Kate Los Angeles

Let us be grateful to people who make us happy, they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom. ~Marcel ProustShe clawed through the rubble of her world head covered a scrupulous maid searching for gems a necklace mislaid by her mistress on the marble floor of a ballroom set against the battered skyShe crawled with her babe limp as a doll in floral crayon fleeing hell straight into the light of her ancestorsShe crawled through arches suspended wrapped her babe in the shawl she had worn to market no more than a scar on the face of a hill hair ribbons fluttering girders blood silk oozing the wounded sky shot with holes foxes scuttling crackling wires patches of honey colored coats shivering down mixed with bits of calico and fleshShe crawled a chessboard a cage of gold scaffolding she crawled with her face oblique placed her babe before the altar of the Art of WarShe picked through the remnants of the Basque countryside a cockeyed dress-maker piecing a pattern gone awryThrough the rubble she crawled with one shoe the other foot gone a trail sticky and warmShe crept into the belly of a fallen horse drawing its life into her mouth covering her doll with kisses she knelt entreating her god an immense crucifix swathed in telegraph wire that spun like a bottle in the center of a circleShe made a sign over her breast and stuffed her mouth with biscuitsBody of Christ...Body of ChristHorses wept jewels the size of fists swept by scholars with a mind to twist and level facets of each plane to be raffled when the bombing ceasedBefore the Art of War she laid her babeTo be raffled with the heart of the artist bulldozed crucified then razed again to house an outstretched arm hoof and thigh reins that ran scarlet streaming the horses knotted manedripping blood from the wounds of Christ dripping blood from the wounds of SpainBlack and white blood drippingThe ghost of Sophia pranced in her rag dress through walls of glass--the unspeakableThe hairs on his forearms bristled the sense of her pressing in like a dosed handkerchiefHe picked up a stick and covered fresh sheetsDripping the hardened horn Dripping the indignant ringSlaughter flower dead child hoof capacious eye lighting the halls of the Spanish pavilionHe bore down on the stick to canvas spent and on the seventh day he wept--Patti SmithI AM CLOTHING STORE THAT SITS BEHIND A LARGE MAGICAL TREE. YEAR OF THE CAT IS DEDICATED TO ALL THE FELINES I HAVE FOSTERED AND PLACED IN LOVING HOMES OVER THE LAST 5 YEARS.