My reciting Peter Porter’s The King of the Cats is Dead....

My reciting Peter Porter’s The King of the Cats is Dead. Even after about half a dozen tries, I still managed to flub a line and about two-thirds of the way through my voice gets inexplicably hoarse and phlegmy.  Still my best take, though.

In light of my previous post, there’s something exhilarating about sitting inside a poem like this.  Obsessing over every word, every part of speech.  It’s like a video game speed run— a maddening cycle of trial, failure, and restart until, deep in a brain fog, you burst from the gate with violent speed, gracing past goombas, like lightning homing toward the heavens.