Krazy Kat, Bert the Kat

April 26, 2010

To fictive environments blood is the fee.
—James Merrill

The door’s not closed, not locked anyway—
so Bert the Kat crashes—
and we can’t call the cops—
we don’t anyway—
maybe I invited him.
One eye sports an eye patch,
like he’s a pirate on a skateboard
or something.
He’s way too skinny; he’s wasted, dirty.
We’re all sitting on the floor, passing
a joint around. It hasn’t helped
that he’s been listening to all this
cerebral pothead stuff about
John Cage and the Buddha, the Atman and
the Brahman—

Once he gets going, though,
Ignatz Mouse and Officer Pupp,
leap right from Krazy Kat, word for amazing word.
The Kat is in the house—

Officer Pupp: I saw you toss that brick
at that ‘Kat’, you wen. And don’t tell me it was the you
in you that did it—it was you just you.

Ignatz: It was truly I who did it, “Officer Pupp”,
but it was the me in me that willed it.

And it’s the you in you that I should arrest,
is it?

Sure it’s the me in me that’s to blame.
So it’s the me in me that you should arrest.

All right. I’m arresting the you in you.

—but you’re also arresting me—

Well, if you can get away from the you in you,
you’re a free man.

*

Here is a poem I wrote called ‘Taxidermy’.
Like it?

All we have is our ignorance. Our life
ends more in slime and spittle than in dust.
Thought, though, must end in happiness, right? Like
it’s always been day light, it’s always dawn—
Thought is sun; it’s bliss; thought lives
in heaven—slime and spittle can go puke
against the wall. This must be why we leave
our old birth names behind; why we invent
a ‘Bert the Kat’. It’s stuffed. It’s taxidermy.

*

It’s late, it’s dark, the party’s over. Too
much beer and pot. Or maybe not enough
beer and too much plot—
Anyway, just Bert and me
sitting in a tree
k-i-s-s-i-n-g.
‘Krazy thinks of Ignatz in the same way,’ he says.
‘The same way—?‘

(She thinks of him as a kind of imperial
lover? The world’s extension in the self?
Like the ‘I’ of the self and the ‘I’ of God’s self
Himself? A kind of divine meeting?
A paradigm of freedom?)

The Kat, he looks at me. There’s blood
all over the floor like
someone has cut himself—
and badly. It can’t be me.
I didn’t say that shit out loud, did I?

Like this, he says. When Krazy crashes a party,
she comes as a cartoon, just for poor Ignatz,
just to look at him—

—that we could all be Krazy—
—that we could all be cartoons—
—that we would not die from AIDS—
—which he does—
—shit—
—all that shit—

Ignatz, Krazy, they meet in jail, you wen.
And don’t you tell me it’s not the you in you…



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2 Responses to “Krazy Kat, Bert the Kat”

  1. extrasimile Says:

    Thanks. It’s nice to know someone looks at this stuff once in a while.


  2. i like this post…:)


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