The lion dog’s muscles ripple
as he descends the stairs
toward the source of food
guarded by another creature
smaller but just as wild.

The standoff happens in the kitchen -
a 110-pound Rhodesian Ridgeback
a pet who wants his kibbles
and the housecat
who thinks she owns the place.

The hound approaches
slow and deliberate
his huge head depending
from a neck
thick like a phone pole.

The cat sits alert but unconcerned
until their noses touch -
then the cat flashes surprising claws
ripping the hound’s nose
and he runs yelping into the living room
to hide behind the couch
to fall asleep
dreaming of the hunt
the rush of his tawny brothers
across dusty savannahs
toward great African lions
with paws like dinner plates
and sabertooth mouths.

The drone swept silent
between the maple tree
and the shed

zapped my dog Shep
with an electric bolt
that vaporized him instantly

while Mr. Stone next door laughed
I told you, Hoffman
to shut that **** dog up

just as my drone
launched a fire grenade
up the exhaust pipe
of his new Lexus

yet somewhere
in the akashic record
of my sweet country
a muleteer helps
pull his neighbor’s wagon
out of the mud
that follows
a torrential rain

I went into the garage
sat down at the workbench
laid out a clean sheet of Tyvek
and sterilized the long steel probe.

This wasn’t a snap decision;
I did months of research
got some tips from an ER nurse friend
knew the risk
but could not live this way anymore.

Numbed my right eye with ophthalmic anaesthetic
leaned over the mirror
and slowly pushed the needle
into the socket beside my nose.

It didn’t hurt
just pressure
like the blogs had said
and then

The world exploded in yellow stars

When I get too blue
I laugh at myself
pick up the leash
and take Mr. Brown to the dog park.

He shows me how
to be carefree
will jump and bark
drink a gallon of water
and lick whomever he chooses
without a worry in the world.

Everybody admires his *****,
What kind of dog is that?
He’s a Rhodesian Ridgeback.
an African lion hound,
but he’s scared shitless of my cat.
what’s yours?
A Visla.
Looks like yours, only smaller.
Did you see that American Foxhound?
That s.o.b. can jump!
Yeah, too bad he can’t pay my mortgage.

The young photographer shows off
his brilliant Doberman’s latest trick –
a double backflip
catching the Frisbee ten feet high
landing on all fours.
The old lady with the blind daschund
says, “Oh, oh, isn’t he wonderful?”
She claps her hands in delight.

The canine Noah's arc show runs all day
with the entry of pugnacious Sharpeis
the arrogance of Poodles
the inscrutability of giant Malamutes.
the pride of leash-holders.

Gradually tree shadows darken the sawdust
and people start parading home,
the **** athletic girls with their boyfriends’ Shepherds
the slow old men with their greying Labradors
the lady real estate agents with their tiny Shih Tzus.

And then it’s silent
I’m the last one there
alone in the gathering dusk
still hearing echoes of joyful barks
realizing how funny it is
that so many people
look just like their dogs
but I don’t think about it,
I just marvel at all this joy.

When Mr. Brown forgets
leaves his puppy unfed and tied
before rushing off to work
the animal mewls confused
abandoned and lonely all day
watching Dog TV.

The parched houseplant
screams from its porcelain prison
for silent water
wishing only to be made wet
fecund on attention once again.

Everything sits silent
in the close confines
our life's domestic drama
just waiting for us to realize
we are born to notice
the cries of who lies closest.

Yet no one is to blame
for ignorance;
it is the Dog's karma to be abused,
the foliage to dry and go discarded
for no apparent fault of their own.

It is Mr. Brown's karma
for his dog to die
with a broken unfed heart
to toss his plants in the trash
to find his home unadorned and silent once again
and wonder over and over
why is life so barren?

Every morning
I feed the mewling cats,
chug my hot instant coffee,
sit at my rickety linoleum kitchen table
and peer hopefully out my thin window,
through the cracks in the glass
beyond the rusted screen
into the acres of wet trainyards and commercial blocks.

There in one non-descript grey building
underneath the watertower
beside the Sheriff's substation
a band of laughing saints
craft delicate malas of lapis
and manzanita windchimes
while diaphonous angels all a-hover
manifest vast verdant grassland prairies,
great ocean waves, sunsets
and spring flowers hidden in rock crannies
where nobody will ever walk,
and they launch grand air balloons
bulging with epiphanies
that may drift my way.

Sunrise waits hours away
at the stoplight before dawn
the navaswam not yet
even crisping the morning air
and it happens again

my eyes open automatically
mind piercing the dark
1:27 a.m. decision
this flesh defiant
toward the digital god

so it begins again
where should I go?
whom will I meet?
what set in motion?
and it matters because?...

all this wondering
in a nanosecond
before I remember
those are not real
they are only thoughts

just time and space games
insomniac headtrips
when the fact is
I always wake up yearning
before the sun