I took acid that turned me into a cat.

But not really a cat--consciousness

searching mirrors to be seen

from inside a cat's image.

This is a poem about death disguised

as a poem about transformation.

There are no poems about death.

Thoughts occur to me in the form

of other people's bodies.

I build a dome and then rise over it.

I strip off all the names

and put them on again backwards.

I am glued to this stool of bones

with my strings of subtle war

vibrating in a chord of joy.

I am not a toy of time, or history's bitch.

I can switch off.  I ride the spirit

like a catching glitch.  I take the light

bouncing from graves to be a sublime sign.

There is no plan for mine

and the shadow of the skin's outline

holds libraries that rave and rave

for the whiskers that were never shaved.