Our Revels Now Are Ended

Mary Black; Farewell, Farewell





our revels now are ended.
these our actors,
as i foretold you,
were all spirits and
are melted into air,
into thin air:
and, like the baseless
fabric of this vision,
the cloud-capp'd towers,
the gorgeous palaces,
the solemn temples,
the great globe itself,
yea, all which it inherit,
shall dissolve
and, like this
insubstantial pageant faded,
leave not a rack behind.
we are such stuff
as dreams are made on,
and our little life
is rounded with a sleep.
--william shakespeare





THUMPER WAS BURIED BENEATH A NEWLY-PLANTED ROSEBUSH
IN HIS BELOVED CATNIP PATCH THIS MORNING





he came to the door one night
wet thin beaten and terrorized
a white cross-eyed tailless cat
i took him in and fed him
and he stayed
grew to trust me
until a friend
drove up the driveway
and ran him over
i took what was left
to a vet who said,
not much chance…
give him these pills…
his backbone is crushed,
but it was crushed before
and somehow mended,
if he lives he'll never walk,
look at these x-rays,
he's been shot,
look here, the pellets are still there…
also, he once had a tail,
somebody cut it off…
i took the cat back,
it was a hot summer,
one of the hottest in decades,
i put him on the bathroom floor,
gave him water and pills,
he wouldn't eat,
he wouldn't touch the water,
i dipped my finger into it
and wet his mouth
and i talked to him,
i didn't go anywhere,
i put in a lot of bathroom time
and talked to him
and gently touched him
and he looked back at me
with those pale blue crossed eyes
and as the days went by
he made his first move
dragging himself forward
by his front legs
(the rear ones wouldn't work)
he made it to the litter box
crawled over and in,
it was like the trumpet
of possible victory
blowing in that bathroom
and into the city,
i related to that cat
i'd had it bad,
not that bad but bad enough
one morning he got up,
stood up, fell back down
and just looked at me.
you can make it,
i said to him.
he kept trying,
getting up falling down,
finally he walked a few steps,
he was like a drunk,
the rear legs just
didn't want to do it
and he fell again,
rested, then got up.
you know the rest:
now he's better than ever,
cross-eyed, almost toothless,
but the grace is back,
and that look in his eyes never left…
and now sometimes i'm interviewed,
they want to hear
about life and literature
and i get drunk and hold up
my cross-eyed shot runover de-tailed cat
and i say, look, look at this!
but they don't understand,
they say something like,
you say you've been influenced by Celine?
no, i hold the cat up, by what happens,
by things like this, by this, by this!
i shake the cat, hold him up
in the smoky and drunken light,
he's relaxed he knows…
it's then that the interviews end
although i am proud sometimes
when i see the pictures later
and there i am
and there is the cat
and we are photographed together.
he too knows it's bullshit
but that somehow it all helps.
--charles bukowski
the history of one tough motherfucker