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You Get So Alone Sometimes That It Just Makes Sense.

Okay, I don't really have much to say today.  Cleaning the apartment and working on comics.  If any of you read American Ambition, you're in for some of the funniest shit we've done yet.  If any of you were waiting for more chapter in K, hang tight, it's only getting better.

It's Friday, that means a new poem.  This one is a few years old, written before I moved out.

My Stupid Dog
“There are worse things than being alone,”
-CB


On the couch reading Bukowski
and pissed that I can’t emulate, imitate
or steal a style so simple, so honest.
Direct as a fist
shoved into a mouthful
of teeth.

My stupid dog plops his big head on my lap.

I never wanted a dog,

I want the poems
that smell like the sweat beating
off a reluctantly beating heart.

I want the heart
that burns clear through
the restrictive ribcage.

But I got a dog.
Well, my mother’s dog.

We got him so Dad would put down the
chops and wine and maybe
go for a walk now and then.
But the dumb dog doesn’t walk.
Quakes at the very mention
of leaving the house.
So Dad’s still out of shape
and Mom has a dog
and a derelict son—
two pieces of expensive
breathing furniture.  

He’s not big, but heavy
leans on me and waits.
He doesn’t really like me,
but I’m warm and I’ll do
until his mother gets home.

My eyes move in typewriter
motion across the lines trying
to burn them
somewhere in the soft
meat behind the pupils.

Dumb dog’s eyes are
almost human
and stare right through me.
Reminds me of the eyes resting
gracefully in the sockets
of the girls who laid under me
while they too were waiting
for other people.
But I was warm and I would do.

Dogs want to please
it’s what they do.
He knows I think he’s stupid
and doesn’t care
he wants me to like him
so badly.
I’m not sympathetic
but I know the feeling
of wanting to be liked.

He brings me his toys.
An offering of great importance
to him alone.
And I write
poems people have
as much a use for
as I do rubber bones.

But he’ll keep trying
because he wants to please
that’s what he does.
That’s what we do.
—So lost and so simple
and so very, very stupid.
Big brown-eyed stupid dog.

I never wrote to be praised
but I want those poems.
I want that heart.
I doubt Bukowski wanted
to be himself sometimes,
let alone have imitators.

For a good scratch behind the ears
I’d write a thousand poems,
out-drink Bukowski,
live on park benches
and die at 26.

Did you enjoy this?
I wrote it for you.
Just call me,
I’ll be
your
dog.


 




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