Waiting for Salvation – or Something


I think that, with where I’m currently at in my life
Confused, disillusioned, a little lost and unconnected
I’d be perfect fodder for a cult
So I’m sitting on a bench in a park, hoping to be recruited by a cult member.
Cults are always hanging out in parks – looking for victims
Any cult will do. Some organization that will offer to put things into perspective and give me some direction.
So far I’ve had no luck.

Maybe I don’t look pathetic enough.
Cult members, like serial killers, prey on the weak and isolated.
I put my head in my hands, but then decide that I might miss something in this position.
Some cult group checking me out and trying to determine if I’m prime cult material. Ripe for the picking.
I sit back up and try looking naive and scared.
This makes me feel sad – as if I really am naïve and scared.
I feel sorry for myself
and I think that attitude now gives me the right look for attracting the desired attention.

I don’t really care what the cult’s philosophy may be.
As long as I’m not encouraged to take drugs or expected to kill anyone.
I don’t think those cults are as prevalent any more.
Quite possibly a few exceptions gave the whole cult community a bad rap.
There are probably some good ones.
I’m prepared to give up any income and personal property.
That doesn’t seem like too much to ask for purpose and ideals. And possibly eternal life.
Whatever the perks, I’m not that fussy.
I’d just like to have some guidance, a role model – and a group of ready made friends.

I once thought about starting a cult.
Cult leader has always seemed like an attractive career option.
You just need an angle I guess. I was never able to come up with a good one.
Besides, leader of anything is too much responsibility.
What happens if you just want to hang it all up and do something else?
Do you tell all of your followers that you were probably wrong
and suggest that they should just go back to their old lives?
I don’t think I could handle letting so many people down.

There’s someone else on a park bench nearby who seems like another good candidate for a cult.
A young guy who looks absolutely miserable.
Maybe I should tell him that I’m a cult recruiter
and that if he’s interested I’ll meet him in the same spot tomorrow and tell him all about the cult.
By that time he’ll probably feel better and not even bother showing up.
It might give him some hope for the moment.
Or I might just freak him out.
That’s more likely. I think I’ll just mind my own business.

Maybe I’ll just convince myself that I’ve made plans to meet a cult member here tomorrow.
Then I can go home and make something to eat.
I feel better already.
I should eat something really good anyway.
You never know what the cult’s dietary restrictions may be.

Happy Friday the 13th Part II !


Here’s a black cat for some extra bad luck. My poem this week is about buying a cat, but in actuality this is the only cat I own. I keep him as a reminder of why I shouldn’t buy a cat – but that should be obvious once you read this cat hating poem. Enjoy – MieowwwwwHssssss!
Black Cat


I bought a cat today.
I hate him.
So self-satisfied.
And self-reliant.
I wanted needy.
He seemed needy. Came right up to me rubbing his head under my hand.
I hesitated. Is this gonna drive me crazy? Maybe.
I took him anyway.
Now it seems as if his overtures were all a show.
He doesn’t like me.
He just wanted to get out of captivity and away from the other cats. Probably hated them too.
He’s clearly a misanthrope. And a sadist.

He wasn’t the best looking cat. Quite possibly the least attractive.
Maybe that was part of his appeal. I thought he’d need some love.
But he completely ignores me. He hates me.
With intensity. It’s quite obvious.

And now I have to clean up his shit. Like an aide in a nursing home.
Except it’s seven days a week and I don’t get paid.
Did I mention that I don’t like cats?
I thought I’d learn to love my cat.
It’s apparent now – that’s not gonna happen.
And I have to feed him, clean his litter pan, worry about fleas and hairballs.
Hairballs. Regurgitated balls of hair.
Eventually he’ll die.
Probably after some horrible illness and a terrifying death bed scene.
And I’ll have to dispose of him.

I hate my cat.
And I’m a little scared of him.
I suspect he’s one of those cats that seduces you into petting him and then strikes. Viciously.
Cats have razor sharp claws. Like a particularly treacherous cactus – that might attack at any moment.
Cats are very, very cruel.
I’ve been tricked before.
I think I’ll stay as far away from my cat as possible.

I bought a cat because I was looking for companionship – I guess.
But you can’t buy friends.
Actually you can. You can buy a dog.
I wanted a dog.
But having a dog makes it difficult to get away.
I have nowhere to go and no means to go anywhere anyway.
I should have gotten a dog.

But I got a cat.
I guess it was selfish of me. I bought a living thing to serve some need of my own.
Sort of like slavery.
I’m a terrible person.
I deserve this punishment.

My cat is:
Smarter, hipper, better looking, more athletic, healthier, cleaner, more well adjusted and far more self confident than me.
He makes me hate myself.
I hate myself.
I’m not even good enough for my cat.
But he’s stuck with me.
Poor cat.
He must despise me.
I would if I were him.

(In the writing of this poem, some names were changed. No animals were harmed.
It’s fiction. All of it. Except the line – I hate cats.)