Posts Tagged Dogs

A Grand, Recrudescent Soul

Nicholas visited David
in the bathroom this morning.
David’s feeling was of a remembrance,
and we don’t now why
he would think of Nicky this morning.

Nicky’s soul walked in heavily,
shoulder blades piercing the humid air
in a ceremonious way, for Nicky was
a German Shepard-Husky mix and his walk
had always been regal.

The reason why Nicky visited David this
morning is not approachable, but we can
be sure that David was in despair.

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Tanka for Buddy

Waning, my dog said
goodbye, and I understand
why I must hope for
heaven for dogs, for without,
I want to hang, dead as mud.

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The Unshakable Infantile Spirit, Part III

I’m good with being a baby
now, at the core.
I confess.
People don’t believe me.
They reject baby me with nervous
laughs.
They can’t see the core.

Today, meditation made me
okay.
Good baby, peaceful baby.
I could feel silky sands
of heaven fill my lungs.

I felt big life gifts from dogs
who settled in stillness
with me, who listened
to my silence, who
congratulated me on my
growth, who
loved me
with me.

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Revolutions – This Isn’t a Poem, but I Don’t Write Fucking Essays

Here today, things started to change dramatically.
Do you know, when I just said that, I knew it was false,
but it’s hope, so fuck ’em. So for a few minutes, I thought,
I might be a writer. To me, that meant I might be a decent

human being. I have this blind sense that humans need to
have a central purpose, a reason for going on despite all
the facts that seem to recommend action to the contrary, but
it is blind because I don’t know other humans well enough

to know that they need a purpose. In fact, often, I wonder
how these integrated, bloated masses of people get along
without purpose because they simply trudge through, yes,
contented, but vacuous, contented with eating three meals,

with chips and snacks and pops, and weekend trips to the
lake ( THE fucking lake), and working on these schedules
that are preposterous, barely having time to hug the dog,
rarely awaking without an alarm designed to send humans

into blind destitute, where they don’t know how empty all of the
facades are, and I sit here, wanting to spit on my new pants,
wanting to throw the cafeteria tray across the room, blowing
out the perfectly-clean window which teases me with a Zen

garden that is never used for true purpose, not for lack of need,
but because the minds are entrapped in this buzzing hum
of doing what responsible adults and other gurus have told us
we are meant to do, despite our god-given sense that we waste

this gift of life every day, each day with these millions of
moments that spin down clockwise through snake-cleaned
drains made of the detritus of all of the gold we mined in the
good days when living in a tent and eating smoked rabbit

was a good thing. Here I am praying for a revolution that will
turn me into a writer and allow me to live out my days,
comfortable in some sense of purpose, praying that there
are people who might read and might be changed in the

slightest, because if I can touch a few people with writing and
eat a bit of rabbit, what would be wrong with me, but I’m scared
in the end, remembering those nightmares of walking out of
my tent and hanging myself with heavy rope on the sturdy,

horizontal limb of the old oak tree, ending what seems to be a
useless quest, a useless longing to rid myself of this vast,
empty purposelessness. And here I am wondering what kind
of stupid fuck would write about writing, and I stop. I’m due

back in my cubicle.

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The Birds Mock Me, But Harry Loves Me

Wandering madness catches me briefly
after I skip exercise, after I stress over
my lack of discipline, and the birds come around,

they mock me, but it’s not personal,
and the pigeons vibrate detestably, so I
send Harry through the sliding glass door, and

while he smiles, he makes a lazy but quick lunge
at the pigeons, causing me to wonder whether they
can take off quickly enough, but they plod like

C-130s and off they go, and I wonder, where do
they go with such sloppy bodies. My enjoyment
of Harry’s antics, his smiles and circling tail, his

wiggly glances, sideways, quizzing my sleepy stare,
my enjoyment chugs uphill, fights my shame,
and I stay right here with Harry,
for a moment.

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My Day in Tricky Bullets I

  • Empty mind, the goal, but interference.
    • Dog man, dog man, listen to that shitty music, don’t listen to that shitty music, just let that shitty music float through and cause you to vibrate, dog man.
    • What would guru guy think about how empty my mind is, but if I wonder that, it, the globby mind not my wonder, is filled with egotistical motives and pollution swarms, blowing circuits.
  • For a moment, as smart as the five dogs, but Harry looks at me.
    • Get your shit together, he says. I’m hungry and you need to quit fucking around.
    • Pixie loves me, but she’s only looking for a surprise for her breakfast.
      • No surprise, she toys with the others because dog food sucks.
      • Gracie does not chew Pixie’s head off. I don’t know why.
  • Idea for poem trickles in as I am busy feeling ashamed for not emptying the mind, feeling dizzy with the wheels of insanity trying to trick me into losing my place in the world, threatening to make me forget who or what I am, threatening to remove my sense of the calendar, threatening to incapacitate me and bend me over the edge of the sink under the rag infested with the rottenness of old kitchen mess. I am ashamed of my diseased self.
    • An unbearably sweet girl on the roof downtown throwing rocks.
    • Maybe 20 stories.
    • Maybe pebbles, but more rock-like because they have mass, power to alter the world,
    • and she throws and throws, and all the people in the streets are joyful.
    • The people do not protest.
    • The people strive for acquiring all of the free rocks.
    • I see why my poems suck so badly when I have ideas like this, but my editor earns his pay, and he says, You quit even thinking about writing until you have a brain that might understand what art is supposed to be.
  • Mozart for lunch. I did not eat Mozart.
    • There are times, listening to Mozart, and I am sure I’m listening to God. I wish I could understand this.
    • The odd phrase “could not be more perfect” comes to mind.
      • A guy talking politics on LinkedIn the other day said it’s rude to bring in things which come to mind. I suppose it is too spontaneous for politics.
        • Reduce your time with politics, news, silly strings of comments about art which somehow make you feel contentious.
        • Reduce these and do something worthwhile.
  • I’m a fucking toad sitting in a meeting.
    • New guy. doesn’t understand. You don’t know what we know.
    • Some guy says he likes Carl’s idea and I feel less like jumping out the window.
    • Jumping out windows is tough on the 16th floor because the glass is very strong in order to resist those things that buildings tend to run into.
  • For a short time, I reflected on the last 8 years of being a father as opposed to the years before that, and I had an immensely good feeling, a rare sense of worthiness, and I thought about the last time my daughter told me she loved me. Yesterday. Oh, there might not be better goodness, and I hope that is okay.

 

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Fighting Wicked, Trying Not to Quit

I’m going to try NaNoWriMo again. Last year, miserable failure, so I needed a new strategy. This year, instead of trying to write masterfully, I will simply write. Can I turn off the inner editor for more than three sentences? Who knows, but I will try to turn off the editor for four weeks.

I’ve taken writing courses in both fiction and poetry recently, and I have found that my classmates have uniformly disliked my material. I’m a modernist sinking in a sea of well-trained crafty dime store novelists. I wish I could craft anything well, but I’ll be damned if I’ll write something that’s been written millions of times.

I’m not a writer, but my heart gets sparked when I write, so damn the people who don’t read the shit. I’m going to write the shit and we’ll see where we go from here.

When I left the mental hospital tonight (thankfully having been there as a visitor trying to share hope rather than floating there as an admitted patient), the staff member told me to watch for deer. The full moon was fogged behind deep purple curtains, so I had to use my bright lights a few times. I was resentful of the clouds while others are dealing with horrible winds and floods. I tried to be a blazing trail of alertness. There were no deer encounters, but there was a dead dog. So sadness pervades my evening, not as severe as the pre-visit crater of terrifying depression, but creating doubt that I have any chance at writing 50K words in November, but here on October 30th, I feel determined to plough through.

Every word I write seems to murder one of the parasitic creatures inside my skull, which temporarily alleviates the pain, so on we go – let’s kill some pain.

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Bark Three Times for Freedom

In airport, dog barks, good dog,
barks twice, some silence, security stands
strong, then dog barks three times.
I want to fly with the dog, to be loved
for the entire flight, and I would show that
dog that is he is the most loved being
on earth, but he is meant to stand, do his
work, stop the drug runners. All I want is
his freedom, but you can’t rescue a dog in the
airport; it’s too stilted; the plane’s full.
We can’t steal food forever, so I ride
with the mean humans with no drugs,
and dream about barks of freedom.

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The Diagonal, the Evil Happy Canyon Road

Happy Canyon Road has been
running through the bisque of my brain,
and she has forks sticking out of her sides,
her assertions make it always summer, her
psychic wails cough out these compendious
moments, blistering my cells, for I love being alone,

but the empty vessels of terror that come
from loneliness are inexorably authored by
the raging blasts of distress from walking a road
where all who surround us have perished,
the vast emptiness of screaming through
seashells larger than coliseums,

struggling to remember blizzards,
trudging through the sands of ice spiking
cells of skin, bursting in agony, furious
at the last half-butt falling daintily through
inches of flakes ruining that last pleasure
which had been saved for that moment
when the digging had frustrated the blood
flow while it poisons the eyes and then the ears,

but she burns furiously, Happy Canyon blaring
without interruption, watching me sink into waves
of black pavement while longing to recapture moments
when I held Karen’s hand for so long, but
it never happened, and instead, the Doberman
runs at me, tearing my flesh to see the defective
cells as Happy Canyon laughs in vivid orange beats,

reaching, not far, stabbing countless parts of me
with her 18 fingers, not needing any of her thumbs
and slamming me violently on top of the street
light with the sharp pointed cross on top,
like a merciless funeral drum, never stopping,
not a bass drum, but sounding like
Ppppiiiisssssssh,
always beating me in my sleep,
never stopping, never stopping,
Happy Canyon, smiling in repose.

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Suffering the Reds and Blues of the Breakfast Room

Most times, I’m not grown
enough to sit by god,
and I eat in the kitchen,
the breakfast room, plastic
plates, no knives, and god
cannot share his will with me,
my brain still frozen blue,
the mean boys stuffing me
inside the red romper room
ball with the tough round handle
on top, cackling at my
deadly future.

I see the service
dog, the beautiful
Shepard sitting patiently
with his mistress, she loving
him delicately, awarding him
for his perfection, and I
say I wish I could be you,
boy, for I know the beautiful,
the loved, sit in the dining room
and luxuriate in god’s
will, in god’s kingdom.

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