fruit for thought…

still life with Chet

“Chet Baker and grapes” – by L. K. Thayer

My favorite fruit is grapes. Because with grapes, you always get another chance. ‘Cause, you know, if you have a crappy apple or a peach, you’re stuck with that crappy piece of fruit. But if you have a crappy grape, no problem – just move on to the next. ‘Grapes: The Fruit of Hope.’

– Demetri Martin

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“Miss Calif. 1944” by L.K. Thayer

"feline with fruit"

she lies there, her mouth gaping open like a baby bird

not wanting to eat but waiting to grasp death

her body heaves every morsel of sustenance up

she is aching to leave the nowness

she is a ghost of herself

a white corpse that they keep plugged in

sucking up her insurance

stuck in a barbed wire nest

the baby bird wants to fly to heaven

she is in between, no strength to scream

no more words, no more coffee, no more cigarettes

no more television or snickers bars,

she just wants ginger ale.

Shadow, Shadow, Shadow, she cries for her cat

misses him more than her dead husband

let her go. Why can’t they just let her go?

I kiss her forehead. she says my skin is soft,

I say so is hers. I tell her it’s alright to go now.

no more beauty pageants, no more titles, coke

or Frank Sinatra, no more bowling trophies

or casting calls, no more rejection. let her go

her life hurts of emptiness, she can’t swallow it any more

Blanche Dubois without the streetcar and no desire

on her lips, let her go…

she’s been there and done this and that,

smoked crack, she doesn’t want her life back,

take her off life support, she is coming up short,

if I could assist her suicide I would,

have mercy on her, we do it for animals,

but we let people suffer,

how cruel to let her lie in her waste and wallow.

It kills me to see her wither. Her voice once so deep

barely a whisper, now only a skeleton of her former self

my BFF, my darling neighbor, Miss CA. 1944.

no more tiaras, no more crowns, no more L.A. Times

off with her head, let the red queen go,

gently into that good night, please,

tuck her in

she has written her last poem…

her last rhyme

Shadow, Shadow, Shadow

it’s dinner time

(“Shadow & the apple” photo by L.K. Thayer)

© 2012

“Cat’s Dream” by Pablo Neruda

How neatly a cat sleeps,
sleeps with its paws and its posture,
sleeps with its wicked claws,
and with its unfeeling blood,
sleeps with all the rings
a series of burnt circles–
which have formed the odd geology
of its sand-colored tail.

I should like to sleep like a cat,
with all the fur of time,
with a tongue rough as flint,
with the dry sex of fire;
and after speaking to no one,
stretch myself over the world,
over roofs and landscapes,
with a passionate desire
to hunt the rats in my dreams.

I have seen how the cat asleep
would undulate, how the night
flowed through it like dark water;
and at times, it was going to fall
or possibly plunge into
the bare deserted snowdrifts.
Sometimes it grew so much in sleep
like a tiger’s great-grandfather,
and would leap in the darkness over
rooftops, clouds and volcanoes.

Sleep, sleep cat of the night,
with episcopal ceremony
and your stone-carved moustache.
Take care of all our dreams;
control the obscurity
of our slumbering prowess
with your relentless heart
and the great ruff of your tail.

Pablo Neruda

Photo of my cat “Chet Baker” by L.K. Thayer

© 2011

“Cat’s Dream” by Pablo Neruda

(pretend this cat is sleeping)

How neatly a cat sleeps,
sleeps with its paws and its posture,
sleeps with its wicked claws,
and with its unfeeling blood,
sleeps with all the rings–
a series of burnt circles–
which have formed the odd geology
of its sand-colored tail.

I should like to sleep like a cat,
with all the fur of time,
with a tongue rough as flint,
with the dry sex of fire;
and after speaking to no one,
stretch myself over the world,
over roofs and landscapes,
with a passionate desire
to hunt the rats in my dreams.

I have seen how the cat asleep
would undulate, how the night
flowed through it like dark water;
and at times, it was going to fall
or possibly plunge into
the bare deserted snowdrifts.
Sometimes it grew so much in sleep
like a tiger’s great-grandfather,
and would leap in the darkness over
rooftops, clouds and volcanoes.

Sleep, sleep cat of the night,
with episcopal ceremony
and your stone-carved moustache.
Take care of all our dreams;
control the obscurity
of our slumbering prowess
with your relentless heart
and the great ruff of your tail.

Pablo Neruda

Foto by L. K. Thayer

© 2011

“HANGING PAINTINGS” by Gary Seiden


 

Laurie Quinn Seiden and her Burmese cat, Bart

 


You’re hanging your paintings
Around the room
Long slender arms
The curve of your hip
Morning sunlight coming through
You ask me “does this look straight?”
But all I can concentrate on is you

Paint spattered jeans
Four sizes too big
Hanging off your hips
Halter top showing flat belly
I pretend to be paying attention
But my thoughts drift off

How easily I could slide down your jeans
Wouldn’t have to unbutton a thing
The softness of your thighs
The musk smell between your legs
I drift away to familiar places

Sure baby “that looks straight”
Like I’m really paying attention
© 2010
In loving memory…rest in peace Gary



Charles Bukowski

“Are You Drinking?”

washed-up, on shore, the old yellow notebook
out again
I write from the bed
as I did last
year.
will see the doctor,
Monday.
“yes, doctor, weak legs, vertigo, head-
aches and my back
hurts.”
“are you drinking?” he will ask.
“are you getting your
exercise, your
vitamins?”
I think that I am just ill
with life, the same stale yet
fluctuating
factors.
even at the track
I watch the horses run by
and it seems
meaningless.
I leave early after buying tickets on the
remaining races.
“taking off?” asks the motel
clerk.
“yes, it’s boring,”
I tell him.
“If you think it’s boring
out there,” he tells me, “you oughta be
back here.”
so here I am
propped up against my pillows
again
just an old guy
just an old writer
with a yellow
notebook.
something is
walking across the
floor
toward
me.
oh, it’s just
my cat
this
time.

Charles Bukowski