Posts Tagged Dogs
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.
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
always beating me in my sleep,
never stopping, never stopping,
Happy Canyon, smiling in repose.
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
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.
Even light and heat flow gently
when my bones are not finding resistance,
as the dogs clue me in on priorities,
showing me how to fight for a niceness
of spirit, and I want the thrill of this journey
to charge electrical circuits, to drive
my spitfire, to stifle the kind of darkness
which strives to suffocate me. As I
feel so clever for doing what the people
tell me to do, allowing the humid moss
to gather atop my skull, making me feel older
and exponentially worthless, but my steps
continue to follow one another, and the shit
gathers in between the fingers as the trees
continue to impress despite the counter-intuitive
movement of old and known trees making
a good world for me, the dogs knowing my fear
and trudging along without inclination of stopping
because they know we are close to home,
and they know that it is always possible that
something good could happen when we arrive home.
Despair sits on the pink leather
in my nose and tickles
the back of my throat
in the pea-green leather sofa,
crawls like a snail,
sideways, lurching forward like a turtle
in a bath of surreal Blue Jay feathers.
And Buddy-The-Dog announced,
“My leg hurts.
I said, “Of course it does;
you’re speaking English,”
and Harry-The-Dog moaned
over the difficulties of life –
A real moan like from a bear
who cares never to be disturbed.
I want to accept Despair’s
toggles with her fountain pen,
and I tell her, “You’re just a story;
you are not who I am,”
he wags his tail vigorously,
and Harry-The-Dog asks me to scrub
the persistent baby snot off my face.
Gracie-The-Dog is the queen
of serenity, and she sleeps through
all of the commotion
caused by Despair’s ruthless burglary
while Daisy-The-Dog and Pixie-The-Dog
wrestle in turmoil through the guest room,
hopelessly heedless of the terrible
Storm that surfs, close-by to the North.
I look at my Golden for infinite moments.
Her eyebrows move in that way
that makes me love her with fiery guts,
that makes me feel more love than imaginable,
and I turn away, voice bouncing off walls,
“You must live longer than I.
I don’t have much business left here,
but you have voluminous loving to do.”
Silky rain like ghosts
in a microwave with popping corn
in the house with open windows
two doors up, my puppies
seeking an imaginary intruder
actually holding the door,
and I mash my face
in the posh pancakes
before even giving butter
or syrup a purpose.
Twirlers, tish, tish, tish.
Clydesdale, Golden Retriever,
She is chomping at the leash,
bobbling up and down,
a beautiful creature
being gassed by the aquarium
of tall buildings swarming
with engines crawling
around on wheels.
Her owners, looking around,
looking up – They think
life beautiful too, enhanced
by their Golden Retriever,
but they’re killing her,
essence and all.
Truthfully, with lonely envy,
I only want the Golden
to come visit me in my office
and stay with me forever.
Big people, like on TV
documentaries. Don’t show
their faces, show their asses.
I see their broken smiles and
their shirt buttons. Holding hands,
forging a wide path.
Then come the more agile
street bums with enormous,
tricked-out backpacks, one with a
tiny dog on a leash, and the other
with a middle-sized mutt, also
on a leash.
They look back and begin making
an assessment through dissertation,
and then a short man with funny, perfect
black hat, immaculate
white shirt, holding orange balloon,
and then lady in grocery-
store-like electric wheel chair. She knifes
through the humidity at twelve
M P H, crushing through
the orange hand
signal. The big bus stops awkwardly.
The bus does not hit her.
The bus is long and it bounces
with braking and it twists.
Harry likes his pink whale.
I like Harry’s pink whale, too.
Harry mouths his pink whale
for hours like he wants to be
a mother. Confusion is whether
or not I want to have a pink
whale, too, or if I wish my
Mother would have treated
me like a pink whale. I had
a pink whale once. She’s still
cute as a bug but she’s grown
and doesn’t need me any more.