Hi! So here's a small little story to make up for my absences.

So At the age of 7 I was living with my, and he's and amazing dad, but alcohol is a thing in his life. In fact sometimes it seems like it the only thing her truly cares about.
When I was 7 I had a dog, He was a pit bull, and this was when the whole 'blame the owner not the breed thing was happening', Anyways he was my best friend. I'm sure most of us where weird children, but i still was pretty out of the norm, and he was the only one i could really call a best friend.
My step mom had found a stray dog one dad after work. It was storming and cold...Ironic right?
She decided to let the stray dog in, he was sweet nice and our dog was okay with him. My dad just happen to have too many beers that night. He didn't think about it when our dog was smelling the stray so he spanked the dog with a wooden spoon and then he put our dog in my room. That was normal the dog in my room, I was told to go to bed for yelling at him.

The next morning I did what I've always done, I got ready for school, which consisted of getting dressed, making breakfast, etc, and hugging and kissing my dog goodbye until i came home at 2:35 pm, That morning I didn't make it to school. I never got to leave the house except for when my step mom, and dad had to carry me to the car on the way to the hospital, with a ****** rag on my face. That rag had held my face together, My dog had mauled me, and when I woke after hours of surgery, I found that he was out down. MY dad couldn't forgive himself, and he couldn't forgive the dog so he made the decision to put our best friend down...
I'm not petrified of dogs, I'm just wary. I know my limits and I know how to read everything including animals a lot better than I did.

My dog has died.
I buried him in the garden
next to a rusted old machine.

Some day I'll join him right there,
but now he's gone with his shaggy coat,
his bad manners and his cold nose,
and I, the materialist, who never believed
in any promised heaven in the sky
for any human being,
I believe in a heaven I'll never enter.
Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom
where my dog waits for my arrival
waving his fan-like tail in friendship.

Ai, I'll not speak of sadness here on earth,
of having lost a companion
who was never servile.
His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine
withholding its authority,
was the friendship of a star, aloof,
with no more intimacy than was called for,
with no exaggerations:
he never climbed all over my clothes
filling me full of his hair or his mange,
he never rubbed up against my knee
like other dogs obsessed with ***.

No, my dog used to gaze at me,
paying me the attention I need,
the attention required
to make a vain person like me understand
that, being a dog, he was wasting time,
but, with those eyes so much purer than mine,
he'd keep on gazing at me
with a look that reserved for me alone
all his sweet and shaggy life,
always near me, never troubling me,
and asking nothing.

Ai, how many times have I envied his tail
as we walked together on the shores of the sea
in the lonely winter of Isla Negra
where the wintering birds filled the sky
and my hairy dog was jumping about
full of the voltage of the sea's movement:
my wandering dog, sniffing away
with his golden tail held high,
face to face with the ocean's spray.

Joyful, joyful, joyful,
as only dogs know how to be happy
with only the autonomy
of their shameless spirit.

There are no good-byes for my dog who has died,
and we don't now and never did lie to each other.

So now he's gone and I buried him,
and that's all there is to it.

my dog has depression,
can’t drag itself out of bed; it lays in the kitchen and looks out the window,
wondering, worrying, whining about the light - about the window and the view; it never has
anything much to say,
or if it does,
it doesn’t amount to much, anyway; but it’s okay, it’s just my dog -
it’s not me, anyway; my dog has blue eyes - wish they were brown; all my friends have brown,
and they all seem happy; my dog can’t walk straight; it’s loud,
it’s annoying,
sometimes it smells; my dog, my dog, my dog, I tell you about my dog;
sometimes I think, it’s more important than me, I mean -
I’m not my dog, anyway; I’m not as interesting; I can’t come and say hello and all those things
that make you people smile and giggle and laugh; and when there’s a pause - a really awkward pause -
I can’t look at you
and have all that - your - worry just disappear, like that; I once screamed and howled and danced at
the moon, and my dog just - stared; but does it really matter - my dog was on a comfy bed, and
the way it sat; the same place where it sleeps -
I tell you about my dog,
I tell you about my dog;
I tell you about it all the time, for

I don’t know how to talk about

me

Venice - California - **** me, i'm supposed to write what i can't write -
dog eat dog's equivalent of the offspring - cooler shaker -
i'm ******... i can't strip dance a sentence together -
**** me, the personal hatches to be held within - blues sways -
i can't write out the personal, it's too personal....
the sacredness of the moment as in:
cleaning the house, having conversation
with dad, the BBQ... mum's away tending to her mom -
insignificant parts - dog eat dog's one day -
cruising down with a Brooklyn groove -
you cool? i'm cool. you cool? n'ah man!
see you two Februaries later.
the **** comes later.... i write poetry, i have nothing to lose...
what i have to lose is the need for ink
and the celluloid ear to listen in on me -
if i hadn't i'd be writing the bestsellers for
insurance... i don't write bestsellers...
i write kites... i write what i write...
your capitalistic teams will hardly mind the craft...
poetry is otherwise known as
white boy's rap - less Korean gangsta style -
dog eats a dog to make a hotdog -
buns ahoy! too much personal **** man -
i cleaned the house today,
pretended to be a psychiatrist with my father -
this ain't no Hispanic gimmick -
i cleaned the house... ****'s too personal -
mind your tight Kenyan *** with that curl of lip
with the agony of pride with what a half-Kenyan president
would ignite - a Jew keeps a hammock
and a sense of investment - i know the personal -
bullock Pendulum smack via the potato sack -
prizes like at the Ferris Wheel - please spare me the
Israeli ******* with Arabs included -
please... please! you're no more part of Europe than
the Jihad coupe readied to make us
artistically bankrupt - Jew, you have your land!
tend to your ******* olives
                              and slouch on pitta bread!
let us be! don't keep inviting your repressive
justice agents into the enigma - we fostered Jesus
for 2,000 years! leave us be! take him back!
consolidate your confusion with an Egyptian Jew,
tend to the Egyptian library exposed -
we have no part in it... you make us take part
in it... we'll make Arabs into Nazis, if they
aren't already suggested.
you don't want what we will answer with when
Islam crosses the mark of consistent attack!
you don't want it! wear your kippah *******
symbolism when you either think or don't!
i don't like barbarians anyway,
the niqab shroud of cut-off ******* is enough
to match-up a ******* kippah as imitated
by the saint's bald-patch... leave! go home!
so why is it that home is so violent at your rekindled
reception? the Irish are clearly the first to ridicule,
but as James Joyce said: no Irishman will read me
prior to reading Yeats... the rhapsody of ridicule
will be worth a market stall of pears in
hope for aid to make anything less than poaching
them in pickled speech at stipend of acid talk...
too much personal speech... let's just say i
imitated my neighbour's dog bark by night...
while in daylight hours we talked about her job
and the closure of Broadmoor.

There just isn't enough febreeze
to rid the room of the haze
Of a dog ****, strong and silent
It kind of puts you in a daze

It kind of sneaks in, then it hits you
An olfactory h-bomb in your face
Meanwhile, he just lies there
He's wiped the room with **** mace

There is no middle ground here
They always smell like something died
Like he caught a squirrel in the garden
Now, it's rotting his insides

Dog farts, are a weapon
That our army has not used
In fact I told them in a letter
In their reply, they were amused

"We've tried to duplicate it"
"A killer weapon... stops the heart"
"But, our scientists just aren't able"
"To reproduce a strong dog ****"

"Thank you for your consideration"
"We'll let you know, if we succeed"
"We agree with your kind letter"
"dog farts escape and then they breed"

Sometimes when a dog farts
It makes a noise, he turns around
"my god, I smell incredible"
is the look comes from my hound

So, if you've never smelled a dog ****
And your dog just sneaks one out
Do yourself a favour
Do not feed him brussel sprouts.

I stand on the scale
I look at the number

I'm fat
I way over 140lbs

What am I doing wrong?
I barely eat anything

She steps off the scale
Walks over to the counter
And opens the cupboard

Peanut butter

She untwists the twisty ties
Grabs two pieces of white bread
Places them in the toaster slots
Pulls down the lever
For ten seconds
Pulls it up
Pulls it down
Waits ten more seconds
Pulls it up
Takes it out
Spreads the peanutty butter across the crisp edges

Starts eating it
Nom nom nom

Her dog moves close to the counter
And begs

She walks away
Drops a few crumbs
And the dog eats it up

And follows her into the living room
And looks up

Nom nom nom nom

She just looks at the dog
Puts her bare foot against his nose
Which is cold

And the dog doesn't even move
Sticks his tongue outside his mouth
And breathes quickly

Stupid

She puts her foot back down
And moves it against the rug a few times

Then walks into the kitchen
And opens a bag
Of salt and vinegar chips

Starts eating them
Nom nom nom nom

Dog catches the crumbs and slides against the kitchen floor
She walks back upstairs
And the dog follows her
To her room

She shuts the door
And the dog starts scratching through the bottom
And barks

She just lays in her bed
Eating
The dog barks again

She opens the door
And pushes him
With her right foot
Down the stairs

He tumbles down the stairs and hits the kitchen floor
He races back up
Gets pushed back down
Dog runs away

She walks towards the bathroom
And uses the other scale

And she sees that it says 141 lbs

I've only been eating for a few minutes

Errrr

She closes the bag of chips
And stomps downstairs
And places the bag on the counter

Dog waits in the living room
Right next to the kitchen

His food bowl is empty
No water

With two meanings and a poem about each

I

"Here Lies, the
Last Dog
To Crap in This Yard"

Random corner lot with patchy grass
Dual tired pickup owner, cantankerous,
got tired
got wired
got to thinking,
about why his
yard was stinking,
looked out the back
nothing there to attack
looked out the front window,
rising
sun pooched a crescendo,
as it rose,
he stood, cigarette and coffee,
the order of the day,
other hand on the hood,
of his red neck tribute, a Ford truck
but that odor,
that smell,
he felt unwell
spinning, more like reeling,
he had a nauseous feeling,
that some dog was crapping in his yard,
excrement was on the breeze,
silhouetted by the bright yellow ball,
was the last dog to crap in his yard,
he grabbed his shotgun with ease,
pulled the trigger, buried the dog,

No one saw, everyone heard, when the
police showed up not a word was said,
not a witness could be found, as each knew,
in that 'hood, that dog got around,
to every yard in turn, the sign is all
that remains, a warning and a refrain,
this neighbourhood,
may have ****** lawns
do not get caught doing your business at dawn.  


II

"Here Lies, the
Last Dog
To Crap in This Yard"

They both sit a the table to eat a meal,
from where they will look at the dog bed,
by the dog bowls, and then look away,
just as fast,
it is the past
and recent loss,
of their beloved dog Boss,
beautiful boy, who died to soon,
left them alone, together,
such a calm and gentle giant,
one that they had become reliant,
to share
their journeys,
their truck trips,
their walks in the waning sun,
life,
until that terrible day,
when she called to say,
Boss had been hit, saving a toddler
crossing the road, the boy was okay,
but not the dog, "Come Home Quick,
please,"
he did and they rushed the dog to the vet,
it was awful, everyone was a wreck,
and then the vet called them in to the back,
to give the news that Boss was going fast,
he could do nothing to make his life, ...
soon he would take a breath and breathe his last,

they nodded and said "Put him down",
they went and looked him in the eye,
through sobs they said "goodbye"

Days later, they went back, to get the
urn of his ashes, he liked their lawn,
he loved the grasses,
so they decided, then that they would
never leave or sell, but buried him there,
in that spot where the sun first landed,
every summer morn,
summer was the season of Boss,
now they were at a total loss,
as each morning began with mourning.

But Boss will always be nearby.
And the sign above that spot read,
"Here Lies, the  Last Dog  To Crap in This Yard"
For they would never own another.

title: copepod
body:
blister-whale:
somewhat: 2. 502 bad gateway give-away

i have to admit, i took a hiatus from listening to
Marilyn Manson... by chance i came across
a review of... either Born Villain or the Pale Emperor...
clearly: i wasn't paying attention...
ever since i missed the chance to go to a concert
when he was touring the Holywood album...
that same year Mudvayne were touring with L.D. 50...
i switched off after their debut...
i switched off from the music of my youth in general...
went down several rabbit holes...
notably medieval music - blues - jazz -
                      some extra-curriculum classical....
but the artist ages... well... so does his audience...
i don't even remember when i started writing:
let alone posting dotty-doodles on this platform:
i had only one focus... for all the ills that the internet
enhanced... revealed when it comes to the interaction
of people: sure... the older generations found it
convenient to shop... to do banking... to book plane
tickets... but for us younger folk... the ones born
into the years prior to the inception of the internet...
this was our time to build up an underground
of communication... for me? what better way to bypass
the gatekeepers, the publishers...
having amassed some readership... 44 thousand on just
one poem? hmm... let me spell it out: 44,000...
if i were to write it out in matchsticks, i.e. |||||||||| = 10...
what is 44,000 of those pretty stacks of arithmetic?
let me see what 100 looks like...
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what about a thousand?
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                                                  = 1000...
now... i know what 44 thousand looks like... roughly...
how many spectators were there at Wembley...
for the woman's F.A. cup final?
                                        let's say... 41K...
now multiply that space of matchsticks by... 44...
but this is only one poem... i have... thousands of poems...
some are still stashed on my facebook page:
or rather lost on my timeline...
           mind you: i haven't performed any of them...
why? they don't rhyme: for starters...
i like listening to people sing Aud Lang Syne
on new year's eve... and even Shakespeare can't
beat that... Shakespeare's words were never put
to music... and they won't be...
sure... great meter blah blah... but you can't sing
Shakespeare... so there goes the baby...
with the bathtub and the water out of yer
******* window...
                            i'm more a composer than a performer...
i'm more a composer than a performer
therefore not an entertainer...
i gave myself this: jinx... the moment i start
performing... is the moment i stop composing...
i'll just be regurgitating the very few poems
that might be left in my repertoire like...
Ginsberg... having to recite Howl ad nauseam...
me? i'm sort of in the mindset: plough along...
let's not beat around the bush...
   for all the ills of the internet... there's one good...
the possibility to bypass gatekeepers...
publishers... no one would touch my ****...
and yet: they are printing tabloid spew...
           sorry... tabloid *****...
                they are printing propaganda left right
and centre... my work would be... obscure...
revealed: ha ha... perhaps after my death...
let the people judge for themselves...
                     i'm not saying it's Shakespeare...
god forbid writing that stuffy ****...
                             it's contemporary... i don't even think
i'd allow myself to belong to a movement
akin to post-modernism...
   hell: if **** comes naturally... it comes...
if it doesn't... well... i usually need to do something...
ha ha: "cope"... do some cooking, do some cleaning,
do some gardening... so some ironing of the shirts...
go to my part-time job... wait a year until i'll ask
for references and then apply for a job as a teacher...
or take the current route and become a security guard...
which route would allow me to write, more?
probably the latter... then again... experience
as a security guard... could come in handy...
on a curriculum vitae... when it comes to crowd control...
in a classroom of kids...
    but i really don't want to teach chemistry...
i'd love to teach English...
                   - but don't get me wrong.... some artists /
bands got the mix right... they understood
that there needed to be a prominence of the BASS guitar...
Metallica sure as **** didn't catch up...
pretty much all those kinds of bands didn't...
barely audible... well... with the exception of
the intro on Devil's Dance... but then the bass disappears
into inaudibility...
it's like a post-jazz hybrid... in rock music...
the rhythm guitar and all that is considered "melody"
can sort of *******... let's just leave in the screetching
accents of the guitar... keep the vocals...
but... but... let the bass guitar exfoliate...
   and... let the drums compliment it...
    no no... the drums are no longer the building block...
the bass guitar comes first...
  it's a bit like borrowing from opera...
    bass is the baritone... rhythm / solo guitar the soprano...
yada-yada-blah-blah some minutes later...
songs like the Gardener from Born Villain and
Third Day of a Seven Day Binge from the Pale Emperor...
if you listen to them... you can truly... truly: groove...
you can't stop nodding, can't stop swaying...
you start thinking: how is it that pigeons don't
get headaches? i guess they must be listening to cosmic
music only pigeons can hear... like those dog whistle
scenarios... humans can't hear it...
but since... all birds descended from dinosaurs...
they strut... nodding... head-banging... some ancient
music of the cosmos: ergo? no head-ache...
hmm... and this writing coming from a guy who
drinks like a pirate... and is waiting to do psychedelic
drugs if... he might enter the confines of dementia...
oh yeah: i'm keeping that option open...
should i start to slip up... on my pedantic spelling
and punctuation... i'm ******* off to Amsterdam
to a brothel and some magic mushrooms... ****...
i'll need to get a bus out of Amsterdam and find some
forest... something scenic... mind you:
the Netherlands are not that scenic... flat... upon flat...
upon flat... although... that's the jist of things you see
from the motorway when going through...
i'm sure i could find some beautiful spots to trip...
  should the worst come...
but the artists i was fond of listening to in my youth
have finally caught up with what i was thinking:
where, the ****, is, the BASS?
       ****** music jerking off the solo guitar...
no, please... and all that rhythm guitar...
   challenge the drum & bass crowd...
that sputnik crowd of... turning African drumming
into... a stampede of hyenas on amphetamines...
    boomboomboomboomboomboomboom...
mind-blowing load of headache....
the bass guitar can do two things...
it can set the rhythm... it can set the beat...
but it can also can create an undercurrent of a melody...
oh ****... that's three things...
   early Marilyn Manson did respect the bass playing
of Twiggy Ramirez... but... there was still the guitar-maker
melody overload...
the mature artist... given songs like: the Gardener
and Third Day of a Seven Day Binge...
respects the bass guitar... it comes so gloriously to the fore...
something a band like Metallica can never
accomplish... or Led Zeppelin... all those 1970s greats...
those bands had the bass guitar pop up...
in a segment of a song... NIB? by black sabbath?
and then... disappear... don't undermine the Leviathan...
this rock fusion with post-jazz...
oh of course... there's no section in this music...
whereby each instrument takes a chance to solo...
there's no need... everything is just ******* dandy
as it stands...
             - and where would i be... the internet is evil!
ooh: boogie-woogie! sure... people are acting
like ****-storm brainiac... brainiack... brainiak...
   brainiaq...      just four of the possible aesthetic questions
regarding the spelling of: Otto Binder...
not that i'm a massive comic book fan...
well... if you get a chance to meet Declan Tan...
Declan... yeah... for my birthday he gave me a copy
of... Batman vs. Alien... no wait... it was Batman/Aliens...
published in 1997... i think Declan liked me...
i sort of think i liked Declan...
                      the first time i tasted chicken soup that
wasn't Slavic born... with sweetcorn...
(ISBN 1-56971-305-7)...
sure... it's evil... people ghosting each other...
dark-web ******* inner circles etc., the silk road...
hmm... ghosting... poor Jeminah...
how many times did i play roulette... cycling down
Mawney Road in the past... 3 weeks?
not that often... i tried at least once a week...
not that i'm stalking... but it's a decent route...
it's all downhill... and chances of cycling onto sharpnel
is limited... mind you... never... ever...
cycle into the London borrough of Barking & Dagenham...
chances of getting a flat tire... esp. if you're cycling
on 23cm wide tires of a road bicycle?
no brainer...
   before pulling into Mawney Road... i was...
blinded by a sunset... idiot me forgot to wear his sunglasses...
but i stared at the ***** with eyes wide open
waiting for white phosphorus to start pouring
from under my eyelids...
   oh... i'll be looking at you... until the point
where i see you for what you really are:
but you're never really that when you're at sunset...
or sunrise... it's only at your zenith when...
staring long enough at you... exposes you as this
pulverising... vibrating mirror of fluorescence...
sort of silver... sort of white... but not when you're
coming down from your zenith... you're still blinding...
  - only a day prior i thought i saw Frankie...
Friendrich... her son... getting on the bus...
from a 5-a-side football centre off Eastern Avenue...
turned out it wasn't him:
no, it couldn't be him... over-protective mother
would never allow her son to take the bus on his own...
plus... the kid is supposed to be an actor...
she's milking him... "apparently"... he's into bedroom fun
on a games console... you couldn't find him
climbing trees or playing sports... a *****... basically...
the only sport he might have heard of...
is... boxing... to defend him mother from abusive
boyfriends... where: he'd always lose...
- i was waiting for this moment...
the sun blinded me gloriously...
   as i cycled down Mawney Road...
that's the thing about meeting Jeminah... her dog...
i had these self--inflicted knuckle wounds
from putting out cigarette butts on them...
her dog... oh man... her dog loved me...
he really quickened the healing process...
he licked and licked and licked... and licked...
the scabs off... to the point where i started bleeding again...
looking at my knuckles...
nothing prettier in the world... no tattoo could
compensate them...
so as i was cycling down Mawney Road...
who do i see? the over-existed dog... barking... chewing air...
i see the dog first... the dog sees me first...
i later make out that... glorious colour of her hair...
that darkened ginger that's mingling with oak-cask
auburn... i put on my most impressive frown...
i don't look her in the face... mind you:
everything's ******* fluorescent before me
having been blinded by the sun just minutes prior...
i'm not stalking... she was the one that invited me
back to her home twice... yeah... i know where she lives...
that's when i had that mad moment
of leaving her flowers on the porch...
and a Valentine's card through her letter-box...
o.k.: fair enough... that's borderline creepy...
what isn't... with modern woman and feminism?
          a simple boy can't offer up simple love...
i learned from my supervisor...
the daughter of my neighbour that she's no longer
working for the company...
SLANDER... in H'america you can go to court
for that sort of ****... false-accusation, no?
that's what happens...
when a devil tries to outsmart a devil...
the latter devil pushes on... with gifts... with niceties...
the former devil has no option but to retreat...
to its own, former: hellhole... bog...
imagining someone i wanted to love...
stomach pains... mistaking them for butterflies...
single mum, dating much younger men...
or dating men who were big on *******...
former ex-boyfriend women beaters who ran her
into bad credit rating... with... debt...
i know of the mistakes i've made...
   two... in my early twenties... that's why the rest of
my twenties are a blur... that's why only now
i've reemerged as this extroverted silent type...
in my mid-30s... having plans...
   i wouldn't call it: ******* away my youth...
i'd call it... sorry... what? no, sorry... i was sort of absent...
probably alone in the forest... probably at night...
problem being... she can block me on whatsapp...
she block me on the internet...
       hmm... small world... a very small world...
she'll have to move... or commando the minutes she takes
her dog for a walk... the ******* dog licked my scabs / wounds
clean... he has my blood in his veins...
if he sees me... he's going to bark in my direction...
ghost me, *****? in the good old days...
the claustrophobia of a little city where i was born...
my parents lived... let's say... 600 metres apart...
but it took... being jointly invited to a wedding of fellow friends
that brought them together...
Jeminah can't ghost me... like she could forget about
all those guys she flicked left on
when we worked together on a shift on Tinder...
you can't shake off locality...
i'm practically her neighbour... in terms of of how
globalism comes across... what? i'm not allowed to cycle
down this street? she's not even living on the street i'm cycling
down... she's living on the cul de sac...
but i'm not paying for... the debt her ex...
whatever he was racked up in retaliation...
what a pretty face... what pretty hair: hair that i'd give
up drinking whiskey for... it's almost the same colour...
just keeping to the foundation
of routine... i like that street... cycling down it...
if she has any complaints... she better take out
the scab tissue of my DNA from her dog's gob...
but dogs don't simply: forget who they endear...
with affection... the internet distance conundrum
is not going to work on me... the only way she's going
to ghost me... proper... is moving somewhere else...
small world... small town... in the vicinity of Collier Row...
obviously i'm not going to bother her...
god forbid... i have Khedra to mind...
the ******* that gets all the *** that no man
rarely does... and has to text me: come over...
i need you... yeah... that type...
i cycled past with a frown... i just spotted the dog...
ooh... right... well... i know who's behind that dog...
yep... a flicker of dark ginger: disguised brunette...
yeah... that's Jeminah...
but this is counter to how the internet works...
no? in a cosmopolitan setting?
she can't exactly ghost me...
  sure... she can block me... on whatsapp...
   from a ****-show she herself orchestrated... why?
because she didn't have the confidence to compliment
me, directly... she had to: slander me...
she became one of those... idiotic... sappers...
she self-sabotaged herself... notably? after i pushed forward...
with... wine, cake and flowers...
she became a self-saboteur...
   like i said to one of the other girls: lies don't walk on
stilts... lies have short legs...
just wait... see... i've been alone long enough to know...
certain little, ******... analogies?! behavioural patterns
of blah-b'ah black sheep...
             now... i'm waiting for the crescendo...
there's no denying it... i do drink...
   but... allowing women this "sixth sense" of sniffing out
alcohol on... a person you just met...
accusing them of drinking on the job?
i know the territory... my grandmother had the same
sixth sense... when she turned my grandfather into
an alcoholic... he finally broke down and threw her
through a glass door...
        me? ******* prostitutes?! i'm trying to escape that
headache... keeping it sorted behind a... paywall...
   first comes the payment...
i'm not landing on something that's... ahem... "free"...
- it is a big deal! you slander someone
and in H'america you can be taken to court!
i do drink, heavily... but when i'm working...
i half my intake if not third it...
      i wash, i pamper myself... i end up sober on the shift...
at the London Stadium people either take
selfies with me or give me sweets...
i'm a sucker for pop music and... gelatine infused sweets...
i can't refuse them... chocolate can simply not
exist... but... give me a bag of Haribo...
esp. those sour-sweet types... i can't help myself...
i just have to eat them...
- but, this is... a 2nd Jeminah Revelation...
she... she can't swipe left on me... on Tinder...
i'm not on Tinder: never have...
    i'm almost her neighbour if i take out the bicycle...
i can be round her house in a matter of minutes...
London, even Greater London... has... shrunk... for her...
she can block me on an APP-lication...
but she can't... block me... cycling down a road
she takes her dog for a walk...
               i wonder how this dynamic will work out...
on her mind... i was waiting for this moment...
you can't just... ghost me... when i'm living: locally...
sure... you can... "ghost" me... but... that implies:
you have to move... i'm not moving...
i'm rooted... i haven't been this rooted in a long time...
funny how that works...
whatever it is that works... bicycle breaks...
the wheels... the moon and the tides...
that sure as **** works...
the sun and photosynthesis... that also works...
but... the interaction between women
and men, these days?
sure as ****: it's not working...
  which is, rather... a crying shame...
do we really have to go into interracial territory
for it to work?
personally? i don't feel like it...
    no, not really...
                  whoever takes over...
oh... i'm pretty sure the current white overlords
are planning an ultra-coup-uprising of
being the chosen typos...
               whatever...
                i have lost interest in this world...
from about... 2 years ago?
yeah... the world is sort of automated for me...
i lost interest in it...
the whole matter of the "pandemic"... sort of desensitized
toward any sort of attitude toward Ukraine...
i sort... hmm... ahem... don't care...
Ukrainians celebrated the invasion of Poland
by the Nazis during World War II...
if i'm not directly involved: invoked...
i'm going to play the "solipsist" / pacifist card...
the Pontius Pilate poker...
               i'm out... i was already out...
i just don't want to be involved...
                         is that somehow a Buddhist monk
"sentimentality"?
             to hell with Buddhism...
                         1960s cultural appropriate import...
i'm yet to be rid of the **** Christianity that
turned European barbarism into European
secularism.

When I walk towards the dog his eyes follow my every step.
Eyes  blue like hard candy. Lips curled above white fangs
smile at me with a smirk of someone who has awakened
from a bad dream.

I think I hear him sigh and as I kneel beside him, his cold eyes catch some light from the pulsateing drum bar sign.
"What do you see?" I ask. "What can you feel?"

Inside the bar I order a shot of bourbon and as I put the bourbon to my lips I see the dog standing on a barstool next to the fireplace. His lips are contorted tightly above its teeth and his eyes pulsate red light. After staring in disbelief the impossibility of situation dies. His eyes flash quickly several times. He knows me .

I order 2 shots of bourbon and walk over to were the mutt was sitting. He is not there and I'm beginning to wonder if I have imagined the dog when I feel something ice cold rubbing against my leg,  I look down. The mutt winks at me. I crouch down to put the glass of whiskey in front of him. Then I touch my glass to his.

"I've learned to moan without making a sound. " I tell my friend as his stiff tongue stubbornly licks up the bourbon.

He slowly turns his big, ****** head towards me. "Out of the lowest the highest reaches his peak,"  his hoarse voice whispers. Causiously I stroke his head. He growls but it is not too menacing. It becomes more like a contented humming. The faster I caress the louder the droning becomes. His eyes dilate and I become mesmerized watching them grow from a warm yellow radiance to a terrifying hot white.

And with a vicious snap the dog sinks his teeth into my hand.

I **** my hand loose. Quickly I stand up and punt kick the little ******* into the fireplace. My wounds are deep but bloodless. A cold numbness  travels up my arm, into my chest, and down to my toes.

And just when I 've lost all feeling. I begin to burn. The fire is burning me from the inside out, so no one knows how I feel.
Instead, I stare at the dog in the fire place as steam rises from his head. His eyes flash at me three or four times.

I give him the finger.

When I walk into the poolroom, I put quarter on the table. It is a crowded room of tired faces unable to radiate any light of their own.

"The fire has consumed me. The true believer of snow and sad faces, I am a shell."

I am confused, frightened. I hear the words as if they are my thoughts. But then across the room hidden in a dark corner I discern the silhouette of the mutt. His eyes are shut but I can faintly see his subtle smile.

It's my game so pretending as if nothing has happened I select a pool stick. A tall man in a leather jacket comes over and tells me it is his game.

we argue.

And the dog's voice groans, "No matter what you dream it'll end in ashes or ice. Hit him with the pool cue." The next thing I know I'm slamming the pool stick into the man's face. Blood rushes from his wound. People rush from the shadows. Hands grab me. Punch and kick me. I'm dragged to the door and tossed into the gutter.

Semiconscious, sometimes dreaming, I roll over and face the dog.
From the shadows someone comes behind me, I try to roll over to see the voice but cannot.

"What does this world consist of?" The voice whispers into my ear. "Empty lots, a dead dog, and visions of the night."

Pet’s Revenge
For example a Dachshund dog was thrown 5 floors to his death
The owner photographed this and posted it online
His dog looked like he was sleeping but was dead

I tracked the Dachshund Dog’s Killer down and killed him
I put him in an 80s violent video game with block graphics
I hit him with a stabbing dagger in both shoulders
Then machete chopped half of his pinto skull off
Finally finishing him off with a flick knife in the gut

Next there was the case of the animal rescue centre
9 pussycats were murdered for no real reason
Except they were living in the centre

I drove up to the animal sanctuary in a Technical
I beeped and they opened the gates and I saw him
The Pussycat Murderer who swaggered about like a real man
I aimed my remote control 50 Cal gun with my PS2 controller
And popped the ******* with a hundred 50 Cal Raufoss rounds

A woman cut the foot off her dog with a machete
Because the dog annoyed his owner
All this was filmed and posted online

I found the Limping Woman who made her dog painfully limp
I said Hi and smirked then tightly tied her up
And had my way with her 25 times in a calendar day
Her ***** was sore and needed stitching due to the table leg
As did her feet when I sliced off all her **** toes

Most bizarre of all was the small dog
Who was partly skinned alive by his owner
This dog was rescued and given treatment

Dog Skinner was a hard man to find but not hard in a fight
I threw him a knife and said, ‘Skin me or be maimed...’
His lunges were slow and unskilled and embarrassing
I blocked them with one hand and closed my eyes
I snapped his spine with one single side kick

And a man drove his car and threw out his dog
Like a bit of trash with duct taped up feet and muzzle
The cops rescued the dog and jailed the man

I impersonated a Police Officer and ‘apprehended’ the suspect
Who had just been released from jail for leaving his pet dog for dead
He let me into his house and I Tasered the ******* and duct taped him up
I dragged Dog Duct Tape Man to my fake squad car and put him in the trunk
I drove him to a secluded spot and did a very enjoyable EJK

I enjoyed each and every act of Pet’s Revenge and ******
This is my new job and I always enjoy it and get away with it
I have backing from Big Brother and the Illuminated People

dog wiggles and wags and shakes his tail
while cat hisses and spits and bares its nails
dog catches ball and Frisbee alike
cat hangs around and  mews when it likes
dog protects and marks its place
cat sleeps all day and is hard to trace
dog lives by pack rules and mentality
at times  i think cat lives unattached to me
dog is all drool with autonomic leg kick
cat is  all purr but can't catch a thrown stick
dog i must walk or  run with attention
cat leaves home with barely a mention
dog marks its place again and again
cat pees in  in a square box as its been trained
dog and cats both age in human years times seven
both age quickly then go to heaven
my dog is still imaginary or so it seems
and my cat has moved on live in its dreams
perhaps in the future when all is clear
say goodbye to my kitty and a puppy I'll rear....

Shh! Quiet down
Shut your mouth.
Hear that sound?
It's drowning you out.

Listen close.
Silent as a ghost.

The whimpering
The barking
The biting
The fighting

Do you see them?
Inside your life's hole.
They're there
Fighting for your soul.

One dog,
Black as night
It seems as though he's winning the fight

The other,
Brighter than light.
Covered in wounds, he doesn't move.

I kneel next to the ****** hound,
But I leave kibble all around.

The black one eats
'til he's had his fill.

The white one lifts his head for a crumb of strength
I push his head back down and stroke him lovingly

But comfort means nothing when he's dying
The black dog's finished, he comes up beside me,
His head in my lap.
The white dog's crying.

The puddle of blood grows
I am being swallowed whole.

I see the flames beneath
So I jump to my feet.
I lean over to see.

The black dog's tail swings side to side
As he looks his master in the eye.
Is it possible for a dog to smile?

I begin to fear
I pull the white dog near.

The dark one growls
My heart rejoices

"I don't understand"
The white one wails.
His eyes close.
Stillness covers his tail.

My eyes overflow
My face breaks down
My hands grasp out
I'm falling down.

This agony is leaving
My chest no longer heaving

But the black dog grabs me
Pulls me from peace
Tosses me aside
I lean on the beast

I look to the white dog
Sadness fills my heart

But then,

His eyelids part.

But the black dog has quite the head start.

To all those who have never had a dog….you were never able to see the tilt of the head when a question was asked….        
To all those who never had a dog …you missed the peacefulness of a walk on a summer day with a companion of the highest order.
To all those who never had a dog…….having a head rest itself on your knee and look up in love is not for you.
To all those without a dog..... you will never get a lick or a nose bump of love.
To all those who have never had a dog…….the wag of a tail, signaling love and happiness will not be yours.
To all those who never had a dog…….you will not share an evening dinner with a most appreciative friend.
To all those without a dog….. you will never hear the bark of protection in the night.
To all those without a dog…..you must recognize that the warm loving dark eyes that look at you with respect and love will be a thrill for someone else.
To all those who are without a dog….do not squander the chance, do not look down another road for love and friendship…..it waits posed on four beautiful legs …staring and asking for your heart.

She must have been kicked unseen or brushed by a car.
Too young to know much, she was beginning to learn
To use the newspapers spread on the kitchen floor
And to win, wetting there, the words, "Good dog! Good dog!"

We thought her shy malaise was a shot reaction.
The autopsy disclosed a rupture in her liver.
As we teased her with play, blood was filling her skin
And her heart was learning to lie down forever.

Monday morning, as the children were noisily fed
And sent to school, she crawled beneath the youngest's bed.
We found her twisted and limp but still alive.
In the car to the vet's, on my lap, she tried

To bite my hand and died. I stroked her warm fur
And my wife called in a voice imperious with tears.
Though surrounded by love that would have upheld her,
Nevertheless she sank and, stiffening, disappeared.

Back home, we found that in the night her frame,
Drawing near to dissolution, had endured the shame
Of diarrhoea and had dragged across the floor
To a newspaper carelessly left there.  Good dog.

An angel and a dog sat on a ridge.

Sun set before them;
Cloud stretched from earth to heavens;
Wind came up behind them;
And tousled their fur and feathers.

Said angel to dog,
"You lucky creature of earth.
You never made a choice,
Never had to doubt,
Never bore the burden
Of knowing what life's about."

Replied dog to angel,
"You lucky creature of heaven.
You got to make a choice,
Got to help a man,
Got to soothe his pain
As I but wish I can."

Said once more the angel,
"Of words of thanks
I have been deprived;
Yet you are scratched
And given rawhide."

Replied again the dog,
"Those same hands of man,
That pet and pacify,
My brothers sadly learned
They can beat and vilify."

Shouted angel at dog,
"Consider yourself lucky,
That body is all they mar;
You cannot even fathom
Torturous souls lost to dark."

Evenly dog to angel,
"Am I not of creation?
Am I not creation speaking?
I suffer the blood of my grandfathers,
And of my grandsons.
I know naught else,
But this I know completely."

Snidely angel in retort,
"I see suffering of thousands6—
All the world to lament;
Your grandfather and your son
Are not even a percent."

Somber the dog,
"And you are not an angel,
That is most evident.
Of your choice you live now,
As you died then.
Please leave me now this view,
And my destiny to man's kin."

The angel dropped to the raging sea below,
And flopped in the snow;
In rage he threw the hailstone back,
And before the tempest flew.

The dog sat a while longer,
And admired the peaceful scene;
Till a call came from the woods,
And he sped back with glee.

Auntie cut the rind
off the bacon
and offered it
to the dog

but before the dog
could put his lips to it
you made off with it
down the cast iron stairs

beside the barrack block
and the dog followed you
barking as it did so
and once you reached the ground

you went off
onto the grass
and the dog
chased you

and jumped up at you
trying to reach
the bacon rind
you held between fingers

and Auntie called over
the metal rail
let the mutt have it
don’t tease him

and so you bit
the rind in half
and gave the mutt one half
and ate the other yourself

but sometimes after Auntie
put the bacon rind
in the dog’s bowl
you picked it up

and tossed it
over the balcony rail
onto the ground below
and the dog raced down

the stairs after it
but now and then
you pretended
to toss it over

and after the dog
raced off
you would hold it
over the side of the rail

and called to the mutt
and said
I still got it mutt
and the dog raced back

up the stairs
and you sat there
on the metal landing
and the dog came

and licked and nuzzled you
and you gave the dog
the bacon rind  
and he licked you

and wagged its tail
and Auntie called out
what are you up to?
what are you doing now?

I had just left the library
and was 20 minutes early for the bus
I decided to pull a Sobe
and a roast beef sandwich
out of my back pack
it was the first of May
but it was cold as hell
my fingers were numb
I would take a bite of the sandwich
take a drink of the Sobe
then set them down
and warm up my fingers
this guy came walking by
with a skinny little black dog
the dog looked like it was starving
and looked like it had been beaten
she came right up to me to say hello
I bit off a piece of the sandwich
and offered it to the dog
she gobbled it up happily
but the guy was ******
"you can't be feeding my dog" he said
I told him that somebody needed to feed the dog
because he obviously wasn't
"the dog should be taken away
and you should be jailed for neglect and abuse"
he got right up in my face
and started spitting obscenities
I got right back in his face
held out my chin and pointed to it
"go ahead, take it out on me
and leave the dog alone tonight"
he uttered a few more choice words
and backed off
he walked away jerking at the poor dog
as I watched him walk away
I noticed a sign posted on a pole
I had to walk into the steet to see it
It said, MISSING DOG
and there in the photo
was I think the same dog I had just met
it said her name was Bella
and she was a Chow Chow
she was probably 20 pounds heavier
and looked happier in the photo
she had been missing since March 22nd
it also said she was sick and needed medication
I didn't know what to think
was it the same dog?
was the man she was with neglecting her?
or was it the previous owners?
I decided to call the number and left a message
saying where i saw her
and what direction she was headed
and I left a description of the man
suddenly I didn't notice that my fingers were frozen
I don't know where Bella is tonight
but I hope she has a warm bed
a decent meal
her medication
and a loving companion

The Mouse with the house on the River Louse
Now has a family of 12 to feed
A husband and ten smaller mouths all reside with the Mouse in the house on the River Louse

One day the Mouse with the house on the River Louse went outdoors to explore with the intention to find something tasty and fine to feed them all

She walked to the edge of the grounds to the bank of the River Louse, where her friend the Frog, who didn't live in a house but lived on a log in the middle of a bog with his friend Bee, was waiting for his friend to serve her tea

The Frog and The Bee showed the Mouse with a House on the River Louse a table set fit for a Queen with fine China cups, saucers and plates and a tablecloth made of lace

The Mouse with a House on the River Louse was delighted and very excited as the Frog and The Bee said at half past three they would be joined for tea by a new neighbour Miss Molly

According to the Frog and Bee Miss Molly had just moved with her dog and cat, a dog named Mouse and Ferret the Cat

At half past three Miss Molly came to tea and brought with her muffins and cream
The Frog and The Bee brought scones and jam and the Mouse with the house on the River Louse brought some crackers and cheese

The children of the Mouse with a House on the River Louse joined their mother and Miss Molly, the Frog and The Bee the Cat named Ferret and the Dog named Mouse and quickly polished off the delicious tea

The children and the cat and dog all asked if they could play in the bog, the bog where the Frog lived in the middle on a log.

The Mouse with a House on the River Louse agreed and so did Miss Molly and the Frog and Bee

The children, the Cat and Dog all played happily in the middle of the bog

The children, the Cat and Dog found some sticks in the bottom of the bog and began to weave and make a raft, all they needed was a a Sail to catch the draft

One of the children squeeked with excitement  when they found a lily pad on the ground
Quickly the lily pad was hoisted atop and the raft completed and ready to sail in a hop

The children, Ferret the Cat and the Dog named Mouse were playing lovely outside the house, pushing the raft up and down as not a drop of wind was to be found
Then suddenly the wind changed direction and the northerly winds began to blow, they started really slow but the wind got faster and very strong
The children, Cat and Dog couldn't hold on for very long and suddenly they were being taken away from their safe play, being carried down stream and they all did scream

Just like that Dad came home and took out of his pocket a telephone
He called the coastguard to come quick, a raft had drifted and was headed for the slip, soon they would be in the ocean with the bigger ships

Aboard the raft 10 young mice, Ferret the Cat and a Dog named Mouse, all huddled together, to be less afraid, hoping someone would save the day

The coast guard turned up at the house and asked to speak to the Head Mouse
Mother and Father together they spoke, eager to save their children cut afloat on the boat

Then at half past four came a big roar the coastguards had saved the day, the raft had been caught and brought on board just before they got to the edge of the bay and sailed away to the bigger bay

The Mouse who had a House on the River Louse, Dad, Molly the Dolly and Frog and Bee all shouted ecstatically "Thank you Lord for hearing our prayers and sending the men who saved the day and rescued our children from the mouth of the bay"

The Mouse who had a house on the River Louse counted the heads, toes and noses of the children to confirm they were all safe and then said their goodbyes and ushered them all safely inside

So, we’ve had a few dogs, all the same. Golden retrievers with bigger hearts than brains, that want only the affections of those who love them. And those who don’t. My parents love to say how our first golden, Euka, once tried to get in the car with a random woman, solely because she had a laundry basket full of towels, his favorite chew toy.

In my junior year of college, my parents adopted our third dog, yet another golden, with a beautiful, soft white coat, and no brains to match.

My father, mother and brother all sent me pictures of this magical creature, sitting on house furniture and looking like the dog we have always wanted. Little did I know, he was poorly behaved, and peed like a fountain when excited. That never seemed to phase my dad, however, whose always thought I don’t use the dog to his full potential.

“That dog is a chick magnet.”
“I know dad, I know.”
“Really, just walk the dog, and you’ll meet so many women. So many cute, young women. Look at his face, he’s irresistible.”
“Okay, I know, I get it. He’s cute.”
“Yes he is, and he’s yours, so use him to your advantage.”
“I’ll meet a nice girl, she’ll pet him, and he’ll *** on her.”
“If she stays she’s worth it.”
“Well, maybe I don’t want to meet any cute young women right now?”
“Of course you do. You’re 21. You’re at your prime, and I know you can do it on your own, but the dog, he’ll just reel them in. Trust me.”
“You just want me to take the dog for a walk? Or do you want me to get married?”
“The first one first. Then we can think about the second.”

Black dog, black dog
Why do you follow me
What do you want
Why do you rob me of experiencing joy
I try to flee ... It's no good
Wherever I go
There you are too
I fled to a foreign country in aid to escape you
But low and behold there you were
Waiting to welcome me at the airport
Black dog, black dog
Aren't you embarrassed
You ought to be ashamed of yourself
I wish I could **** you
I would if I could
But then I'll have to die too
And I refuse to give you any form of satisfaction
I intend to stick around just to spite you
What do I have that you want so badly
You feed off me
You're nothing but a parasite ... Leech
Black dog, black dog
I can't stand the feel of you
You're a brain drain
Keep me chained at home
Yet you grant me creativity
But at a price of course
I love to hate you
And worst of all ... You know this
A paradox of gross contrast
Black dog, black dog
I have a plan up my sleeve
I'm going to buy a brand new pair of pliers
Then, slowly ... One by one
I'm gonna pull those teeth of gleaming white
I will destroy your deadly bite

A boy was walking alone in the woods weeping softly when he sat down on the stump of a long dead tree between a vast field and a lonely lake. The boy sat and wept for a good while before his sounds attracted the attention of an old shaggy dog that happened to be chasing rabbits in the field. The dog trotted up to the boy and asked, “Why do cry in such a way child? What bothers you so?”

The child wiped away his tears and blew his nose before answering. “My father hates me! He yells at me for everything, even when I try to help him! He must wish that I was gone, so I just ran away.”

The dog sat down next to him and asked, “What happened to spur your decision to run away today? What did he yell at you for?”

The boy seemed to remember the incident freshly and became angry once more before puffing his chest and ranting, “It is very cold this winter and our house must stay heated constantly, so my father is always cutting wood. I do not like being so small and I want to become big and strong so I asked my father if I could go to the log pile and split some wood for the fire. My father told me no and to stay away from the wood pile. But I do not like that he is constantly telling me what I cannot do! I wanted to help, so when he wasn’t looking, I went to the pile and I started to split a log. My father came out and screamed at me to get back inside right away. I ran back and received a lashing and he yelled at me once more and told me that I must listen to what he says. I began to cry and I yelled at him before I ran away and kept running. I do not mean to return.”

The boy finished talking and began to cry once more. The dog quietly stared at him and let him regain his composure before speaking.

“Child, you must understand that even though your father may yell at you and may punish you, this does not mean he loves you any less.”

The boy interrupted and shouted, “He does not love me, and he wishes I was gone! If he loved me, he would not treat me so!”

The dog immediately jumped on the boy and licked his face.

“Child there are things you do not yet understand and even though your father may tell you certain things that you disagree with, there is always a reason behind his words. He asked you not to split the wood and you disobeyed. For this reason he punished you. This does not mean he wants you to leave, this means he wants you to follow his words. When you are older, you will understand.”

The child grumbled and said, “I would not yell at someone like that. I would let them do whatever they want.”

The dog smiled and licked the boys face once more. “One day you will understand. Go back home child. You are beginning to get cold and darkness is coming soon. Your father loves you and if you do not return soon, he will be up all night searching for you.”

The dog turned around and headed back to the field. He stopped for a moment and turned around once more and looked at the red faced child once more.

“Remember this; there is always reason and truth when there is love and kindness within the heart.”

With those last words, the dog barked once and vanished into the field.

The boy sat on the stump for only a little while more, still brewing on his bitterness and the words of the dog playing behind his anger, before he stood up and slowly trudged home.

The boy eventually made it home when the sun was beginning to hang low in the sky. He still had anger in his heart and meant to confront his father once more and demand better treatment. The boy looked over at the wood pile and immediately froze in his tracks. His father was standing over the pile with the bodies of three dead rattlesnakes hanging over his axe. The father looked up his son. The eyes of the child filled with tears before running to his father and embracing him while the old shaggy dog playfully chased rabbits in the field.

Just below the ridge line, east of Tinnamon's Creek, that's where we found Lily's dachshund.
The brown, island patch of fur beneath its snout was caked with blood -- throat turn, chewed.
No coat remained on its front legs. Framework mostly. Some dangling, loose tissue.
White fibers I didn't recognize dotted the shriveled body. How many days had it been?
Three? Four?

"What'd you expect to find?" Harvey said, lifting the tag. "Brannagh. 5321 Starlite Drive."

"I know, I know. Lily's still going to break. Doesn't matter what I expected."

Harvey ran his palm along the dog's belly. Whispered something I didn't catch. The sun began to sink behind the mountains -- everything turned a variance of purple. And the wind came in, unannounced, as wind tends to do. What's the protocol on a dead dog? Bury at the scene of the crime? A pile of rocks left behind for hikers on the passing by to say, "I wonder what happened there." Or did we bag the unfortunate beast? Ring the doorbell. Ask Lily if she's got a shovel. Our fathers made no mention of times like that.

"I've never understood why people have pets," Harvey said. "Do you just want to be miserable? Your cat Socks, Millie, whatever, is gonna die. Your turtle Larry is gonna die. The charismatic hamster in the classroom, running the wheel, knows every step with its stupid paws could be its last. 22 fourth graders taught expiration dates. Teachers sign up for that. Brannagh was gonna die. Lily knew she'd outlive the dog."

Four deer looked on down by the creek. Still, yet comfortable in their stillness. I could have touched them if I wanted to. I hated that. Deer in Colorado made me feel powerless. They assumed, automatically, that I carried no firearm, only a camera and a bit of Chex Mix. Pallid threads continued to float down from the sky.

"What is this stuff?" I asked.

"What stuff?"

"Falling. In her fur, right there. On your shirt. In your hair. The white stuff."

After a quick scan of his chest, Harvey pinched one of the white fibers between his index finger and thumb. Hardly gave it a thought before giving it a flick.

"They're just coming off the cottonwoods. Happens toward the end of spring," Harvey said, reaching in his back pocket and pulling out a garbage bag.

"Is that what we are going to do?"

"I'm not burying the dog out here. Lily needs closure. If she 'breaks,' she breaks."

Harvey opened the black bag. Stepped on the bottom of it. So it would hold against the wind.

"Put the dog in here," he said.

"I'm not doing that."

"Well, you have to."

"Why?"

"I'm holding the trash bag."

The dog's eyes weren't there. Whatever mysterious factor that leads people to buy dachshunds, whether concentrated dose of cuteness or unmerited friendliness, it had bled out. I walked around to the other side of the dog. Stuck my hands under its spine -- cleanest spot. Stiff from rigor mortis, sure, but stiffer than rigor mortis alone. I knew the stiffness of death from my childhood collection of unfortunate pets. The sun had baked him, made the matted tufts sharp. I dropped Brannagh in the bag. Harvey lifted up quickly, as to not let the corpse hit the ground.

With the deer still watching, we began to climb up the rockface, taking us back to the trail. My eyes fixated on my feet to avoid a misstep. Harvey took the lead, looking only forward. When he began to speak, he did not turn around.

"You know what's funny about the cottonwoods? I hadn't thought about this in a long time -- both my mom and dad had a theory about what you so eloquently called 'white stuff.' Mom, sticking by her poverty- and church-induced eternal optimism, said that the white strands falling from the sky, came off the clouds. 'Heaven's confetti,' she said. It was God reminding us that his grace reaches all of us."

"What did your dad think?"

"Well, Dad worked hard for what money we had, and going to church wasn't exactly his idea. Believed God owed him a little more. He didn't even sit with us. Back pew kinda guy. Mom would lead prayers focused solely on him moving up a few benches. Anyway, I say all that to say, being poor and going to church created optimism's opposite in my father. It wasn't long after I graduated high school, before I moved to Fort Collins, that Dad gave me his theory."

Harvey reached the top of the ridge. Gave me a hand. Dog's corpse slung over his shoulder. He looked at me.

"My dad said that the white strands from heaven weren't signs of encouragement. He said they were tears of those who'd gone before. People looking down, weeping at -- not only what violence brother does to brother -- but also at how we **** away every breath. 'Trading dreams for dollars.' "

"Which do you think is true."

Turning away from me, Harvey switched the garbage bag from his right shoulder to his left.

"Neither is an option. And to remind you, neither is the correct option. For the sake of humoring you?"

"Yes, for the sake of humoring me."

"I think my mother's would be more accurate."

"Why is that?"

"The cottonwoods shed one time a year. Seems to me that white stuff would be falling all the time if it was the disappointment and sorrow of those who've passed. One time a year. I can see God giving us a little something one time a year."

Torn sleeves from my Nike jumper, shredded runners, now fit for the bin, tired expression, turns to red, as I roar to the heavens LITTLE DOG.  Swiftly comes calling is the pint sized beast; a soothing patter lurks from the stairs. Its front paws scraping at the doors glass pane, the door slowly opens and the trial of little dog begins. Hind legs on the carpet, front in the air, dashing, Little dog takes the stand, colloquially readying herself for trail, beady eyed Little dog showing no fear.


Look what you have done to my clothes I said to she,
Shredded and torn, but she just stood there  looking at me.
Now ranting and panting on her little hind feet,
Assertively barking, they were on the floor,  were they not there to eat

Her suavely demeanour, quickly turned to angst
Head and tail touched the floor, paws scraping at the floor mat
Trouble on the horizon  Little dog is fully aware,
As the cute little critter  looks on with an somberly stare.
All rise , court is now in session, has the jury reached it verdict
Guilty on all counts  your honor, a unanimous decision.

Reluctantly accepting the verdict Little dog addresses the court,
With one roll of the dice left,  she plays the mercy card.
I know I was wrong in my actions she pledged to me
But the clothes lay on the floor, I assumed I could eat.
As I stand here at your mercy, calling out to the heavens,
To turn a blind eye and  pardon my actions with merciful discretion.

May the court show me leniency as I am only a dog,
I know not what I do, for I am merely a hog
Very well humble madam, the courts now heard your plea,
With the courts merciful discretion I am setting you free
You can go now,  but if I see you here again,
The gallows shall eagerly await your ascend
Thank you your honor, for the leniency you have shown
My presence will never again grace this here court

Little dog leaves the court with an all merciful sigh,
Timid posture quickly fades as her head rubs the sky,
Wagging tail keenly follows her shrewd little smile,
While once again asserting her own suavely little style
The trial has concluded Little dogs won the day,
But as sure as dawn rises, Little dog shall wreak havoc again.
Its about my dog, who ate my

LOOK! IF THE DOG SAID HE SAW IT, THEN....HE SAW IT! OK?

The dog said
he saw it.

The cat said
she saw it too.

Now, that cat hadn't
seen nothin', but...

wishing she had
she pretended she had.

That cat was
a notorious liar.

One couldn't believe
a meow

she had to say.

And yes, a passing parrot
seen it( or so it was said )

but, having just escaped
a cage

had paid no attention
whatsoever to it.

Parrot was greedy for
that blue stuff

folks called
the sky.

Fly away into its forever.

Truth to tell
there wasn't

a human to be seen.

So, that left only
the dog & the dog's

shadow
panting in the sun.

An old umbrella
lay abandoned &

had nothing
whatsoever to do

with it.

A baby's shoe
lay shipwrecked

amongst a sea
of *******.

It was a golden yellow
with a bright scarlet stripe.

The dog was thinking
about food.

That dog was always thinking
'bout food.

The dog snapped
at a flea that was

bitting it's
right buttock.

*

"What...was it?"
I hear you say.

"What...was...it!"

Well, now - I guess
you'd have to

ask the dog that. . .