For Every Tib and Tom Cat


Cat Alone - 1 -

April 23

After the third leap my momentum got whittled down to sort of a friable pencil tippy tip. Unsharpened, uptight, writhing and in toil, an acrobat who mislays his grasp, and his foothold, so help me, goes nowhere, and his entrenched buoyancy gets erased in a single breath, and the altitude to be above all properly held becomes a bruising oxymoron as he undergoes the ultimate transformation and soon is gravy on the mosaic underneath, is bilge on the amber mosaic underneath, snorting and giddy I came to a stop before the maze itself stopped me dead in my tracks.

The sky was inhabited by a thick mass of refulgent octopi; the earth with a mange or a hives of tooting platypi. Strewn among the halt, the blind, the ugly, the bonkers, and the prosthetically-ossified veterans, the truculent war-mongering veterans, now I would, so help me, become another rioting nobody, if the modern episteme held true and, not aided now by the meagerness still of my purse resurgent, could I escape the festering dungeon of the helpless aggressors never thwarted in their thirst after an all-out warfare against any enemy at all that arose in front of their leprous noses by default.

Who wields wealth, I ruminated in my fall over the thoroughly bespattered field, builds somehow a filter through which neither the shoddy gripes nor the mud slinging nor the griefs nor the poignant poniards cross.

Or does it? So help me, I now bore in mind the cries of horrendous dolor as the rich misplace a dime or as the beautiful find a scirrhus in their well-molded foundation, ah, and the unabashed qualms when success is remiss for the uniformed stickler...!

On behalf of all my disgusting coconspirators I laughed in the mire – I had hype for rent, I said – “isn’t my gladness contagious, isn’t the sky as the earth, mosaics, baby, of detritus various, variegated?” So rejoice, and so on.

But, of course, who would follow the lead of a failure? I’ll add for good measure egregious. An egregious failure, ok.

I crouched alone, licking my wounds. So help me, at this instant a woman, relatively unscathed, was by my idle eyes seen. Not everything was lost. Not by a long shot, if you know what I mean.

Never so well

Never so well


anyocs de nyacs!

who the 'ell?

La meva foto
C.R. Morell his paltry efforts,