None of this has happened yet

"Divano, seoffale, e stipetto" by Guglielmo Ulrich

I’m sitting in this cafe and my tongue turns into a bird that speaks French. But really I should say that the bird was a mechanical chick I’ve carried in my throat since Easter a decade ago when bookstores still lived in compounds and suburban malls. I’ve already planned the letters I will write. One of them will be about a book and I’ll pass it off as a spur of the moment thought. Maybe it will be, by the time I write it, because it’s been permeating my thoughts since yesterday. I wanted to say that sitting here reading, the book is good but I liked it better when you read it to me until I fell asleep buttoned inside extra large men’s flannel shirts, Like capes, but if capes were also cocoons. I plan to make pajamas out of the same pattern as my blankets so that I can’t be found except by the yakking hair in the morning or in the reflection of neon lights and bedside lamps, which are one and the same. I have plans I tell you I have plans. So many that I like to nest them inside each other, my travel typewriter inside its powder blue case or a tube inside a television. I beat my expansive metal wings only to find they were paper crumpled. The leavings of coat pockets at the end of winter.

Sketched outline of cat

None of this has happened yet. Regardless, it is more than a screen and more than digits forming the shape of curled leaves or curled piano keys whose water has been absorbed by showering lips sucking them dry for every last hint of moisture.

Let us be cats but only the kind that came for Christmas wrapped up as though they were Santa, tiny robots who meowed and moved on all four legs which could have just as well been sticks or the cones of melted ice-cream. If you are a cat, then I will not be. If I am a cat, I would like to be kept indoors and never fall out the window, through the screen, and learn that I was never going to be an airplane.