Tupac Cat

Death by Party | Life after death

My backyard fence plays host to many people and things that are re-incarnated.  The black mouse that crawls under my door when I’m meditating alone in the dark at the kitchen table with an open vat of cheese dip on a plate in front of me is most certainly the Easter bunny woman that would come to my house as a child and sing nursery rhymes at birthday parties to a circle of children.  She died of an AIDs virus contracted from a blood transfusion that was one of the nastier by-products of living in the mid-Eighties.  I’m certain she is the black mouse because she loved to pig out on cheese dips especially after inhaling a cigarette in three drags right outside the back door of my childhood home.

This little black mouse runs from cats.  The re-incarnation of Tupac in the form of a cat, or Tupac Cat as he goes by for short, most certainly horrifies her.   Tupac was a modern-day nursery rhyme teller and I’m sure he feels threatened by anybody that tries to rain on his parade, even though his audience was not young children.  He likes to pick on those beneath him and he fears nothing.  Not even the Biggie dog that barks all night at him from my neighbor’s backyard.  Or the eyez on him that are re-incarnated in the shape of a broom that I swing to shoo this cat away from my back-step.

Speaking of eyez and cats, the homeless lady that gets high in my back alleyway has the soul of a mental patient that escaped Byberry in the 1950’s lost in the pupils of her crazy cat eyez.  These eyes have needles in the middle of them.  These needles are a result of using drugs, which is a re-incarnation of the last time I had sex.  This is found in the form of the heroin she smokes over a piece of used sandwich foil that she picks from the trash I leave outdoors to keep the black mouse from coming into my home.

Unfortunately the Tupac cat, in all his jealousy, will not allow for my impeccable kitchen to remain mouse free.  This envious cat loves to scare the black mouse, could care less about the Biggie dog, and for all intensive purposes, finds the scattered street bags of dope that keep the homeless lady from wanting to travel far from my back alleyway.  I should complain but I know that the disgruntled cop that will answer the call is nothing more than a re-incarnation of the grade school bully who used to steal snack money from me.

Instead I’ve taken the high road and found solace with the imperfections that exist in my urban back yard.  I’m fine with the seasonal leaves that clog my gutter and are the re-incarnation of the fat that killed my grandfather by clogging his arteries.  I’ve chose to be content with the mildew stains on my back fence which I am for certain are the re-incarnation of the vitiligo that infected the legs of a beautiful girl I used to dream about in my pubescent youth.  Even the empty wasp nest lost dormant in the corner of my roof that is a re-incarnation of my current state of finances is not enough to make me give up.  Somewhere down the road, my rose is also gonna grow in concrete.  And when that day comes I’ll be sure, at the very least, to re-incarnate into something that lives in a much nicer environment than my dirty urban neighborhood.

By Lou Cervantes

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