Yellow
12.02.16
SORCERY AND SANCTITY ARE THE ONLY REALITIES. EACH IS AN ECSTASY, A WITHDRAWAL FROM THE COMMON LIFE. MUSIC. COLORS REPLACE ORGANS. MEMORY. MY PARENTS WORKED AS SPECIAL ED TEACHERS. HOW DID THAT ONE GET THAT WAY. HE WAS BORN THAT WAY. MY PARENTS JUST SNIFFED TOO MUCH GLUE. SETTING MY ALARM CLOCK. SLEEP. TURNING OFF THE LIGHTS AND GOING TO BED. A CAT IS MAKING NOISE. IT IS SINGING. IT IS ANNOYING. IT WAKES ME UP. I TELL HIM: SCRAM, GET OUT OF HERE! BUT HE DOESN’T. I THROW THINGS AT HIM. I MISS HIM. I MISS HIM. I MISS HIM. FINALLY I HIT HIM. NOW MAYBE I’LL GET SOME SLEEP. BUT THE CAT IS BACK. HE IS SINGING AGAIN. THIS ANIMAL IS OVER 200 YEARS OLD AND I AM GOING TO SLICE IT. HE IS WEARING HEAVY BOOTS. MYTH: THE ASTRONAUTS COULDN’T FLOAT AWAY FROM THE SURFACE OF THE MOON BECAUSE THEY WORE HEAVY BOOTS. THE CAT IS STOMPING. DELIBERATELY STOMPING. UP AND DOWN THE STAIRS. SINGING. STOMPING. WE SCUFFLE. I TIE HIM UP WITH STRING AND GAG HIM. I TRY TO GET SOME MORE SLEEP. BUT SOMEHOW THE CAT IS STILL SINGING. I THROW A FANTASY NOVEL OUT THE WINDOW AT HIM. THE WINDOW IS LARGE ENOUGH THAT A SNIPER COULD EASILY TAKE ME OUT. HE THROWS THE FANTASY BOOK BACK AT ME. IN TOLKIEN THE ELVES ARE MELANCHOLY BECAUSE THEY KNOW THEIR AGE IS COMING TO AN END. THE ULTIMATE AIM OF ELVES IS ART. WHAT ABOUT DARK ELVES. DARK ARTS, DUH. THE CAT CONTINUES TO SING. THE PHONE RINGS. HE IS SINGING ON THE PHONE. I JUST WANT TO GET SOME SLEEP. HEY WAIT A MINUTE. I THINK I KNOW THIS CAT. WE USED TO HANG OUT AT PARTY SPOTS LIKE THE SHITPILE, THE BEEHIVE, AND THE FUCK-CREEK. HIS BROTHER WORKS IN CONSTRUCTION. WHY WON’T THE CAT STOP SINGING. NAIVETE IS ATTRACTIVE BUT ULTIMATELY IMPOSSIBLE. I CHASE HIM WITH A GOLF CLUB. THE CAT SMOTHERS GREASE ON THE STAIRS AND PLACES TACKS AT THE FOOT OF THE STAIRS. I SEE HIM DO THIS BUT SOMEHOW I STILL SLIP ON THE STAIRS AND STEP ON THE TACKS. IT HURTS. STRATEGIC STUPIDITY. I TRY TO GO BACK UP THE STAIRS BUT I SLIP ON THE STAIRS AND STEP ON THE TACKS AGAIN. I RUMMAGE THROUGH MY CLOSET. I FIND A SHOTGUN. IF I AM DEPRAVED I CAN ALWAYS BLAME IT ON HISTORY. THE CAT IS SINGING AN ANNOYING SONG ON THE ROOF OF THE HOUSE. I CLIMB A LADDER. NO ONE IS UNHAPPY. THE CAT SEES ME AND REPLACES HIMSELF WITH A LOOKALIKE CAT THAT IS ALSO SINGING. I HIT THE IMPOSTER OVER THE HEAD WITH THE BUTT OF MY GUN. THEY USED TO CALL THIS PISTOL-WHIPPING BUT I THINK I’LL CALL IT BUFFALOING. HE PASSES OUT AND FALLS OFF THE ROOF OF THE HOUSE. THE ORIGINAL CAT SNEAKS UP BEHIND ME. I TURN AROUND AND SEE HIM. I POINT THE GUN AT HIM AND BACK HIM INTO A CORNER. I TELL HIM: I AM GOING TO WIPE YOU OUT COMPLETELY. HE SAYS: JUST A MINUTE. DON’T YOU HAVE ANY AESTHETIC SENSE? AN EAR FOR MUSICAL APPRECIATION? THE COURAGE TO PRACTICE ROMANTICISM? A STATEMENT IS EFFECTIVE ONLY WHEN IT CAN BE RUINED. NO, I SAY. AND I AM GOING TO BLOW YOU TO SMITHEREENS. THE CAT BEGINS TO SING A LULLABY. IT IS THE SWEETEST LULLABY I HAVE EVER HEARD. THE REAL CONTENT IS ELSEWHERE. I GET TIRED. STOP IT, I SAY. I GET TIRED. I BEGIN TO FALL ASLEEP. THE CAT CARRIES ME BACK TO BED. HE TUCKS ME IN AND KISSES ME GOODNIGHT. BUT THE CAT CONTINUES TO SING. I GO TO THE FRIDGE AND GET SOME MILK. I GO TO THE PANTRY AND GET SOME ALUM. I MIX THE TWO TOGETHER. THE CAT COMES OVER TO DRINK THE MILK. WHEN HE TRIES TO SING, HIS VOICE SHRINKS. AND SO DOES HIS HEAD. BUT THE CAT CONTINUES TO SING. I GO GET SOME DYNAMITE. I LIGHT IT. I BLOW MYSELF UP AND I AM DEAD. THE CAT IS DEAD. I AM IN HEAVEN NOW. YOUR ORGIES GOOD FOR WORLD. YOUR ORGIES GOOD FOR WORLD. AT LEAST I CAN RELAX UP IN HERE. BUT THERE ARE NINE VERSIONS OF THE CAT IN HEAVEN TOO AND THEY ALL LOOK THE SAME. BEWARE! BEWARE! THESE SHELLS OF THE DEAD ARE ATTRACTED TO THE LIGHT! SO THE CATS CONTINUE TO SING.
————–
Joseph Mosconi is a writer and taxonomist based in Los Angeles. He codirects the Poetic Research Bureau and coedits Area Sneaks. He is the author of Fright Catalog (Insert Blanc Press, 2013) and Demon Miso/Fashion in Child (Make Now Press, 2014).
