Kitty At The Poetry Reading by Aurelia Lorca

 

I am listening,
but cannot help but notice
a calico cat slinking through the audience:
Of course she stops and rubs against
the legs of Joel Landmine, who reaches down
to give her a little scratch without
taking his eyes off the poet at the podium.
The kitty moves on, she does not mean to be rude
or distracting. She slides against MK, the birthday
girl of the night, and purrs for a moment in appreciation.
I lose sight of her after she circles around Razor’s feet.
He later says how the same kitty had once
sat on his lap through an entire reading,
though what he read made it kind of odd.
I don’t know, I just think that like all cats
she embraces the ineffable effable deep and inscrutable
way of things and people and in other words,
has some damned good taste.

Two Poems by Aurelia Lorca

 

Not So Still Life

I

If only we pastelled as harmonious
As the etching on our abode.
These cramped quarters:
You call this a bowl?
An oversized latte cup, maybe.

Peach and her lopsided breast
loll on my head like a tumor,
yet she snits
that my fractious stem is poking
nether regions only her husband
should have access to.
Nether regions, indeed. (Where’s raspberry when I need him?)
We’re FRUIT dammit!
Rembrandt, paint this:
PPPPHHHHHTTTTTHHHHBBBBBTTTT!!

II

Naked in un-decorous lighting
under fluorescent hum,
I expose my crooked breast
and bruised marker
where my skin cuts yellow.

O me. Poor me. Poor Peach.

Paint me with summer orchards,
the balm of buzzing bees,
gingham checked linen,
wicker.
Let me burlesque for you
from baskets ripe with color
where I fan-dance
one swell
at a time,
creating the illusion
of juicy perfection.

____________

 

Pet A Kitty

 

When my friend,
the greatest poet I know,
came to San Francisco
she tried to find work-
But San Francisco being
San Francisco, and poets
being poets, it was not easy.

We decided instead that we
would prostitute my cat, Figaro,
who at eighteen years old,
deaf, and eager for affection,
had recently won a cutest pet
contest.

It was simple- We’d
advertise to the lonely
on CraigsList, and attach
a little money pouch to his collar.
We would pimp him out,
but never leave him alone
with any customers.

“I’m putting your furry butt
to work!” my friend said to Figaro,
who didn’t hear, but just purred
and purred and purred.

Unfortunately, like any good poet,
Figaro was too much of a slut
to collect money,
and my friend,
the greatest poet I know,
left San Francisco
for a city more affordable.

____________

Bio:  Aurelia Lorca can be found in the spaces between the cante jondo and the blues talking with ghosts.