WHY DO SO MANY MEN HATE CATS?

I really do need somebody to help me out here. Can
someone please tell me why so many men HATE cats?
I mean, I've always liked cats a lot. And I'm pretty
sure I'm a dude. So there are some exceptions. But
keep in mind that I am also a poet - and we tend to be
a fairly strange breed. So maybe that's why I like
cats? But have you ever noticed that most men seem to
DESPISE felines with a vehement passion? It almost
borders on a phobia! These dudes will say the most
incredibly offensive things about cats and their
"sickening" habits. But how come? HELP!

I have a theory? It's just a small one, and not all
that scientific, so again - feel free to offer your own
insights. I think a lot of men secretly feel
threatened by cats. Of course no dude will ever fess
up to that. It would make them appear too weak. And
that's the worst thing that can happen to a dude's
ego. But why the murderous feelings? The only good cat
is a dead cat? That kind of passion to me means that
something very deep is going on inside the dude's
head. I mean, some of the things they will actually
say: Cats are stupid. A dog is better. At least it
will do something when you tell it to. So is that it?
Most men feel threatened by cats because a cat
actually knows how to think for itself, and will look
at you like you are insane if you order it to do
something?

And a lot of men take it very personally when a cat
ignores their attempts at making friends with them.
The cat is simply too stupid or stubborn to be
overjoyed about getting a nice little pat on the head.
Bad, bad cat! Well, I actually admire the cat for
being so independent and aloof. I understand that I am
going to have to earn the cat's respect and trust
before it will allow me to manhandle it in any kind of
fashion. I actually think dogs are kind of silly for
being so easy. It doesn't impress me when I have to
fend off some overgrown mutt that insists I pet it,
and let it lick me from head to toe—not even one
minute after I have first made its acquaintance.

And don't get me started on the litter box deal.
That's usually the excuse I get when I ask a dude why
he is so phobic about cats. He actually hates the
sickening litter box more than the poor cat. But is it
less sickening to have to follow a dog around as you
take it for its morning stroll, and get ready to scoop
up the latest……. I think you know what comes next.
I mean, I find that much more "sickening" than a
harmless little litter box. And who wants to get up at
the crack of dawn, and take Butch outside for his
first walk of the day? I sometimes don't even get out
of bed till the sun has gone down! I am truly baffled
by this cat phobia thing.

So I am hoping that some of you cat hating dudes (the
more honest ones) will bravely step forward and clue
me in. Just fess up that you really hate cats. Then
try and give me a really good reason why - I mean,
something that makes sense. This could very well be
the first step in your recovery - or even my own.
Perhaps you'll somehow convince me that dogs really
are much better than cats. And I hope to hear from
some of the cat lovers too. Men and women both.
Because I am hoping to solve this mystery that's been
bugging me for many a year: Why do so many men hate
cats? Please help me out here.

Essay © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

SUDDEN LIGHT

I slept
in my clothes
again

last night. Those stubborn
buttons were beyond
my dying

fingers. No energy to
unzip my pants, take off a
shoe. The stark sun

stabs my exhausted eyes
each morning.
Shrill

street sirens startle
my numb mouth open:
A long

silent scream, in a deaf man's
nightmare. Under the heavy
covers

I try to shut
out the world
until

I'm somehow able to rise
again. Maybe Jesus
will

come to me
during this suffocating
darkness

and take my soiled hand.
He will pull me out of this deep
black hole

and guide me towards that sudden
light. His sweet and gentle hands will bless
my blind eyes

open
and make my
body

pure. He will wash
away the decay
and

deadly fear
with his unearthly love.
He will make the sullen worms

forgive my fallen flesh.
He will throw out the mouldering
shroud.

He will sing me
wide awake until
I'm wearing

something white and waltzing
in the sun. He will
carry my heavy burden,

and stand beside me,
as I laugh and dance on
my own empty grave.

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

GUILD, 3 A.M.

The twinkling
yellow and white
lights

of the marquee
are done. The
money's made.

Nothing but black-
ness, and a persistent
wind

entering my sleeping
bag as I try to
catch

a couple more hours
of sleep
before

sunrise and the
sudden return
of

people rushing past
me and the
averted eyes

of The City:
more partial to
celluloid tragedies

and a smart cafe after
than a poor old man
sleeping at their feet.

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

BEWARE THE ONES THAT CALL YOU “DEAR”

("Karma's a bitch." - MY NAME IS EARL)

Beware the ones that call you "Dear"
and whisper Shakespeare in your ear.

They'll talk about you when your head is turned:
"A witch from Salem - to be burned."

They'll give you gifts because you're poor:
then steal your time and beg for more.

They'll praise with words not from the heart:
Because telling lies is such an art.

And when you dare to tell them "No."
A living Hell's the debt you'll owe.

Remember Iago - spreading lies:
like a tumor until someone dies.

Men in masks of painted gold:
Making sure the truth's untold.

And they whispered Shakespeare in your ear:
Beware the ones that call you "Dear."

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

FOR ANOTHER MARY

If I seemed cold and casual
during our last minutes -
let me say I am sorry.

But I was already numb by the
news and the nails. So I took
the easy way out -

and did not bother to say
what mattered most:
You wanted me to live

while so many wished for my
early death. And I could no
longer figure out the

bad from the good. But I still said my
prayers each night. And hoped
Jesus or Mother Mary

might prove the worldly ones
wrong. And you held my hand
during that dark journey.

Until the good news came.
And I will always love you for that.

Poem © 2011 by Dylan Mitchell

WHO KILLED SUPERMAN?

The brave man in the
sky was supposed to
stand for America:

Any small town boy
could grow up
and become a hero

just like Superman.
Just lose the glasses,
turn a bright red

table cloth into a
cape. Nab a couple
of bad guys as they

almost get away with
some poor old lady's
purse, and you'd be

up in the big blue sky
before you can say:
God Bless America!

It made so much sense
in the movies. The bad
guys always got caught,

and Superman was
always up there just
watching and waiting

to swoop down and save
America before it's too
late: No dead Kennedys.

No Vietnam. No Nixon
giving us the peace sign.
No Ronald Reagan

pretending to have a
ticking heart. No World
Trade Center. No

George W. Bush hiding
the truth, and blaming the
poor for his own deliberate

mistakes. Just an honest to
God hero always up there
to save America again

and again. Until the beautiful
dream somehow became
crippled and corrupt. And

the best man always loses now.
Our heroes are hunted,
and they fall from the sky

like slaughtered eagles.
America, America:
Who killed Superman?

He was the last one. He was
our only chance. And now
he has a bullet in his head.

From sea to shining sea.

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

Remembering John MacKenzie

What can you say about a brilliant artist, friend, and a great spirit -- after he has left this world forever?

I only know what I can say, and I tried to express my love and admiration for John in a poem I wrote. But it somehow doesn't seem enough.

John MacKenzie passed away on May 3, 2011. He was 89 years old. And he was my dear friend for 12 years.

John listened to me endlessly gripe (when I was in a deep depression). He designed the cover of my first chapbook of poems (for free). He fed me when I was broke and hungry. He encouraged me to make the most of life -- even as his own health declined.

He believed art made life worth living. And he was still painting on May 3rd -- his last day on this earth.

So it's too difficult to say goodbye. I prefer, "I'll be seeing you."

And I thank you much for all of your patience and love.

VAN GOGH'S CROWS

If I should die
as the sun sets
and the crows fly

will you forget me?
If I should die
as my blood drips

and the saints cry
will you remember me?
After the paint's dry

and the critics lie
and the crows die
will you forget me?

After I die
and a new sunrise
and the crows fly

will you remember me?

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell