Animal Contortionist
There’s two cats and a dog
And a body besides
I try not to wake them
But they’ve taken all sides
The bed’s a Cal King
Bigger than most
But they still crowd inwards
Like potatoes in a roast
Which is how I feel
On this hot summer eve
The fans hum softly
But there’s little reprieve
From the extra bodies
And extra fur
But if I move an inch
They’ll moan, chuff, or purr
So instead I lay twisted
A pretzel of sorts
Too happy to whine
In my t-shirt and shorts
I lay breathing slow
Through allergen gills
Loving this moment
When time itself stills
And I can almost imagine
Eternity here
But I know one day
We’ll each disappear
We’re just vessels at dock
In a sea of no cares
Afloat in the comfort
Of the bond we all share
When it's our time
Our ships will set sail
But for now in this bed
We all tuck, paw and tail
"The king is dead!"
The phrase echoed around his battered brain, refusing to die down. It wasn't a memory. It was being screamed by the rat in a headset that called himself a commentator not twenty feet away.
He had gone down for the first time in his career. The bell had saved him, but the next round was the last: it would not save him again. His cornermen would not let him sit. He "needed to get his legs back". What legs? They felt like phantom limbs, lost in battle long before.
He finally managed to move his head enough to catch a glimpse of what was behind his coach's head, his eyes finding smug, defiant ones to meet them.His opponent looked as though he had slain a giant. He had, in a way. He pried his eyes away, as quickly as he could, and found the Belt. It sat there, mocking him, its long stay with him nearly over.
The cheers were deafening. The "king" being dead must be something they wanted. He watched his mother being led out of the arena, along with his wife and children. How ashamed they must be. How embarrassing to have him lose like this.
He looked down, the sweat from his brow falling through the gap between his gloves and landing on the canvas.
The blood between his feet had been scrubbed into a pale reflection of reality, like a reflection in a pool, paled by the sun. The fighters before him had spilled it onto the floor, all for the amusement of the crowd.
The times had changed. Instead of having their carcasses dragged off by their heels, they walked out like heroes, elated or inconsolable. Or they were carried.
"10 seconds," the referee called, hovering over the shoulders of his retainers, warning them to get out. His coach shouted more gibberish to him as he left the ring, leaving him to his fate.
It was then he realized something, in the glare of the stadium lights, surrounded by strangers: it was not over yet. He raised a glove before his face and tensed his arm. The strengths still there, the strength that had gotten him to where he was.
His opponent was left alone in the ring as well, and looked at him with such arrogance. It was the same look he had gotten early in his career, when they hadn't known who they were dealing with. He then did something he never thought he would do again: he smiled. That brought his counterpart's face to a more sober expression.
He rolled his shoulders, readying himself for the violence he must now do. He should focus. The bell would ring soon.
Long live the king.
Woodpecker
“Pass me ketchup, Tony.”
“Mom!”
“What?”
“I’m Tommy!”
“Yes, I know.”
“You just called me Tony. Again. I’m Tommy. Why do you always call me Tony?”
“Look, I just confused. It’s been a long day, I’m tired. I’m sor—”
“Hey, just relax and eat, okay?” said Tony.
“No!” said Tommy. “Mom, I’m your son. Not him. I am your son. Tony is nobody. Nobody.”
“Hey, Tony is my husband, he’s family,” said Tommy’s sister.
“He’s a jerk,” Tommy said.
“Hey!”
“Hey!”
“Hey!”
“Hey, hey!” Tommy said.” What are you, Spice Girls?”
“Hey!”
“He—” began Tommy’s sister. “What’s wrong with you?”
“My shoulder hurts, is what’s wrong with me!” Tommy said. “My both shoulders hurt! Your Tony punches me in my shoulders every day. He’s not my father or brother or whatsoever?”
“You’ll thank me in the future,” said Tony.
“I’ll kill you in the future. I’m gonna become rich and influential and I’ll pay people for killing you!”
“Hey!”
“Oh, God, why me?” said Tommy’s mother. “What have I done?”
“Mom, I love you,” said Tommy.
“You love nobody,” said Tommy’s sister. “You’re sick, rotten. You only pity yourself. You know, your friends are right calling you woodpecker. You are a woodpecker. You only make noise.”
In a couple of years, Tommy left. He never came back to home. He had no home because home is where people call you the name they gave you when you were born. Tommy neither had a name or a home. Sometimes he called his mother via Skype.
“How’s everything, mom?”
“Alright,” said Tommy’s mom. “I’m alright. If only wouldn’t be worse. Give a call to your sister. She’s your sister, after all. Your nephew is three years old now. So cute. Like you were. Yesterday Tommy first time played soccer.”
“Mom, I am Tommy.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, it’s been a long, I’m so tired.”
Monarch Butterfly .....
a monarch butterfly
eating milkweed on the Milky Way
drinking a milky milkshake on her break
interval intake
frothy fantasy
wishing she was a luna moth;
wishing she was a moon beacon;
a nightlight
limelight
rebirth mirth
gaspeite yellow-apple-green;
caramelize caramel eyes;
brown eyes
wise
prize
just being herself
orange grunge
tiger eager
dreamer demure
(K.M.M.)
Here and There...
This is where I start. I move a bit forward and look back 10,000 times until I feel nothing. And I do this for a while until I start to picture you. And then my heart starts to race like broken glass on snowy evenings, crystal clear with ice, running fast. Present until the heat of summer makes it trickle down into a puddle of consciousness, and my eyes can't believe the mess. It's so nice. It's all I want. It's all I dream about. The moment when all the doubts of here and now fade into nothing and I can touch you without burning myself over and over and over. Running to the end of time. I am now just a vision in smoke. In the dreams that question existence and mindful decisions because conflict is our motivation. I am then only an image of prophecy, and how do you know it's real? You know because the haze of reality assures you. This is how you live. This is how I live in you. This is how you breathe. This is how I breathe in you.
You are but my dream now, and fading faster than I ever did. And it makes me wish that endings would end, if that is possible. I can't help but disagree with the blueprint. And it makes me wonder if you ever feel the same. Of course you probably do, but I wonder. Yes, I wonder. Do you feel like me too?
I am now waiting for you. Waiting for hours and minutes and seconds until you arrive. And when you do, I fall into the deepest sense of want and need. I want you now. I need you now. I want the meaning of life to carry me off into the blaze of the sun and the brilliance of the moon. I want to keep the last words of my innocence, but life told me no. So, I guess I failed to see beyond the mirrors today. What does that make me? Maybe a slave to standards. Maybe a figment of whatever the hell this place is. In any case, you're here and I am there and there's nothing else to it. Let us resume.
