In predawn dreams
the veil is thin
and they are there
Icky, Cosmo, Pollux,
Bea and Number Three
Chicken, Castor and Ozzy.
Playing with two small vipers.
Danger noodles.
The cats tear them apart and eat
them knowing they will die.
I too, know they will die.
I awake realizing that the serpent
who tempts us with apples of knowledge
is a reminder of our time and place in nature.
To every season, turn, turn, turn.
Bee All Tinnah as the Irish say.
Beltane sounds like the brand name of
a hearing device.
Beltane, Beltone. Potatoes. Potahtoes.
Miracle ear!
An odd memory stirs
of my mother scraping our
ear canals with bobby pins.
She calls the wax, “potatoes.”
At 10 am Ozzy’s ashes
were interred in the backyard.
He co-mingles with the other ancestor cats
and a parrot named Chico.
Little bird cacophony
fills the air.
Pichoo! Pichoo! Pichoo!
Black bumbles vibrate
though the hot lips salvia.
Workers from LADWP
yell from the
top of a power pole.
A light breeze tickles
me with butterfly kisses
upon arms and face.
Looking up,
the light in Los Angeles
has changed again.
Azure traded in for
Pantone P 174 dash 7 U.
Sumer Is Icumen In.
Sing Cucuy, Sing.
Share this post