What can I do, O Pussycat Afflicted,
When the Spirit of God has grown weary of keeping you alive
And all that's left are space-age doctors and their space-lab experiments
Who cannot even save themselves when comes their time to die
But whose Lamborghinis and Ferraris I and others like me
Must help in procuring and afterwards maintain
In the form of astronomical bills and consultation fees?
Houdini's twin she ain't but Houdini's art she knew;
Beneath the surface paint lies the truth concealed from view;
She knows Houdini magic and uses it quite well;
Beware you don't, the fool thou art, fall under her spell.
An Ode To High-Rise Suburban Living
Why would anyone pay upwards of 700,000 bucks Malaysian
For a bird's eye view of endless car head-&-tail light trails
Snaking along a highway in the distance to the right,
An ambulance with sirens blaring elbowing its way through a traffic light intersection
Not too far away to the left
And deafening fireworks exploding in the skies above the housing estate across the road in front
At balcony height from a thirtieth-floor luxury condominium unit
Smack in the midst of a chunk of a smog-&-traffic-noise-polluted section of suburban Province Wellesley?
Baffling.
It's happened so often,
One death after another,
There're no more tears left to cry;
The reservoir from where tears flow is dry.
A heart so often broken
Cannot be broken again
For it has no chance to heal
And be whole again.
Another death in the family,
One less furbaby to kiss and cuddle,
But there's no pain.
I'm just numb all the time.
I cry for the people of Gaza,
Getting shot in the legs
For stealing food
Or getting killed
For looting food warehouses
Stocked to the rafters
With enough food supplies
And humanitarian aid boxes
To feed thousands of hungry people
For a month
Because here in Malaysia
We have so much food,
Perhaps a bit too much,
And so much money,
Perhaps a bit too much,
That we can all go sit down in nice restaurants
And order nice restaurant food,
Half of which we eat
And half of which we leave on our plates
For the strays in the back lane,
If the kitchen staff were thoughtful enough,
Or for the garbage bag collectors
The following morning.
I cry for the people of Gaza
Who get shot by their own people
For stealing food
In a food-scarce land
Ravaged by war
Because here in Malaysia,
Even our cats have so much food
Half of it goes to waste.
It was this very river
Into which you were cast,
Wrapped up in your burial shroud,
The day you died
About a year ago.
If you are in heaven,
As you must surely be,
As were all cats,
Being pure of heart,
Ask God to bless the others at home
And heal them of their afflictions
If it pleases him
Or not
If it pleases him
To look the other way instead.
You were sorely missed,
My Eve,
My Yeva (Єва)*.
All I have left of you,
Apart from the photos and videos,
Were your children,
Calicoco-Jean, your daughter,
Oyen, her son,
Agape, your son,
And all your other grandchildren and great-grandchildren,
The ones that have survived.
I think it was Somalia,
Another son of yours,
Somalia, remember (?),
Whom I bumped into yesterday evening
As I made my way through the side lanes of the neighborhood,
Heading towards the main road,
Where I would begin my evening run.
It seemed to recognize me,
From the way it didn't run off as I approached it,
Calling it by name,
Somalia.
Not so skinny now either
Like it used to be,
Hence its name,
Somalia.
It was that Chinese broker lady's cat now,
Or one of them
For many cats she had,
In front as well in the back lane behind.
Agape used to give Somalia a hard time,
Both being boys and boy cats being boy cats,
Probably why it packed its bags and said goodbye.
I didn't know why I wanted to come here,
To this very spot,
But now that I'm here,
I do.
I should've died the day you died.
Eve, my Yeva ((Єва)*.
I've said it before and I'll say it again,
Eve, my Yeva ((Єва)*.
I should've died the day you died.
*Ukrainian for 'Eve'.
The rain showed up in force today,
Ten battalions strong,
Infantry, cavalry,
A hundred miles long.
We're gonna get slaughtered,
We heard our troops say,
Our feeble storm defenses
Will not help us today.
A shower of rockets
Came raining down first
As we in our bunkers
Awaited the worst.
And then a bugle sounded
To signal a retreat
Which left us all confounded
Like zombies in the street.
Perhaps a deal was made
By people at the top
Who shook each other's hands
And made the shelling stop,
Yes, shook each other's hands
And made the shelling stop.