Good Morning, Midnight

Midnight likes to hang out all night long
with a puss in boots on every block flight
finally comes home climbs the fire escape
out back: good morning, Midnight.

There’s a noisy argument over in Flat 3
Midnight’s up reading “The Life and
Adventures of a Cat” (1760) about some
tomfool caterwauling tom-tom tomcat.

Now in the Cat, there
appears the utmoſt auſterity, with
the greateſt levity. ‘ A rake and a
ſenator are moſt wonderfully com
pounded. Who can analize theſe
differing ingredients, fo demure
a puritan on ſudden,
verted into the moſt abfolute de
bauche ? One time ſitting for four
or five hours in the attitude of ſo
lemnity, and then on a ſudden break
out into the moſt diffolute feſtivity .
Theſe qualities, ſo diffonant, ſo ve
ry oppoſite to each other, muſt in
dicate ſomething ſuperior in the
animal, whoſe hiſtory wewe are at
preſent writing, and we think we
have proved this ſuperiority of the Cat.

in Middle- Row, Holborn. M DCC LX.

Just so, we find ourself at odds
with our other selves at times as
docile as the doe in the meadow
the morning dews and sunup

rough-hews the tousled covers
the well worn silver curls one
dare not come near at this late
hour the abode dark and quiet.

Then again after a rest resumes
the sounds that do attract
the rooster in the cat to come
closer claws retracted mewing.

Thus we speak of night and day
and the contraries of our natures
the desire to lose ourselves we
so deliciously have cultivated.

In the Sober Reality of Celestial Shade

Day ends with a walk to sleep,
ends again in the sober reality
of celestial shade, one awakes
in the dark and quiet, too early
to get out of bed, too late
to start some new episode
on the television or telephone,
and this is when one turns
to paper and words seep
out shy and uncertain fearful
like little furry animals searching
the brambles for food and drink
day’s fire now cool ashen,
and while certainly somewhere
in the city of night madness
drones on, an asocial tinnitus,
here in the paper we find
we can hear the pencil’s breeze
and feel the bluish-gray lead lighten.

At the Centinela

We squiggled and danced around
and the radio and the romance
until all the songs blew fuses
and the whole night crashed down.

We could hear that dark fall coming
down in the valley and up on the hill
whistles and the steel rail humming
buttered popcorn and bubble water.

At the Centinela drive-in theatre
in my ’56 Chevy hoping it would start
up again when the twiddle ended
under surveillance during the draft.