The Cat Got His Bomb On

Those mice will stop

their playing now that
the cat’s got his bombing
on. I swear the grainy
footage from this war

is better than the grainy
pictures from the last.
While the cat’s away

and all . . . It’s a story
we tell ourselves, but
now the cat’s got his
bomb on. It’s a story
we can hum to. It’s only

who’s the cat and
who’s the players
that’s in the news.

The Little Picture

We’ve already skipped

the first step, wherever
we start. Besides, the

spoon never tastes the
soup anyway. Sure,

there’s meaning in a
jet way up, but down
in the ditch the air

is sliced other ways.
The ones today

who kill or love
are history already
from the air, from

the future. Yes,
life’s unreason

-ing and -able. Ir-
rational even, in
the ditches. It’s

because always
already we’ve

skipped the first
step, headed into
the clouds and

miss the mud. It’s
because the spoon

will never taste
the soup, and you,
and you, and me

and I never look
at the little picture.

The Soul Goes for Cigarettes

The soul leaves you
more often than death—
several times more often

it leaves you alone—
leaves out of boredom,
leaves out of tedium too,

out of blaring busyness.
It says, “see ya,” and
it does—looks you in

the eye and checks out,
leaving thoughtless,
thoughtless you to ponder

why you’re asleep, why
so tedious to beauty. And
every day you’re lovers

you know there comes
the time you’ll hear, “I’m
only going for cigarettes.”

And you know
you will know
it’s not like that.