Sixth Entry

Must now pack up everything I own and say goodbye to the internet for a couple of days. But I really like my new home here at blogspot, where I can finally get my line breaks how I want them, even if they are in tiny type.

Here's my poem:

WALKING HOME, A CAT’S HOLLOW HEAD

Too many times I’ve seen cat food splayed on the cement like a human outline.
Many cats began following me down the street so now I don’t go out.
Cats don’t like me because I know inside their skulls are diseased alien satans.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I’m turning State’s Evidence against them or anything.
‘Get out of our heads,’ the cats say telepathically but the satans won’t listen.
Out there in the universe are millions of planets where each cat is a satan.
There. I just finished scraping the cat food into the sewer grating.
I know that the cats will slip down after it like freakish furry worms with big eyes.
Know what? Inside the cat’s head even hot air blows like bitter wind.
What they don’t know is I’ve recorded this conversation and I play it back in reverse.
They would flip and spit if they could hear the nice things they say about me backwards.
Would their melancholic meows become spirited ‘woems’ if I played this tape often?
Their hisses would suck back into their mouths like retracting claws.
Hisses won’t hit their mark when I stroll down the lane with sound-reflective clothing.
Won’t cats eventually shake their demons free like humans pretend they can?
Cats stands for Criminal Alien Traitors and they’ve been banished here by their galaxies.
Stands to reason that they’d be so silent, sulky and prone to lash out.
To these cats I say ‘Stop whining! Try harder to be evil,’ from my black altar.
These days I stay inside and worship myself while recording my backward chants.
Days pass and I feed the cats that have inexplicably swarmed to me.