Unpublished

This is any old word that I could find – just to get started.  The trouble is I really need to write something specific – something with a purpose.  Spinning out of control is not conducive to being rational and I must muster my arguments logically.  Loose cannons will only shake the balance and divert attention towards outlandish dreams.  So, let's be specific.  Not any old word this.  But a word that is targetted towards my goal, a goal that will prevent me blundering about like a demented unneutered tomcat now looking for his home – lost and abandoned – trying to rediscover his own trail of smell from where he had set off on this random frenzied journey into the unknown … so that he can return to my loving arms.  I am simply praying that my prayer (which this has become) will be strong enough, straight and true enough, for him to sense (with his heightened senses) the prayer's backward channel to me.  So, I send this my prayer forward like a guided missile or, rather, a sentient boomerang.  I pray my prayer so hard, my brows knitting together with furrows, interstices that might eat a real groove for him in the wayward outside regions so that he can use it as an anchor – to release him from the maze he manufactured for himself by blundering off so foolhardily as if he thought (if he did think at all in such a frenzied state), yes, as if he thought he was a 'homing pigeon' (instead of my loving pussy) with the untold skills of aiming to home in on its base target, its radar foxearth or lair or homebase.   This specific word, then, the word I started with to target my prayer, to be the actual conception of my prayer, is about to quench the wild cavortings and haphazard hits at moving targets that this my prayer has since become.  This isn't, then, any old word.  This is a word to recall like an answering echo to the plaintive miaow of my lost companion pussy.  This word that will go out there like a message from God … a message from God Himself, a prayer of inbreeding, a word that is the same word but different, a word that turns in on itself rather than blundering about looking for lost meanings and empty emotions.  Not cat litter bullshit, not a splatter shotgun – but a direct aim of good sense – a targetted prayer from God to Himself.  The cat sits on the floor curled up like a rose.  It is dead.  This is an it now not a he.  And the well-rifled gun is back on the wall.  I am my own God, master of everything but master of none.  A stray bullet had done its work, His work – and I lap up this milk and kindness that once were me.