To Be Had
I've never had a dog. Before you call bullshit, give me a minute to light the story.
Marcus had a dog. This was well back before we were tight. A Boxer, he named Jock. He liked the way it sounded, kinda exotic, kind of sexy, in an unobligating, irreverent way. He was in his late teens and maybe it wouldn't fly now, but at the time, it made sense, alright? Alright.
No leash. Stay at the heel, go everywhere bud. That was Jock. He had just one flaw. One fatal flaw. Cats. He couldn't stand the pretentious oversized rodents and blew a mental fuse whenever he saw one. God meant for cats to be chased. And that was how Jock met his end. It was his blind conviction. He ran a cat into traffic. The rat escaped between the tires, and Jock didn't.
No amount of calling from Marcus could bring Jock to his senses.
Nevertheless, a good dog. No dumb mutt. Loyal and driven.
His Uncle Tonio had a Doberman. I'm no snob for purebreds, but I note it makes an invaluable difference, in character. He died nameless; an important, yet insignificant part of the whole. It remains for me a summary of the selflessness of Dog. Of understanding. Pack and hierarchy.
The tale goes that ol' Tonio was a nice guy overall, but a braggard, and an alcoholic. An unfortunate combo. One night the two of them, the man and the dog, climbed the eight flights to Marcus's flat. There were a few fellas over, drinking and smoking, and they got to talking about bitches and mutts, and what makes a good dog Great.
Uncle Tonio knocked his shot back and rattled the glass on the table, wiping his mustache with the back of his hand, lifting his cap back a bit for emphasis-- letting off some heat.
"I'll tell yah what makes or breaks a Dog. If I whistle 'whewt' here!..."
...and he pointed at his dog with full command, full attention,
"and say '_____ JUMP!' he.... "
He had him. And yeah, the Doberman jumped.
Out the open window, eight stories down.
You might say, that's stupid. But I say, that is Dog. And that is Man.
And I've never been had.
**This is a True Story**
I’m not dinner
I am menstrual
unable to fruit.
Wanting beef jerky instead of this complicated plate.
As I hold my hips in my hands, roll my brain back into my eyes
I’m still left hanging like dysfunction on my tongue.
And my heart with its dimensional view of my innards
aches to know a social situation that isn’t frightening.
I write about a lion…
a lot
because
I'm caught between its eyes… often.
Even when I take the long way around a short conversation dancing my poor hurricane til’ dusk lamps bursting in my wake.
He couldn’t ignore the clumsy way I pried open his jaw
Felt the slick sharp of the teeth marked with my name.
The way that I crawled into his mouth and made a bed of his cheek
Lit a candle and wrote on his tongue.
It's dangerous over here, on this side of childhood.
The walls need bleaching after being drenched in grace
and in forms
gestures
silhouettes of what's to be.
Not enough band aids or therapy.
I'm just fragile right now, I think.
Be gentle...
Like the process of making jello.
Like when an autumn leaf crunches into oblivion black back to its maker's arms where I'm half lit unimpressed in cities under street lamps exploding into whispers of me...
This is my erotica
1998 morning thoughts
I’m freezing standing to an electrified fence
And it reminds me of the irony of wanting summer in the middle of winter
Or just some spring so the garbage won't freeze
And I’m choking over my view of the marketplace
Laughing at my own inefficiency
Dangling my feet over the hooks that land men in graveyards
Resting my body on the bones that have labored men in triumph in their angry after work surprises
And there's the sound of trucks trains saws chains
And shouts
And cars like dirty old licensed rivers
And I’m waking up to fall asleep again
Tangled up in page that somebody will never read
I’m screaming nothing but high jealousy into the makeshift wind
And I realize in March and not February and we’re walking toward the doom of boredom trying hard to clear our heads and our throats of all casual dust
and to take our walks shivering in the country witnessing trees too far from rebirth.
Tangled in our order and watching our rules role around the bottom of a glass bottle
We’ve been living inside factories too long
Sighing at red lights
Reforming unions and snapping our fingers at strikes
Protesting brick walls to ease us into eden
Always on the other side like crossing a bridge and being reborn at the same time
And I’m cutting out for a cup of coffee and some lazy thoughts just so I wont freeze to death up here by mistake and become some monument to a personal war
And I’m becoming more and more sure of failure
Aware of how I keep looking over my shoulder staring at tracks that lead west or east or south clicking off to journeys unbound and downed by heartache and spoiled by the army of the collective soul
So I’m going now, leaving sentences with my shoes running away burdened like a packrat
Echoing in destiny, moving over, making my own time, carrying my own clock
And fixing myself up so the fall won't hurt so bad
And I’m an idea line traffic loose
I am a memory on this day and this day only
I want peace and it's in my hand and I’m crushing it against the used astro factory producing nothing but little boy hang outs
And I am rebelling against rebellion and in its own way it's flattering
And I’m caught in my own web spinning myself around rosary arms beads of sweat invading my mind and I’m done
Done for the morning.
Loose Change
It's never easy
to be
far away
we miss the months
singed by the flames
of yesteryears...
the leaves and petals
drifted
over red
careless breath
given wing
till pooled
in dampened
fields
The roof still stands
though walls have caved
in faith
we stand
transfixed
a penny
beneath the water
lost in thoughts
for two pence
corroded
green again
calling
the kettle
whistling
blue
across the oceans
we've underestimated
one another
by several billion
seconds
each of us
flipping
for altered ego
Well? you say,
heads or tails...
we toss a wish
& for a moment
before the ripple
everything stays
the same