The Cat, a Lesson in Transcendental Conformities

It was the day after Thursday
And the day before Friday-
Consequently half-past three
(And about 12 seconds, but that is, consequently, irrelevant)
When the transcendental delusions began-
Only our ignorance saved us.
(It also saved three houseplants, and the cat.)
God forbid we would be enlightened.

We lived within our hollow solid
And marveled at black-and white photographs
(And, coincidentally, oxymorons.)
While outside, a rainbow emerged
And passed, unnoticed.
(Except, of course, by the cat, who saw everything.)
Our peripheral vision had been shielded
By blinkers-
Those kinds on massive horses that pull carriages
(And often trod on cats, another story, for another time)
God forbid we would be distracted.

At the coldest time of summer,
(Below thirty, and much higher than fifty-seven)
There was a car collision on I-95
We lugged the body bags some distance-
(Accompanied by Vincent, the Siamese, who observed out facial expressions with an intent confusion only found within him.)
And wiped away the blood with stern faces,
As the passers by wept, we went in jaded silence.
God forbid we would be sensitized.

Ah, it becomes easier to remember
(With this style of memory, I believe it was…er…)
With each passing future
How the parasitic dimensions feed off
Of themselves in symbiotic homicide.
(At which point, I have crushed a dead mouse beneath my foot, left on my bloodied pillow by a feline admirer)
But, oh- as we grow older
It ceases to subside-
To make things all the way
We have to pass the horizon.
(You know, halfway up…?)

As it is, we are only halfway there.
(1/2, 2/4, 3/6, 4/8, jajaja…)
And God forbid we’d change a bit.
(With the exception of metric or standard conversions in large groups of honors algebra majors)

It became gradually harder to be different-
(Especially from the self-titled. The “different.”)
As all of the different people were the same.
(In a literal sense, the things they wished to differ, we exactly alike, just as those of their precursors.)
We compromised, by shaving our heads
We looked like monks.
(or Sphinxes, little hairless cats with low tolerance to sudden changes in the surrounding temperature)

My father one said,
That the people who go farthest
Were the people who tried.
He also said that mindless labor was blasphemous.
(And that in the ‘olden days’, school was uphill both ways, in the blinding snow nonetheless)

Us monks cannot help but wonder-
If there is such a path
(Besides a loop, of course)
That is uphill both ways.

We will contemplate it,
As we wait for our hair to grow back.
(Vincent is staring at us with slit, discolored eyes)
Maybe, then,
We will spike it, and dye it pink.
Just for conformities sake.
-(c) 2002, Hiskaa The Perriot