Cat

A cat listens to strong winds from inside a cave.

It has never known human hands.

The sun is setting outside of any screens.

The animal feels a sort of contentedness.

(The prey has been consumed.)

Sky is a conflagration and knows nothing.

Cat faces conflagration and knows.

(The face is a sort of conflagration.)

This knowing is a way of being.

Inhuman, as humans are inhuman.

Time is permutations and nothing more.

But there must be a matrix.

The cave serves the cat as a sort of second self.

There are extensions of mind, which is place.

No one in Europe has invented a door yet.

This is the closest thing to a door.

I mean this poem, this cipher.

Nightmares of the Future

A high-tech, self-cleaning litter box of the next century that does not merely dispose of your pet's waste, but also, should euthanasia be warranted due to a terminal condition or "extreme old age," disposes of your beloved pet. So one morning you might see two packages next to this high-tech, high-end, very clean machine: one would be kitty's waste and the other would be kitty himself, baled for easy and "emotionally tidy" removal. Also, a little red-orange light on the litter box would be flashing, indicating "Time to Get a New Cat."