Author: Max Meunier

8bit synth-wielding cat who does certain things or does not* *context in content
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In the West

coil of toil
to ash from ember

leaf of laurel umbrage reign

unheard is the curved eclipse

it mutters

emptiness draws forth

somewhere it knows

arms at ends

untouched
inside a tinseled box

the heavy-laden hearth
awaiting inhalation

tall rubescent-blooming
luminous trails pluming

torrid, treacherous

rushed love
that longs
for languishing

if only then
to be extinguished

in the rift
betwixt these coaxing lips
of life uncivil

said to surely save me

on this cursed night
of naked arbor

leaves have all since
turned to umber

upped and left
and so, the sunset.

in the west
worlds waste away.

as i and i

could never quite recall
its name

lay separate

in this loft
of lonesome plunder

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t.q.

if you’ve ever been so kind
to take your time of precious resource

reading any of my silly rhymes
comprised of my life’s discourse

then i must regale you
of the scale and scope of my true feeling

such tremendous gratitude
and tears imbrued upon my being

for i so appreciate
that you would make this lovely gesture

which, in many ways
would seem to validate my pointless efforts

hence, let it be known
for anyone to show consideration

is a kindness of the likes
with which i’m mostly unacquainted

being as we are
composed of stars subject to random sequence

unfolding with circumstance untold
and fates not earned obsequent

it is but a miracle
gleaned of empirical conclusion

one could ne’er foretell
this aquarelle of infinite illusion

by which, i attest
to feeling blessed, indeed, i find it touching

that, despite the stress
duress, and desperate vies with which we’re clutching

onto this fleeting affair
which, dare i say, is one ephemeral

that anyone would give
part of the life they live is quite wonderful

i would be remiss
were i to let this thought go unattended

rest assured
to fail would be a matter which could not be mended

therefore, i must stress on
my expression of appreciation

for the priceless sum
of all you’ve done through your participation

whereupon reflection
our connection is found most apparent

granting me a solace
which abolishes my worries errant

I now bid adieu
as I conclude in my desire to thank you

were I not so prude
damn it! it’s true, i’d be inclined to spank you!

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The Cali-Cat Committee

yes, my custom Cadillac
is always packed with cuddly kitties
as we cruise around the city
kickin’ back & lookin’ pretty

bucket seats of brimming fur
powered by purrs and cosmic catnip
cursing coppers can’t catch up
and never will, we’re just too damn hip

local brawlers make a fuss
i trust it’s cuz they want to be us
let ’em eat our dust
as we go peelin’ past their pappy’s Janus

drinkin’ soda pop and drivin’
pedal-pushin’ on the floor
sportin’ pompadours so epic
cuttin’ through the kitty-door

and let me tell you
when we do, our doos are truly pussy-magnets
all the other dudes are duds
who look like cast rejects from Dragnet

our swag is so intricate
that none have yet to comprehend it
but that doesn’t seem to stop
the onslaught of cads caught pretending

leave ’em be
it’s best to look upon them
with a quiet pity
not all cats are qualified
to join the Cali-Cat Committee

[image credit: Louis Wain]

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Purpose

impatiens grow thin
on walls of tenuous will

the borderline
of brilliance

and sinewy barbarism

hallowed heads
grow hollow hearts

dutifully defining
hyperbolic realities

as shameless as the wicked son

with eyes that peal
on trained horizons

assembled of defiance

a purpose
calls this life

and i make no preparation

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“Discourse”

“hey.”

remember that spider?

the one that tried to kill me?

well, it’s dead now.

i killed it.

“hey.”

that cupcake?

it was tasty.

“hey.”

why can’t i see you?

oh.

you don’t exist.

that’s cool.

“hey.”

hey what?

no, heh . . .

oh, ok.

wanna play hangman?

“sweet.”

 

 

 

[image credit: Erich Heckel]

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December Eleventh

“no look me, look self”

’twas a plea for the ages

Plato himself
would be proud
if not peevish

and what should i find
but that i was an eyelash

revving in place
unleashed by the bell’s ring

cruisin’ the valley
two Pink Ladies
laughing

finger on point
lest we lose
the way home

i recall
one drab Tuesday

Black Sabbath was wailing

your smile stole the day
saying “yes, that shit rocked”

i’m pretty sure dual headbanging ensued
in a peppered Ralphs parking lot
sputtering fumes

where Laurel Canyon & Roscoe B. met

sippin’ on big Cokes
somehow, mine was tiny

like, waaaaaaayyyy smaller than yours was

but i didn’t mind
despite all my theatrics

once we arrived

it was welcome as always

the consummate super-hunk
mister Greg Brady

a song serenading
“wise men never knew . . .”

you wouldn’t believe
how these old Santa Ana’s have shifted

since the hour
when shallow skies whisked you away

and time wandered past

a wilting page whispered
“December eleventh”

as tears welled

but foolish me
fought to refuse them

their pain
passing through me

with truth
from which no one can hide

i know peace has found you

your plight languished long
in the cold light surreal

and lo- “%&$#?@!”

. . . indeed
i just tripped and fell

over that table

tumbled, and hit my head

. . . a goosebump.
it HURTS!

as always
i had to do it
just for you

for i knew
how such antics
amused you

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Sliver of Solitude

what is it
to say, i love you

but all that i can do

the ocean

poised to tear away
this sliver of our solitude

will it be
that we become
an isle of silence sheltered

or will this moor
be swallowed
by the violent shores
aweigh

in truth
a gentle peace persists

knowing that the stars preside
over our every incarnation

and with you
along my side

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Imminence

my leaden foot fell
upon the seeping, sinking sand

whose hollow earth
swallowed me wholly

slowly

arose hands
reached out

i thought
to rescue

then forced a knowing
compromise

rumination
hence accrued

occurs at long last

in such retrospect

the air, blaring
with disrepair

and unbridled expectation

until, there
within that marked arrow’s second

verity resolved
those heavens

whence no heathen
has yet returned

since poignancy
and purpose
fell moot
in muted sunder

ashen slumber writhes
with impel

amid the undercarriage

this chariot

has retired

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This Ritual

i know not how to stay its wrath

this ritual of bounden detachment

from everything
and everyone

both to and fro

as sorrow, slow
e’er gathers
at the dawn where wilting petals cease

some prophecies
will self-fulfill

arisen
from roots bound in stone
amid a concrete moment

an imminent decision
of compulsory indignance
unavailed by options present

in the absence of one’s freedom

and if it is
that i cannot be free
to live my life

then so it is
to live
begets me naught
but mere impedance

an imposition
toward a poisoned path
once thought impossible

in ponderance, i sit
deconstructing the illusion

through elusive memories
scattered in bits of truth
and twice retold

as tales of indeliblity failed
through flailing words anachronistic

resigned to a happenstance
of indolent alienation

in the confines of its stoic dissolution

my only hope
hung pendulously
on a rope of tenuous entwine

and time’s aloof refusal
of its merit
as to bear my weight

resolving fate
however late
foregone and long forgotten

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