Cats

Cats, kingly cats and cats queenly like bees, then there are soldier cats wielding bats shooting arrows at concentric circle marks forty-seven feet away from where they stand held on tripods and lenses of camera wink at the sun and if they are convex, converging rays of light like the focusing of all good ideas in one dream that comes and goes like a bad imitation of a good deed hanging loose from the belt of a fighter immortalized as a constellation in the new moon night sky drinking the beauty of the moon that isn’t with a long straw from bottles going full throttle on bikes with four wheels on mud tracks leaving tracks and broken hearts in stereo systems that play jazz music in lazy pubs of innocence of the mornings of spring summer wound tight till the alarms go off quaking ducks follow hens and roosters after the laying of eggs in their nests beneath bamboo baskets kept upside down flying rockets to the end of the world turning off switches of stoves inside kitchens of restaurants – tables and chairs plywood fly-wood would wood fly cry bye good bye it’s a lie why oh why in the narration of a story so poetic that everyone mistakes it for a song fearing the attack of furry foxes pandas and polar bears almost furry like furious negotiations across the river floating fishing nets and rods of plastic fiber changing gears to get to the moon before the marching soldiers get there walking slow and steady, almost always ready