Scraggly I Call Him

February 20, 2012

Scraggly I call him. Or her. Not sure. Doesn’t matter. Sex is irrelevant. He annoys me and adores me. I like him and talk to him. He has long messed up hair and looks well fed and clean despite his messy hair. He approaches me every day in the alley. I’m never sure if he wants something besides attention. Kind of like me. I don’t want to touch him because I don’t know where he’s been. He usually keeps his distance but tonight he went way over the edge.

 

I was on the back porch smoking with a cup of decaf coffee and trying to read when I hear that voice. I made the mistake of talking to him. The next thing you know he’s on the back steps next to me trying to get me to touch him. He even tried to drink my coffee and it seemed he wanted to read my book if he even knows how to read. Ignoring him didn’t work so I caved in and touched him. Of course he wanted more. I gave a little more attention and talked to him.

 

I finished my cigarette and grabbed my book and cup and said goodbye.

 

It mad me realize that I’m having enough problems sharing a house with someone. If I’m not ready for a casual relationship with a neighborhood cat then I’m not ready to have a cat or a pet. If I’m not ready to have a relationship with a cat then a human is out of the question.


Row Home Prison

January 10, 2012

I had a dream

Not like Martin Luther King Jr

Probably not

A nightmare

Did Dr King have nightmares?

I do

Not often that I recall

 

Incisive nightmares

I am a prisoner for a crime I never committed

Imprisoned in jails, institutions, and basements

I was a prisoner in a house

The house in Camden I grew up in

Didn’t grow up but lived there

Only access to the house next door where my cat, Betty

Was held prisoner also

 

I knew I would get out

I was innocent yet I felt guilty

Depressed and optimistic

My adopted mother was a prison guard of sorts

Not listening to me

Judging me

She always thought I was guilty

When other mothers said “not my son or daughter”

My mother would say “It was probably my son”

 

I was afraid and confident amongst fellow inmates

I knew from elementary school

From high school

From college

From the internet

And you were in the next cell

Laughing madly

 

I snuck next door in my Camden row home prison to

Visit Betty

She was happy to see me but afraid of getting caught

She gave me a kiss and hid under a bush

I was happy she was alive

My only love in this world had returned

I snuck into the house to find my valuables hidden in the basement

In a crawlspace

Rotted books, records, art and clothes

I held up a t-shirt covered in rusted buttons

For some reason I felt that I was being held against my will

As a result of my books, records, art and t-shirts

Contraband in some minds that lack freethinking

 

I woke up in the prison of my cozy bed

Sweating

Relieved

Until I looked out the window and the view

To the outside was the same

 

NOTE: HOURS OF VISITATION ARE FROM 12 PM TO 8PM WEEKDAYS AND 8 AM TO 10 PM ON WEEKENDS

 

Please drop by and bring cigarettes to trade for food


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