{"id":5166,"date":"2013-03-15T00:00:07","date_gmt":"2013-03-15T04:00:07","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.gadflyonline.com\/home\/?p=5166"},"modified":"2013-03-15T14:32:39","modified_gmt":"2013-03-15T18:32:39","slug":"in-the-mind-of-a-sleeping-cat-and-other-poems","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/in-the-mind-of-a-sleeping-cat-and-other-poems\/","title":{"rendered":"In the Mind of a Sleeping Cat and Other Poems"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"SleepingCat_585x585\"<\/a><\/p>\n

In the Mind of a Sleeping Cat<\/b><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

There was no god to begin with:<\/p>\n

\u00a0only a small spectral entity lumbering up a tree.<\/p>\n

\u00a0Not ennui, not cosmic meta-physicality<\/p>\n

swinging on and on and so forth<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

in the self or its awareness of person. What is<\/p>\n

existence but the I am, what is the I am<\/p>\n

except for living. Tiny metaphors<\/p>\n

in the mind. We’re all dreams \u2013<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

or something like that. Just a specter<\/p>\n

a re-imagining to forage on our own.<\/p>\n

The human machine in meta-notion: a body,<\/p>\n

a system, an organ, a tissue, a cell, a molecule and then<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

an atom held by gravity.<\/p>\n

You do not exist I am,<\/p>\n

you are already being:<\/p>\n

I am<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

You are already being,<\/p>\n

You do not exist:<\/p>\n

an atom held by gravity:<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

a system, an organ, a tissue, a cell, a molecule and then<\/p>\n

the human machine in meta-notion: a body,<\/p>\n

re-imagining to forage on our own<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

or something like that just a specter<\/p>\n

in the mind. We’re all dreams \u2013<\/p>\n

swinging on and on and so forth.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Except for living tiny metaphors in<\/p>\n

existence, but the I am. What is the I am<\/p>\n

in the self or its awareness of person? What is<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

swinging on and on and so forth?<\/p>\n

Not ennui, not cosmic meta-physicality<\/p>\n

only a small spectral entity lumbering up a tree.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

There was no god to begin with.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Pomegranates, Early November<\/b><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I want to be a cat. I want to be<\/p>\n

the snowfall in Jersey after<\/p>\n

a hurricane’s ruined feat. Know<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

this poem follows a template: where<\/p>\n

I take your words and stuff them<\/p>\n

in my mouth. Here I grow hungry<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

and walk short distances<\/p>\n

in the San Francisco rain, cupping my hands<\/p>\n

telling the world that this is the only way<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

to hold rain. To view the poem through City Lights,<\/p>\n

wondering why I’m never used to reading<\/p>\n

at daylight. I think about the future,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

no deja voodoo that no one can<\/p>\n

out do. I am at the store now buying<\/p>\n

live fruit: opening it with a dull knife, watching<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

its seeds spill. Here: take your words,<\/p>\n

take the seeds I spat \u2013<\/p>\n

make a tree the cat can sleep on.<\/p>\n

Deadweight Parade<\/b><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Our story: the accident.<\/p>\n

Noise parachuting through data-lines<\/p>\n

— inevitable satellite, zooming<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

past space: tracing us. Google<\/p>\n

maps tells where a thing is, but<\/p>\n

with no tie. Quiet list,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

empty page<\/p>\n

newly bought, never used.<\/p>\n

This is the accident: our story.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Quiet page, empty list<\/p>\n

with only one entry saying,<\/p>\n

I want you more than parachutes<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

or I need you more than want<\/p>\n

and its first vision. From memory<\/p>\n

in the sway of encounter: the word<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

deadweight; an accident,<\/p>\n

this story remembers: something slain<\/p>\n

isn’t any dead.<\/p>\n

Quiet Earth<\/b><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Lover of sight, the shadows are dimming<\/p>\n

in this room: yearning little rays stumble<\/p>\n

and murmur through as the blinds close<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

and turn in for the day. Holding on to<\/p>\n

what never knew was scene. Until it begins,<\/p>\n

the whisper of dusk, the titter comfort,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

a moon against structure. Casting no outline<\/p>\n

here \u2013 no wanting little waves that lurch.<\/p>\n

Merely a whisper, on the thud to hold<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

us close: to learn what it means to set<\/p>\n

in distance while holding your pass.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Formula for a Beautiful Poem<\/b><\/p>\n

There must always be some form of sadness,
\na realization, a yearning for some place to live
\nin. There is always the self: the inevitable I<\/p>\n

or you whom it constantly blames.
\nWhy is it that the most equally trusted poem
\nneeds explanation? Why is there a motion<\/p>\n

to pepper the simplest fact or
\nto guise sentimentality as an equal
\ndenial of truth to affirm, yes,<\/p>\n

affirm a necessity in silence.
\nHow is beauty irrelevant when
\nall we ever write about wants<\/p>\n

to be beautiful? How is meaning important
\nwhen the poem forgets its sleep
\nwhile you wake up repeating<\/p>\n

the same day
\nall over again \u2013<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Requisite Desire<\/b><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Taciturn: to weave<\/p>\n

and exhale quietly.<\/p>\n

Wave after wave<\/p>\n

after wave \u2013<\/p>\n

how reticent\u00a0 is coy<\/p>\n

as if to blow<\/p>\n

on the flat ocean<\/p>\n

to see it quiver.<\/p>\n

Quails tweet quaint<\/p>\n

when stuffed<\/p>\n

or placed in ramekins,<\/p>\n

in the middle of bunt pans,<\/p>\n

inside the mouth: how<\/p>\n

we use teeth to chew,<\/p>\n

to quail, to know<\/p>\n

what fire is \u2013 blow,<\/p>\n

blow what burns you,<\/p>\n

quail when safe;<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

everything turns cold when it wants warmth.<\/p>\n

—<\/p>\n

Dominique Santos finished a degree in Literature and is pursuing her graduate studies in Creative Writing.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

There was no god to begin with:<\/p>\n

only a small spectral entity lumbering up a tree.<\/p>\n

Not ennui, not cosmic meta-physicality<\/p>\n

swinging on and on and so forth<\/p>\n

in the self or its awareness of person. What is<\/p>\n

existence but the I am, what is the I am<\/p>\n

except for living. Tiny metaphors<\/p>\n

in the mind. We’re all dreams \u2013<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":140,"featured_media":5350,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[218,199],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5166"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/140"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=5166"}],"version-history":[{"count":8,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5166\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":5349,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5166\/revisions\/5349"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/5350"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=5166"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=5166"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=5166"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}