Meeah Williams

How Not to Draw a Cat

Too many letters in the alphabet.
             
       You hold hands
                     with a power-sander.

Mackinaw.
Caw
Crow
Crawdaddy.

Watched by a Parthenon of eyeballs.
                  Kool-Aid dreams.

Lincoln, Masturbating

On first impression, some creepy thing on the table. His hand lured out from under a rock. His brow was one big oil painting. The seed planting stage in three million years. We have begun these actions with no tangible results. I don’t eat lunch when I’m resembling dahlias. His business card felt sure there could not be many people left in the world. I will carefully return you to this pitiful cloth when I am done. She was a slow-witted matron in a gloomy reception room. In concrete terms, he ran the interception back for a touchdown!

Age is Death Anyway 

Those under the bridge.

                  “I don’t connect with anything in this, you know, so-called world—”

                                             People without noses.
                                             People without left-hands.
                                             People of the lime-cooler.

The Jean Rhys Parade in Mendocino, CA.

                                Earthworms.
                          
                                     A fountain pen full of cats when I write the
                                                        word meeow.

                                                                      And when I don’t.
 Storm of if-onlys.
                                                             A slow leak from the center of            
                                                             your brain.

                                                             The Big So-What?

                                                             One morning you wake up &
                                                             remember nothing but your
                                                             dreams.
 
                                                             They taste like bologna
                                                             cocktails.



Disinterstate

peli

peli

peli

can

cloud
     cloud
cloud

[a reclining Jesus on a sagging porch]

call now

save big

psychic dent removal

this is the place

where all the shaved off
mustaches have gone

u-turn

corncob

telephone pole & maybe



The Antonin Artaud Spring Roll Society

The flown simmer.
The portrait of everything.
The pocket

            going down 
                    down
                                 down

the sorry going down
                              
                       up  up
                       the throwing up

                          seagulls
                          amp-o-meter
                          toothpaste


I am not an agronomist. 

Meeah Williams is a writer and graphic artist. She lives in Brooklyn, NY.
 
 
previous page     contents     next page