Belling the Cat

Being a cat is probably the next easiest thing but belling the cat I’ve heard them say, is the toughest thing to do even for a toy cat or a boy cat but a coy cat, again, I’ve heard them say, is a technical impossibility to let the river of honey mix with the river of ink and charcoal to make dark non-chocolate sweets and that is only a bad understanding of concepts that are meant to be understood conceptually like the idea of a pin-hole camera that makes pictures of the world through holes made only with pins and sharp tips of pens or compass needles showing directions establishing the dichotomy of the idea or the philosophy of which way to go the north or the south or the wrong or the right or the left or the east or the best provide good and bad making memories of monocle molecules with story shades of squares and comic books exaggerating movement and expression in mugs of black coffee hot, hot, hot drunk in one go a pistol shot in a mug a mug-shot expresso oh my bod of the beach of the sunny sands with flat tummies and six packs of beer searching for honey looking at the peaches and heads that talk walking on the beaches hoping to catch cats or to cat catches with gloves and frisbee in the afternoon sunshine after starry nights of outstanding clarity in million megapixels and spots of light pinheads and pinwheels so many pins on this cushion here in this story where there is nothing else to push-on the fall