So I wake up this morning and in the middle of the floor in front of my bedroom is the grossest/strangest thing I've ever found in my house.

I look down, and I see a yogurt cup, that had been pulled from the garbage, and lotsa fur and tiny intestines/guts were hanging out the open end.

I kinda freaked out and just threw it into my front yard. When it landed, a decapitated and de-tailed chipmunk carcass came out.

After a few minutes, I noticed a chipmunk's head was stuck by dried blood to the handle of my fishin' pole on the front porch.

Another few minutes pass and I find the tail underneath my coffee table.

Now, I leave the back door cracked at night so the dogs and cat can get in and out.

But whatever did this killed the chipmunk in the front yard, and brought it through the backyard into the house.

My only guess is the cat, but....

how did he get the carcass stuck inside of a yogurt cup?

I'm confused

also, here's a neat poem I wrote a long time ago:

Quote:

I'm scared
that I'll die
forgotten
with my father forgetting
the roar of his new family's waves
deafening his ears, hell
forget me and
friends usually come and go
and they'll forget and
all other blood kin are dead or dissolving
into Alabama soil.
So they'll all forget, I'm afraid,
that I existed
lived
stayed
smoked cigarettes
painted dinosaurs
wrote poetry
been struck
and struck
and loved,
lusted after mediterranean lovelies, like there weren't
blonde Nordic Princesses and
African queens
begging for my attention.
I'm genuinely afraid of being forgotten
And so I write and paint and lust and love
and fight and fuck like it's
all gonna be etched in
stone.
One day, maybe, while staring at vaporous clouds
of white or dimly lit starry fires in
the night sky,
I'll finally feel satisfied
with all the columns and statues I've erected
and canvases I've destroyed and pieces of
paper I've defiled with poetry
and ears I've filled with shit
and words i've invented
and I'll finally be able to say "No one can forget me now;
no one can say I died here for nothing;
no one can say my life was wasted."
The cirrhosis cigarette cancer
whiskey death will take me
quietly, and even
the final clink of a bottle,
or the las apocryphal, apocalyptic
lighter strike will be heard,
and someone can say
"What a beautiful sound!"
I'll be scared of being forgotten until then,
for the almighty has cursed me
with a twisted malevolent-unwanted
genuine vanity
that keeps me constantly checking
my old poems, reflective surfaces,
and thoughtwords, just to see if
someone has noticed,
if someone
will
remember.

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