This was just published so it is copyright 2015 by Holy Cow Press ~ mce**

Poverty is the fence around your life. Poverty wakes you up at 4 AM only to whisper meaningless slogans in your ear. It is the school of Piranha nibbling at the back of your brain. It is two hours waiting in the anteroom of despair for $22 worth of food stamps and being glad to be there. It is changing your phone number frequently because bill collectors are such boring conversationalists. It is the empty space your heels used to fill. It is letting your hair grow long and scraggly and your grizzled beard sprout because you know that although you sleep in rented rooms tonight, the street is not far off, and you want to fit in when you arrive. Poverty scalds the lint from your pockets. It is your private Treblinka within which you rage but are crushed. It is desperate prayers against dental catastrophes, blown tires, surprises of any sort. Poverty is when everything you own is frayed including your nerves from sleepless moments spent trying to solve the equation that will make X number of dollars cover X + ? number of bills, knowing that such math would defeat Newton or Einstein. Poverty is eying the cat's kibble imagining that with a bit of sugar and a splash of milk it might be fine and then eyeballing the cat himself thinking of protein of last resort and trying not to measure him against the microwave door. You ration your cigarettes; whiskey is a fading memory. Passing a diner on the street, you catch a whiff  of burgers too expensive to consider and experience a Pavlovian  moment. Poverty is trying to keep your head up and then remembering you pawned your neck. Poverty is watching the needle eat your last few gallons of gas. Poverty is the archeology of despair. It portends the death of irony. There is nothing ironic about a car with 217,000 miles and no insurance on it. Facts are facts in the world of poverty. Poverty is the last quarter reclaimed from beneath the cushions. It is too much time and not enough quarters. It is the specious logic of the self-righteous proclaiming that you deserve to be poor because you are, which in Amerika passes for wisdom. Poverty makes each day like the next because nothing does not vary. It is who you are and where you are going, although you won't get far. It is the life you lead inside the fence. It is the sum of what you lack. It just is.
   - mce

foisting up at the strop of yawn
i remark,
impared
at the bluffers worn
it is kildy and capy
i'm underly mistaken
i plonder on my clothing
and part the towd ranglings
blind are the dawnings
it's still a mite
at four gone the night
and more a tune til the mourning
i am blowtard and sworn
i mumble back to kibble
and a mount full of scorn

A black and white film
About an old man and his dog.
There is no dialogue.
Just ambient sounds -

First, of the alarm clock’s
monotonous song.
Followed by an abrupt
cutting silence as his hand slams
down on the snooze button

Then, the sound of a coffeemaker
spitting and burbling.
The coffee, pouring into a chipped mug.
Sugar, then milk,
the clink of the spoon against the ceramic
as he stirs
the long first sip

As the man looks curiously
at something on the fridge,
just out of frame.
A bag of dogfood opening.

hard kibble ringing against the metal dish.
The dog grumbling - impatiently waiting.
Tupperware  opening
The hum of a microwave, and the beep.
Last night’s stew poured into a bowl
the rest, over the kibble.

The closed caption reads:
[Enthusiastic, sloppy eating noises]

The sound of water running
as the bowls are scrubbed clean.

The door closing as the two leave
for their morning walk.
The old man and the dog
are now sitting on a park bench.

The grass, still wet from the morning dew.
There is a beautiful sunrise
over the nearby lake.

The camera pulls away,
as music overtakes the diegetic sounds
of nearby parkgoers, birds and runners,
and teens playing hooky.

The camera cuts back to for a beat
to the kitchen
in the empty house.

The camera zooms in on a weathered
and well loved piece of paper
held up by a rainbow magnet
on the refrigerator door.

Fade to a black screen,
with white letters:
Fin.

Moon on the horizon.
Soft breeze rattles the
brambles out by the
old barn.
The cat enters, looks
about and begins to
speak.

“Fears take flight after years
of drinking the tears away
while the days responsibilities
are laughable in the light of
satori's brilliant realization.
Silly, silly man, thinking reality
something to achieve, a destination
to discover, a journey to undertake.
Listen and I will tell you what little
I have learned burning away my
short time on this horizon of
understanding.
All that is transitory is a metaphor
for the eternal and all that is eternal
is a metaphor for the self.
The self is the collective consciousness
we all share and what we share is our
experience of being.
Being is nothing but an illusion created
in the mind of God while God is simply
a metaphor for eternity in the mind of
man.
Now pour me some kibble for I know
many things, but do not possess opposable
thumbs”.

I woke with a start, cursing the spinning
room and swearing never to mix Jameson
and Absolute again.
The cat finished her kibble and crapped
in the litter box.

She may walk through crowds
unseen
An advantage of her age
poking through products  
at her own distracted speed
Feeling fruit or sniffing soap
Reading labels
fine print through two pair of glasses
turning slightly
hoping no one sees...
how gone it's getting....

She may lean on cart at check-out
just shy of your usual...
Old
who ask for double bags
Nope, she will not slow the line that way
Remembering work
assesses pain
shifting weight to other leg
to spare an aching knee

Not one for counting desperate change
Not arguing every item on receipt
Not fumbling coupons
nor writing checks

...will not slow the line...

reluctant to let go of youth
Remembering exhaustion's day
she will not slow the line that way--
Fiddles with smart phone
(Yes, she knows how!)
to pass the time
She fumbles through her purse--
God only knows
what “old folks” look for
Probably glasses, tissues, gum,
or
"Where the hell's my keys!"

Stopping by a news rack
on the way out
Is she waiting for a cab?
Who cares!
Outta way, she stops to read
The New York Times, WaPo, Journal
Thee chapters of a novel
Outside their pay-walls
The mind beneath the woolen cap
is at it
grazing once again, for free
Where she often likes to feed--
her curiosity
No one sees her watching
from the inside out
and the corner of her eye

But what to do about that cat litter?
or ½ and ½
on highest shelves?
she simply cannot reach....

Always some tall good-lookin' guy around
to flatter
his size
looking for dog kibble, “big game snacks” or beer

She plays
the old lady card so well
...and somehow
gets what she needs

Hello morning, I have anticipated you since
I awoke to the small barking dog's tailored speak for food.

I want that Eddie should start preparing her own meals. I know that while I smoke this morning's cigarette, that French Bulldog inside contemplates the fifty dollar bag of high-grade kibble she has pushed me to buy her or instead enjoying her own ****. And all of my wives friends call her a lady.

I want to ride alone in our FJ Cruiser through Yellowstone at dawn, before the predators have gone to bed and the tourists make their queues, I want to beat morning until I have found the wolves, and the sun rise mocks me as I sit four hours in traffic for a cup of coffee as I round the shivering peaks of our Rocky Mountain backyard landscape, and the Tetons swell with last nights snow-fall and the warm autumn air sends plumes of frigid mist above the valley floor and into the skies above Jackson.

And I wish I could stand once more on the balcony of the 777 building and smoke the finest sativas with my friend Turtle while our significant others drink coffees and watch reruns of American Gladiators on a $14,000 couch waiting for us to come back inside.

I wish I could wait on the benches outside baggage claim at San Francisco International Airport smoking inside the white lines, waiting for a girl in a red sports car to pick me up and my friend Guy's absurd faces there to greet me amidst the fog and the out of place palm trees Inevwr expected to see so far North.

And it would be great to hear my grandfather play the ukulele once more while I excitedly fished off of my grandparents dock somewhere in New Jersey where my mother's accent insists she grew up. And my grandfather sings horrifically demeaning songs written in 1924 that offer little respect to women, but much adventure to young men.

I want to play tag with the neighborhood children again in the Summer of 1995. Even though I had come to find all of those playing tag had absconded to a game entitled The 'A' Game, which its only rules were to exclude me from joining. I want to throw scalding hot water once more into Simon Berman's face. Though I do not wish for him to block the water with a basketball and turn my face into Jack Nicholson's Joker.

In Chicago as an eighteen year old, I could count the chalk outlines of bodies as I drove down Fullerton Avenue through the Logan Square neighborhood. I wish I could remember those sounds the boricua made. I wish I could forget the burning runs I received from Lazo's burritos at some time 'o clock in the morning.

I've never been one for finding edible late-night eats. I only want the memory of being able to do so. I do wish that my wife's ex-best friend's boyfriend realizes that he's less the great Emeril of his kitchen and more or less is just an unemployed sous chef with a laundry list of felonies, rather than a wish list of awful entrees. At least in that memory, he's neither a chef nor my wife's ex-friend's boyfriend and instead he's just another hideous orcish ****** ringing the doorbells in some suburb of Seattle, announcing to each and every one of his neighbors that he's obligated to notify the community of his ****** offenses.

I just wish I was there to witness his humiliation, and enjoy the total collapse of ego amidst the long list of those decent people he has surely offended.

Perhaps in some future life I can enjoy watching as jungle rot solves my hatred, disposing of his evilness in small skin ***** of flesh that dot the sidewalk while his disease evolves.

I want more vegan eating options across the food desert we call America. I want to arrive home one evening and find my wife ancy to share a new study that American Journal of Medixibe has found on the benefits of providing non-reciprocated ******* to your partners. And I want to be the first to enjoy the benefits of such a study, that I'm encouraged by her to publish my findings while I attend a prestigious university I once wasn't allowed to attend because of my religious background.

I want to live in a world where violence is no longer a viable solution to resolving the in differences we as humans confuse each other trying to make sense of between ourselves.

I want to visit our local grocery store and find that my favorite $8 a pint vegan ice cream has been marked down to a more reasonable number and that there is still an abundance of flavors left for me to choose from.

I don't wish for much: to not have people ask me to speak louder, full-frontal ****** in made for television movies, and a decent blonde IPA for under $10 in glass bottles. Where in this world can a poet go and still receive the respect that was once given by the royal monarchy of The British Empire.

Now it seems those with the fine knowledge of words are cast into a class with less regard than street-drifters and the homeless.

When did our world lose major respect for the artisans of fine art, or the ability to render an opus?

28-integer news memos and 15-second clips of our cute dog eating its own **** attract more attention than a fine explanation of the human condition or the sultry and sophisticated sounds of my Argentinian friend Anna recite Garcia Lorca in her native Spanish tongue.

I just want to be gone before there is a consequence for finding joy in the human condition, and honesty and integrity are known as the recividism that takes down our nation.

We were once the leaders of a great country. We were compelled by our history to create and indoctrinate one another to achieve, conceive, and amend ourselves to thrive amidst the uncertainty of a mischievous and disgraceful society. Now I just wish to be in bed with my wife when this storm of stupidity comes. I wish I never had to be on the receiving end of a sermon set forth by business leaders instead of political achievers.

I want Eddie to make herself some breakfast so I can lay here in bed a few more moments. I want pancakes and fresh fruit juice for breakfast, a quiet room and a hard-covered notebook. I want to believe a great pen and a good friend could lead me through the exciting and anxiety-writhing times in this life, but I to know too sadly that we live in a world where we don't view it as a weakness as those around us may not be able to read or may not be able to write.

such a treasure, and a chore! I have bought the local store
out of bleach, vinegar, baking soda, ***** and kibble.
A bother, yes, when I try
to walk to the bathroom or refrigerator
without being tripped up, and I shuffle along now,
I don't dare to lift my feet for fear of hearing a wounded
yelp. And bad breath, I thought the drunk begging a dollar for a small bottle who lives under the bridge when he asked, "spare a dollar, mister?", and my
eyebrows sizzled , had bad breath. These treasures breath smells like they eat and drink from a septic tank.
Let one whimper or get on their back legs begging me to pick his or her little sticky *** up, and I put it on my chest and watch her , or him, get all cozy listening to my heart beat, and it seems worth it.

:AQUARIUS:SEPTEMBER:

Last month you saw Marilyn Monroe riding sidesaddle on a bicycle. Her cream colored skirt billowing as she passed you by. You noticed she had aged. She was gray and lined but still beautiful.

Last week you saw Tupac walking to work. He clocked in a few minutes early and kept his head down. During the lunch break he talked to you about settling down and starting a family. He used the word "suburb" and you almost gagged.

Yesterday you adopted a dog who had been hit by a car. You gave her a name and a yard and a bed and grain free kibble. She's fine now. She doesn't even seem to notice her stitches. She sits on the porch and barks at squirrels while you fold clean clothes.

Today you realize you have learned to raise the dead. But only so they don't remember themselves. Only so they have no recollection of who they were before. Only so their lives are blank boards.

You are afraid of your newfound powers, but with Mars in your house you will learn some control.
"Don't bring back your mother," you repeat like a mantra.
You won't feel restraint until the 21st.

this love is now & new & once again
stabbing @ me like durga-like diety
with sweet golden daggers
an essential togetherness
teasing out of these odd surroundings
I was listening to Jack Kerouac on the way
home in his mad
bop rhapsody apocalypse
streaming out my speakers
while familiar streets crawl past
once again
I'm thinking
as the day old glum spread over me
& out to envelop all I see
how little different to be watching
seeing street signs all opening
into cul-de-sacs and open storefronts
paraded in the endless traffic flow
now bent slow over
feeding my cat crab cakes
that my mother made
myow myow, he goes
& I acknowledge
myow myow, he goes
& I answer
what?
what in god's name is
the matter with you?
myow myow
his solemn reply
licking @ a piece of
exposed claw meat
nestled among old bits
of dry brown kibble
how about this soul?
how about this life?
this sickness?
how about this always seeking I?
how about he music of my mind
in untraceable car rides alone?
wherefore to I wander
ceaselessly in search of what
wonders where I might be
born on the road of least descent
cat paws, grabs @ bottle caps on
grained wood table
my media
fizzles & searchlights
in my window
there is something I'm not facing
something inescapable, my love
like you
born of locusts in the dust, my love
like you
my weary dune-mother
how solemn are the tunes that run
thy face, o' mother and thy will
how broken are the lines upon thine
shining brow in bedroom windows
open to the world like peace
stolen in the sad glance I gaze @ everything
stolen is the cup I fill @ leaking kitchen
sink pipe strands of scent or bark
of neighbor dogs amusing grass flow
weather flowers under well I'm never
knowing what--I never will
no matter, all is well
another's all is nothing now
where knock goes streaming
crashing loud
like anvils in the rain
it's only me
how now, my dear contender?
like a shadow fallen into sound
how now the planets unwatered?
how now the roots are killed?
we all inhabit the same fears
how rabbit hides his smear
to give me a surprise
for me, none so dear
than the mystery
& April dies today

His dead wife used to spit. He tells me this on a hot July day on his porch. “Yeah, a whole fifteen feet,” he boasts. He’ll laugh, but I am noticing his large golden cat with her eyes half closed, dreaming in the summer heat behind the open screened windows of his old house.

He collects newspapers, and they lay in yellowed stacks that I can see beyond his open door within the stillness, still ******* with thick cord. Some of them rustle lightly at the corners, swaying up and down as his electric fan rotates this way and that. I momentarily question how fragile they’ve become with age against the hum of blown summer air, but his slow almost-southern-drawl takes me back in and I shield my eyes from the sun with my arm, keys in my left hand, sweat at the back of my neck.

The roof and trees have offered limited shade, and I’ve leaned against the side of the concrete steps to feel the coolness of the bricks against my knee. I’ve meant to go for an hour now, but he keeps me here with a, “Hey, y’know—” and another story will follow.

About his son sometimes, who he always says is also his best friend. I’ve never met him. He’s like a ghost of someone I think I could know but he remains unnamed and I have never questioned it. He’ll continue on —how he wants a new dog but he doesn’t know how his tired self would keep up with a little pup, and his fat old cat —oh, could I feed her this Friday and Saturday? “I might go out and see my son.”

I say that I will with a small pang of jealousy. She curls around my legs in her eagerness, unaware of her master’s weekend absences, purring at her first few bites of small, orange fish-shaped kibble.

When he is tired and doesn’t feel like driving he’ll take the city bus out for his errands and call me with his “cell-you-lar” to see if I can pick him up. “If it’s no trouble,” he says. It isn’t. I’ve taken him home on several other occasions.

His thank yous are quiet, but I feel them anyway. He is nothing like my father but some part of me hopes that when he looks at me he is seeing his son just as much as I am seeing all the years of neglect and false hope all wrapped up in this lonely man.

a quick word for paula lee
and  pamela rae
members of
the ditzy is as ditzy does club
may i join you ladies fair

my applicatory action
took place this morning
while labouring under distraction
i washed my husbands(a chippie) workwear
with cat's chicken flavoured kibble

it is now out drying on the line
with a row of cat's divine
staring at the brown streaked
grime in nose wrinkling adoration.

so ladies i think i made the cut
and can become a fully fledg-ed
member of this club refined
of absent mindedness defined....
(i plead pmt ...
intelligence in, sharp decline)
what say you..

A yellow dog lies
in a yellow field.

Thinking of greener days,
legs twitching in canine dreaming.

Of fresh water, and tasty kibble,
a special stick thrown by its master.

Rusted stripe down his back,
a flag of sorts, dogged wisdom.

Ten years old, he still has some spry,
a spring in his lope, a point yet to fang.

Eyeteeth seeing all, pink nose knowing
the smells of this field.

Where the rabbits burrow,
where the squirrel makes it home.

The far off lament of distant freight trains running.

A yellow dog sleeps in a yellow field,
a small white cross marking his bed.

He will run forever in yellow fields,
Running, and dancing amongst the golden stalks.

**** it,
imma go to the store
and get a few more
beers and some marlboros
im stumbling
all over the place
making circles in the hardwood
with my feet
and swing doors in the air closed
with spaghetti in my veins,
but imma make it,
imma shut that *******
dog up
too,
keeps barking,
shut the **** UP.

"That's Rob's dog,"
Elcie says,
spit ripples at the corners
of her mouth,
and some baked ziti
is rumored to be
in the toilet.

That ******* thing
is getting six 60 milogram
perky sets in his morning kibble,

right after I puke
some more baked ziti
and wodka.

Bury me with a pen in my hand and a spiral notebook if you can
So I can continue to scribble my words of kibble
Of a lifetime in line tasting all of life's nibbles
You can't cut in line when it's not your time to go
But the best desserts are served last, this much I know
Until that time when I say my final goodbye
I write in awe of a life that makes me laugh as I cry
So special this life it must be immortalized
Or risk memories fading as dreams never realized
But after I die with a pen in tight rigor mortis grip
Throw in some paper for my next upcoming trip
Boldly or timidly, I'll ask my God to decide
Whether I enjoyed this gourmet banquet that He did provide
(and did I get my fill before I died?!)
Because I'm the one that writes my own menu
With every bite of life that I do chew
The price I pay for all of these nibbles
Are purchased by all of my handwritten scribbles

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 7, 2016)

“I don’t care for a man’s religion
whose dog and cat are not the better for it.”
-- Abraham Lincoln


Poll the polecat for I don’t have, to say, a dog
in this fray, in this tussle of quicksand policy.
No kibble in the bowl of faithful-isms,

the ticks and slugs of sham prisms.
As the maxim goes—if you lie with dogs,
you wake up with fleas and fated policy.

You wake up as compromised as policy
uncompromised, orchestrating schisms
and foul offensives. Beware of the dog

policy, bird ******* and false Emersonian-
                                                                        isms.

Good morning my dears.
Good morning.
Do not rush to rise,
breakfast will wait a few sleepy seconds.

Come forward; grab a bite.
No, not of me, thank you.
Play nice.
Take a chew toy, we have time to play
with friends.

Please stop nuzzling.
No cuddling.
No purring.
No licking.
No tail-wagging, please.
stop loving me.
Just eat.

Eat more. Crunch as much kibble as your hearts desire, even if
your stomach protests. Enjoy.

No don't play with me.
Frolic with your real friends.
Go and eat and play and love and live and
****.
Back to bed everyone.
Lights out.
Farewell for now.
                                    no.                 stop whining.            stop. stop.
never be distraught by my departure.


Good morning my dears.
Good morning.
Do not rush to rise,
the day will keep a moment more.

Please, do not rush to me.
Please
take your time
slow down i'm begging--

This way, friends.
No, we play in another room today.
stop trusting me please.
This way. Through here.

Yes, everyone into the cage.
Hold on, I cannot play with everyone at once.
please stop fighting for my affection.
no don't come to me please. no.
not you. don't--
Very well. Let's go play.

No, I'll carry you.
stop purring please
your love is lost with me.
Onto the table.
Everything's going to be fine.
Everything is--

Yes.

It's what you think it is.
run please.
fight.
claw away from me.
resist me i'm begging you.
i'm begging you
i'm begging you
**** me **** me **** **** fuckfuckfuck
stop.

fight me.
do anything but give up.
do anything but burn into me with those sad, shiny little emerald eyes
and stab into me with wisps of wilted innocent love.
Such simple beauty is wasted on me.
It brings me pain where there should be pleasure.
See how lost I am.

at least show me
you hate me.
let me at least be innocent
of betrayal.
give me one crime to not be party to.

Oh.
Don't be sad little love.
This is just another sleep.
Your soul is safer than mine.

How does one feel when they glimpse
the pure night sky?
Alone,
Enthralled,
Fascinated,
Questioning,

And yet,
Dismal.
For we see only half, of the whole truth.

What stars?
I have seen the stars,
This is not their irradiant glory,
This is a poor semblance,
A portrayal of our Ignorance.

We cannot see
The stars,
By our own hands we have blinded ourselves,
From the single-most
Awe-inspiring,
Demoralizing,
Ego-diminishing experience,
And it shows.

Constantly busying ourselves,
we fail to make time to gaze skyward and
dwell,
When you look at the sky, you are
Forced to question.

Those who do not look,
Do not question,
Those who do not question,
Accept,
And those who accept,
are blind.

Blind,
Deaf,
And dumb.

Led here,
Led there,
From pasture to pasture.

Fed ideas like they’re kibble,
And the dogs are hungry.

It’s a dangerous thing,
to gaze up,
There is always the chance
Of choking
On your own existence.
How will we awaken the masses
From their eternal slumber?
A difficult task when
their heads lull ,
from the self-induced hypnosis.

The light is what we need,
And they stars,
They give it.
But we drown it out,
and substitute it with
the eternal hum of the artificial glow.

Deprivation,

The population thrives on it.

Honestly,
I would be stunned,
Nay, terrified,
If every mind awoke to the reality,
of the vast insignificance.

You can hear the minds imploding.

You can feel the torrent
of individual thought.

Danger.

Terror threat level Severe,

Burning red.

I have seen the stars,
Filling every void in the infinite blackness,
Radiating their celestial secrets,
Tantalizingly close to revelation,
Yet lost in translation.

You find your true self,
When alone with the stars,
No one except,
Your thoughts.

Oh,
what a dangerous place to be,
Floating somewhere between consciousness,
and stellar knowledge.

Will you rise to the Astral Summons?
Seek respite
from the electron hum,
Find yourself under the endless
luminous canopy,
And question.

We are the championships

Dipsy do's soft serve
Just curve your dog
enthusiasm

He wants another hug
what heroism

Doggy dog leash pull

The presidential Poll

The bark full of dogs

Back to the future

Dog Bow wow machine

feature


The collie matched the

checkerboard

Barking Dixie to the ward

Being hugged and dodged

The ball in his mouth

We were both doggy tailed

Help me "Honda Accord"

The Waffle bowl meets

his approval dog bowl

The Patriot "Super Bowl"

like the dog dupper

Who really needs to eat

Moms supper
Again what a pain
What remains Hollywood
Hotdogs barkery train

Mr. Snoop-dog big and long

All sporting dogs trampoline

jumping like the Alpha College

scout snapping Dorm dogpiling


Your heart was trapped inside

his bark

Those troops hit a stump

Presidential

Trumps?? Devil dogs hired
Boot camps

Sylvester Balboa bark scoop

Saint Bernard Knox

Smoochy poochy jet lag

What a watchdog and friend

This is dog La La land


Bagels and those cute beagles

Slurpee lips no cat naps

From there wags and whiskers

I was left with a Soda pop

Three Stooges and cops

Having a dachshund meltdown

Football tackle stampedes

smarty pants

in my dockers seeing

Those cocker spaniels


Elton Johns of Daniels

Why do the humans become

like suckers dogs are the true

pledge hustlers

The Twitter subject became a

Dog Litter

Those dogs bark's Dads with

soda pops do-wops

Feeling nutty professor

my socks in my dresser

The dogs become smarter
than their masters


Someone was barking up the

wrong tree


You're the one who became

the pain can't you see

Diggetty dog house pet ate all

the water bugs happily end

Making a mate four leg friend


Who needs the dog house

Or his bone in T steak teeth

The corndog Kitcat kibble
bailing him out


Basketball he dribbled

Double Taurus dog was named

Boris Karloff so territorial

The Gulf of Mexico became his

surf and turf dog editorial

This was the operation double dip

This pup was the panic button

Her bark his park whistling tea kettl


Flip the house throw
out the sitter

The dogs ruined all the carpet

But you were leashed to him

like a magnet you felt like

Down to your last paws



Golden finger bone fund

You bow to their paw feet

Going to the "Bow Wow"

colorful Parade


Dogs new flash

"Hot dogs devil dogs
Raid bark and purr

Way smarter than you Sir

He bounced to his biscuit

Like a Karaoke dog game

Barking so spot suited

You were watching the

sports game the dachshund

was in a cabbie City


The human or an animal

Snipping your sneakers

Housebreaking a dog to
just imagine
All the people John Lennon loved
his dogs just Imagine

Hey it wasn't anywhere near a

dream but so worth it

You reached for his paw

no place like home Dorothy
last straw surrender


But the rewards of having

a dachshund if you only knew

People that don't have dogs

Some of them would not

understand that's OK


Dog spelled backward God

and their paw's with not
one flaw

Now drink your soda pop

at the bus stop all dogs

American flags playing tag

But remember your dachshund loves

to be hugged opening up
your emails


So much compassion love like no

other competition


Those jumps and wagged tails

So loving and running to greet you

and lick you so much to tell you
Just love and think

Tacked onto cosmos,
Soft light,
Eradicating an opposite,
Dreaming life into fruition,
Kibble,
Bring lips
Down, among trenches & arcane
Never rest
Context, infinitesimal in journey,
Nexus at best

A hammer through your letterbox,
Covered in spit,
Listened to through callous hands
Knocking on the complex,
Chamber of advents
And unleashing the deepest, unknown secret
Flattened, stretched Ambrosia,
Content enabled metropolis,
Slowing the progress of atrocity
Into dawning backward birth

Orders in place,
Genus
Chronicled in ordnance,
By gated communities,
Escalating the calamity by force

Embargo transcend,
Glitter on abound, endless
Pardon the boredom
Lapped, lipped, tapped, trusted

Trying to find balance
In amongst leaves,
Leaving Earth
In a ship fueled by discontent

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.

Perhaps you aggrandize
Those sacred manifestations
Lupine resonance
When the moon takes a cooler hue
Ebbing in the western sky
As I scurry
Furtive in the wake of wolves
Cavort under cover of shadows
The darkness lenient
Diana's placid orb obfuscates
Any deeper meaning
These solo notes from husky throats
The soul’s chronicle lost
Your hackled superstitions don’t abet me
Demure dogs shiver on silvered chains
With the acumen of stones
They throw themselves
Lick the hand of the master
Fawning malleable in your fettered life
You crave the panacea
Of stagnant water and stale kibble
Trade these wild cries for silence
Shrink from the eminent colossus
Freedom is the howling nemesis
Beyond your black and white vision
You never see
The multifarious color of coyote dreams  
TL Boehm 070508

he is four legs
sees the world
by everyone's
knees.
a soft
saliva-coated
existence,
measured in pants.
governed by rough-hewn
kibble
Not sure I
would wish
reincarnation as a
dog.

experiencing overwhelming gratitude
for so many aspects in my life
the sun rising again to shine upon my face
the feeling of warmth and total encompassment
that one has standing in the morning sun
in a quiet meadow –
three big dogs bound into the living room
slobber flying and loudly panting
flopping, rolling, kicking their legs
I laugh at the spectacle
giving them all a vigorous rub down –
from out behind the overgrown spider plant
the little black and white Waffle cat
stretches his long leg into view
rubbing against the edge of the couch
arching his back to brush it
against the chin of my old lab
before coming up and offering me a small ‘meow’ –
the pack follows me to the back porch
grabbing a handful of fishy kibble
I toss the lot into my hand-dug pond
5 to 8 inch six year old goldfish splash
and gulp down the bounty
tall bamboo shoots sway gently in the backdrop
creating both shade
and an exotic feel to my little oasis –
the Kia starts right up
Frank Zappa announces the variety of ways
in which a Jewish Princess is a good catch
and I smile
knowing today will be a good day….
even if Ice Cube did have to pull out an A-K –

single as a pringle and i like it that way
been a one gal show for years now, okay?
the best bed mate i ever had is my dog
she makes cute snores when she sleeps
and doesn't mess up my house
she only eats kibble, and listens to my beats

sure I get lonely, I get tired, life’s hard
but let me tell you something Mr. narrow minded louse
you think you have what it takes to get me in the sack?
caus you have a job, a ****, and truck with a gun rack?
you may be a tall drink of water on a sweat hot day
but open your mouth once and it’s a dead give away

I need kind and gentle and good conversation
to teach and learn with some motivation
on fire passion and serious connection

I've already lost you, it’s not worth the trouble
go home to your mama and pop your Bud Light
cry and whine about the utter ***** you met tonight
borrow twenty bucks and get a 12 pack
then go find a ditz to rub your back

check this out, I've got a plan
I’ll go home by myself yet again
without your number, don’t need another friend
I’m fine by myself, just me and my dog
I’ll wait until the next life just watch me
because honey, being alone trumps misery

My cat Evan knows nothing of war
or famine or pestilence or blood.
Bravo to his ignorance of ideology!
He cares nothing for torn soldiers,
starving children, the Ebola virus,
or oozing traumatic amputations.
He sits solemnly on the recliner
listening to John Coltrane
thinking only tranquil cat thoughts,
imagining nothing more disturbing
than kibble and another day of naps.
He does not need to consider himself.
He is himself - a sleek, gray
untutored genius of silence:
the only true Buddha I've ever met.
   - mce

So giant
God your nose
What gives you the right
to so much impose
All you eat is kibble
and you smell a lot like death
But you find some way to fiddle
With my heart, make me bereft

Your muzzle's cover in some goo
But you don't seem to care
I wake up to a story of
Who happened, happening in the air

I can smell it on you
But that's my own fault
I should've bathed,and fawned you
Would've taken my guilt off
Should've found a way to pawn you

But you're with me every day
And I know I owe you snacks
You make me live the worst life lays
Just joyness you attack

Finally I am over her at last.
She is melting like a
half forgotten tune.
No longer my ex beloved.
Now fading into old memories

I packaged all her
things she left here,
It's in my storage area.
Fitting into a
single cardboard box
Can you believe that?

I have purged her from
My favorite bar Finnegans.
Now reclaimed I stop
On my way home
from work for
a beer and wings.

Occasionally I forget
she's not with me and
Wait in the car for her
To bare her teeth and
ask if she had
chicken stuck  in them.
But it passes.

I get miffed when I
Come across her
lipstick tube in my glove box.
Or a single woolen glove
of hers in my
winter coat pocket.

Yesterday I found a kibble
Under the sofa
from her yappy little dog.
I had my place manicured
by the cleaning lady.
Muttering to her
about bugs and mice.

But what I  think that I
was really cleaning
Were  old pieces of her
she had left scattered
about in my heart.

hearing footfalls
pattering on faux hardwood
quickly moving
from this room to that
seeking, endlessly
a small discarded morsel
or tidbit of foodstuffs
to gobble recklessly –
wet black nose searches,
snorting and sneezing
while surveying the scene
momentary pause
as the slightest crumb
comes to light
large pink wet tongue
scoops the prey into the waiting jaws –
nails against the linoleum
scurrying paws clatter
loud slurps from a bucket
and the crunchy rustle
of kibble in a tin dish
plopping down, flattened dog bed
one last sniff of the air
before laying a big head down
and trying to get some rest
before the next round –

hey creampuff
huff this
a jar slides
across a flat and
fractured kibble holder
exhale
creampuff huffs and
~
Sounds unheard
Ripple through the *******;
Within here, Placeless,
Are places for everything;
Nothings slipping
Into Nothingness;
Effort-
Less
decay
~
good ****
amiright
his teeths toothless
gaps sing

tuxedo boycat
has learnt the art
of the early morning
tap slap

when one slumbers soundly
only to be rudely and roundly
awoken by the none too gentle
smack on the nose, by a catpaw
often not smelling like a rose
accompanied by a yowly growl
of a starving kitten cat
who has half a cup of chicken
kibble already awaiting in a bowl

but desires wetraw mince
and company to dine...

oh to have the confidence
in  desires like that
of a four pound kitten cat
and the knowledge
that the cute factor
far outweighs the
outrage of the human
being awoken by
the slap tap
of a kitten paw
as  long as it
comes with
a head bump
and a purr roar

iS THIS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN MEN WATCH TV 18 HOURS A DAY

ah, me, I am living this useless way

unless
someday you are sad and read
what we formed here from ignored

floaters in the flow of things

and some think I said we made a thing, you got
a little think
wink,
I am connected but my hands are some other minds
or minded

some series of letters are contests
which hand can get the point of being used this way

intime

exit strat-edgies begin to shape decisions, cut-offs,
loose threads, inkling
streams
leaking into the eitheroreal sidereal dust twixt us
and that band of stars we call
milky, Plato called
γάλα, say ga-la, see

the galaxias spir-al-ish spinner of spinners,

we spin within the wake of the matter spinning around us,

grave gravitus maximus

after actualizing self
we
form

we perceive
we receive, then be
deceived by from for
losing
grip
on sense, crazy as hell, the actual idea.

time related to duration is not constant,
sorry. C squared makes no
real sense,

a little think, a wink and a smile.

Some mind left graffiti:
It's all Greek

translated into  Es gibt mir Spanische

A dialog: Come, Let us confound...

habah ner adah
sam
habah ner adah
sam wana ba lah, lah, lah (Gen.3:7)

Sung sing song children sung haunting us
soldiers marching, as to war,

mine eyes (i lie)
have seen the glory (i lie)
of the cominging of the boss,
the protector of our kibble, by which

man does not live alone.

isolated self-actualized Masloafian men,
wombed or un

no lies appear true in actual here, after
individuated integration

the eight great fortunes exist to balance

the hermit isolating zeitgeistical anguish

and grinning
at the aspect of serious perspicacity

clearness of vision, abundance of light fractalling details
into all the significance
available
globally. as it were,
wireless fields of fractional banked capital ideologics
and podiums
for standing stones of a hundred tonne
weigh nothing, when we whistled,
while we worked,
we and
these ideas built Machu Pichu, don'chu fo ***.
It
weigh one pi-plancksec, and we imagine that
to be
your part in all of this. What it means to you it means,
if you believe,
i.e. let be

within the game you play

beyond the window you spectate through

we, the people who hold certain truths, not sacred
and undeniable, but

self-evident. Hold that thought,
Get the idea,
evident,

seen? Self seen? We, the people hold such truths
as being very complicated.
A.I. Art Intelligence, saved us.

Creative words are eternal. Times are the opposite.
Balance factors at the one in eight billion ratio are immense.

Keep calm and carry on.

Drizzlin’
The minds' spittle;
Kernals in the kibble,
Eternal yearns little;

Little found inside
This ground, hallowed
Hollow is;

Fallow sound rebounds
Echoes in the resonance;

This breath is;