Redaction

Tea under a blue tree with Marika, my three-headed calico cat.
In Traverse City she went into a photo booth and vanished. A minute later she cellphoned me from New Orleans.
Wakefulness on a rainy night. Like yo-yos the raindrops fall to within an inch of the ground, then rise.
I wish a floating cross would lead me to the dead-letter office of your psyche.
Dirty-haired, unshaven, Kurt Cobain axes an amp with his guitar.
This time next year the checkerboard will be war-ravaged, the brainbox iridescent.




photo: Marika Green in Bresson's Pickpocket, 1959