Posts Tagged Gracie

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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While Daisy and Pixie are Playing

Despair sits on the pink leather
in my nose and tickles
the back of my throat
while Harry-The-Dog
lounges upside-down
in the pea-green leather sofa,
and Buddy-The-Dog
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.
Does that…
make sense?”
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
desperate, nerve-wracking
toggles with her fountain pen,
and I tell her, “You’re just a story;
you are not who I am,”
and Buddy-The-Dog,
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.

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Voluminous Loving to Do

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.”

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Spring Breezes Bring Fear

Black and white, furry mess, alerting all to her toughness,
three octaves too high, tensely rearing for retreat.
Five-pound Pixie makes her way into the day. Anxiety.
Leaves from fall blow around her and she is paralyzed
by fear of a storm that is the breeze of a March day.
Birds are flying now, flying low, and Pixie sees B-52’s.

I am who she is as we tear ourselves from winter into new life.
I am fearful of all that moves, especially beings who fly disguised.
She has Harry, Gracie, Buddy, and even Daisy, bitchy Daisy,
sibling pups who find her obnoxious but who would save her.
My siblings don’t protect, they wait for my barking and biting.

Pixie and I fear that we will not survive the next rip at our hearts.
She can hide behind a sibling. She is full of loving outlets.
Perhaps a human will hold her carefully. I need outlets.

 

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Gracie

I squeeze and kiss my Golden Retriever,
smearing my nose on her cold, wet nose,
and then croon “MMMMMM” forever
into her cheek, like she’s human,
like it’s been years for both of us,
shifting left to right foot/paw, almost rollicking,
wagging our tails, and she does not object.
She smiles sparsely but bravely.
She understands this,
this is how I am.

 

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Who Is It Who Beats a Dog?

Who is it who beats a dog?
My temper becomes insane rage.

Tender care with my loving Gracie,
reach gently when petting,
else she ducks as if from a descending bomb.

Who is it who shatters these loving beings?
For Gracie it was long, long ago.
Now she is old and wise,
but violence of puppy days is stuck on her.

Who is it who beats angels?
I hold my Gracie and she loves me deeply.
She has no clue about my load of defects.
She knows I would never hit.
She knows I love her carefully.

If I were the creator,
I would allow dogs to destroy
those who beat dogs,
but then the dogs would not be dogs.

Who is it who is so depraved?
Give me all the beaten dogs,
and let me love them now,
never to allow a beating again.

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