Must take ‘nanner peels offen the fare, good sir: my staghorn ferns and compost meant for me as vegetal matter like the potassium and phosphorus too much…besides here in greater metropolitan nowhereneardowntownOrlando Snaffurd a deer’d be a headlight ornament in moments. Now, raccoons, armadillos, coyote, tree rats and such they mostly ‘scape our notice…so my compost bins are locked down, though I do spread a table for them with the coming crop of sad and forlorn streetcurbed pumpkins with graven faces in a few weeks…I take the flesh, dismember and ‘post it…my worms love me. I love my working worms. But what’s this ’bout apple cores…Eat The Apple, pal. I use the rigid edges of the seedpod holders as impromptu flossing agents…the stems I find succulent. Someone once told me apple seeds, like apricot and peach pits, are poisonous. So. I am, too. If not Three. Delightful piece of ‘ku, Juice.

Cat Nap Revue

for serving water
apple cores, banana peels
deer rate me five stars

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Talk-nice to trees – and crows – they will provide succor or sometimes just warning. How did you get so young? I cudda sworn you’se ninety-seven back in ’68 when first you snared that so-naive young Marine into your ‘lightful lair of poetry, puns, banyan trees and a delightful troll Roger Goss who played a pan pipe between answering the phone in a delightful way whenever we held KayBay’s press offices against the teeming mass(es).

Cat Nap Revue

till seventy one
I’m only in my sixties
clinging to the tree

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My sealpoint used to respond to anything…she’d get insenced if Tiger (yellow crook-tailed cur) and I were sharing apple-n-cheddar slices and demand her share as Queen of Siam. Never let her see tuna in the raw or in the can until her portion presented itself…but I hadda take off the romain under-wrapper if grilled under dill or fennel fronds with a butter-n-butter topping.

Cat Nap Revue

cat confidential
to be a cat whisperer
just whisper “tuna”

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“Lorna Doone ‘Shortbread’ Cookie Best*”

October 18, 2018)

My first and last best

drink is milk, cold so it hurts.

Beer, crisp. Hootch: one cube!

*(Wid de milk.  Biscotti with wine, still one bottle left of extra fine vin santo, but I have been known to heresy-ize a hazlenot biscotti with beer or even some Maker’s or Bushmill both with a side of still – and unchilled – water.  Ice is the enemy of good hootch: it dulls the esters and makes them flee to Florida to o’er-winter where I talk sweetly to ’em and invite ’em over for a nice crisp cookie.)


“Mirror Refused” V2

(October 18, 2018)

that mirror refused

to lie to me though i asked

still, keep on looking*


*(I do detect difference, but the silent mirror continues to mock, even without an image painted on its blank wall.  Edgar? Why have you abandoned me to this room without a pendulum? And no bricks? And an empty wine barrel?  Cruel, cruel drunk died of consumption…wonder does someone still steal into that Bal’imore graveyard his birthnight a leave the hootch…heard it was absinthe but not sure…wormwood swill used to be adictive, but I prefer Ouzo, which I tasted first, illegally, as it was proscribed by U.S. Navy Sixth Fleet standing orders even for Marines attached to its Amphibious (Alligator) Squadron from a dipper-plunged into a wooden cask at Timbakion, Crete.  But I maintain it was the beer, the wine and most-definitely that banana-tasting yellow brandy – all of which was passed ’round between the senior Second Lieutenant of the Entire United States Marine Crotch, my two Corporal and Lance Coolie photographers and poor lowly PFC me, that caused the massive hangover that July Fourth mid-afternoon morning.)