutes of frivolity, a sticky piece of candy, I juggle it in my hands until the warmth makes it melt, and then I eat it.