i usually try
to start work
at 09:00
but today
a streak of sun
across the middle
of the floor
was so appealing
i had to lie
stretched out
and splayed
in that pool
of warmth
within seconds
of being down
the dog nosed
at my ear
and slumped
at my side
his chin resting
on my arm
perhaps
seeking closeness
the comfort of
my presence
or maybe
simply protesting
a hint that he wished
to stretch out
where i was lay
as clouds crept
across the sky
to steal our sunlight
he shifted his weight
let out a deep-lunged sigh
but stayed at my side

so the dog ate the
bone was a dog bone he ate
consume a dog bone

The dog runs in, slips

on the linoleum floor --


and sniffs at my chair.

i called a dog to
the door the dog come to be
a dog ever was

Fairies knit tales, but they don’t have tails, I don’t think.  
Dog’s do.
Long,
with an abrupt end – that’s usually moving,
while never escaping its tether.
Is that the idea? – that no matter how far the tail goes,
it will never get out of hand.
Unless it’s docked of course – that is the saddest tail,
a stump of a tail that still tries its best,
but is destined for a short and disappointing end.

If I were a dog without a tail, I think I’d think it was the end of the world.

If I were a fairy without a tale – I would be sadder still.

The End.

you were eight weeks old
a small thing
but our hands were smaller
still, you fit there
held as though you were meant to break
maybe someday, but not today.

today, you made love into a character trait
it curled into our chests and settled there, somewhere
and the weight of it has grown
for i have not room to breathe
it has not left.

now, there is nothing left of you
save for blurred images
blurry eyes, salt water drops rippling in an ocean—

i used to take you there.
there, you would greet everyone new
like they existed just to learn your name
there, a child said hello to you for the first time
fifteen years later, you said it back for the last.

and i could not help but to think
if you had died eleven days later
you would have seen the flowers bloom.

my favourite description of love
comes from a curt confession from bukowski:
"love is a dog from hell".

what more does one want to know?
if one has felt love,
and i mean,
really felt it;
suffered for it;
felt the brunt of despair;
known the sleepless nights;
the restless nights;
the doubt;
the belief;
the constant flip flop
between the two;
between heartbreak and happiness;
the will to endure all sadness;
the knowledge that such strength
will only bring about sadness;
the horror of seeing in real time
love end
from the eyes of another;
to have been crushed by a weight
which could leave you without air
for years
and yet oddly
still have the presence of mind
to look back on it with tenderness;
to know that lust and love
are entirely separate;
and one needs only a memory
to keep the embers alive.

then i believe
a dog from hell
sums it up rather nicely.

That child,
seems to be reading to my old dog friend.

Can we teach a dog to read and see the significance
some men find in syllables unsaid?

In print,
Sibilant denture whistles, perk no ear
silent esses no ear can hear, un spoken esses essentially
signify nothing, simple noise.

But a good dog will respond to the slightest whistle, as if…
A sibyl said listen,
hear the wind enter the world once with
inspired expired whistling sound found in song

this way,
this is the way,

Say plain the sound of each sign.

Alpha Beta, Aleph Bet, Ayee Bee

See, these let words be saved as signals

Letters, let silent sounds hold meaning in

signs of sounds men can make,
Like
Ah. or baah, which certain ruminants make as well…

A man can say ah, and mean plain nothin'

and some dogs can too,
but when dogs say, ah, it's often

a yawn gone into a groan like a stretched out
awww as the back arches
backward and front paws stretch out.
Tail swishing slow sweeps
swirling dust mites in a shaft of morning light,

more wind than any butterfly wing or
humming bird wing could stir.

"Remember", his brown eyes say,
this posture always meant,
"let's do some fun,
go for a run,
follow a scent"

But then, another yawn
and a shake. a glance from those knowing eyes,

signifying, signing , if I am happy, he is, too.

A dog friend then punctuates, by curling down into
a black and white comma
with a bit of golden tail
covering the nose
twitiching ante

cipitating a chase that leads to this new place,
where new sounds can sound
insignificant,
dream time humms,
not worth the effort to hear,
since we are not going anywhere, today.

Ah, be, still.
Tomorrow is the myth.
My dog swears that's true.
Today, or never, and
never's fine. He Yawns.