The Process

Tag: dog

This One Day That Happened

It was the morning, and I woke up feeling bad.  Not bad bad, but a few steps to the side of right.  Some dream, it must have been.  She says, “what’s up,” and I say

“Nothing.”

We drink coffee and I look for the off feeling and don’t know it yet.  The kisses are good but outside my windshield at times, which annoys me, and she asks “what are you thinking about?”  My dog.  He was so good and sweet, and then he died.  I saw him die.  His sister died, too, and I miss her on the forefront, because she was most recent, but I go back for him, because of how he was and how it all happened.

“Nothing.”  We kiss more and more and it gets me outside myself some.  She knows how to unfurl the muscles and lay it all out on white, how it takes seismic roughing and brightness in the dark, and that’s how I bring myself into today, thank the lawd, as it goes.  The lawd.  lol.

We get in a car to bring things to Goodwill, because she is paring down.  I still can’t combine myself with these minutes, so I lay down on her lap…Jib had been laying on a vermillion towel in our backyard, and he was tired.  Finally, his tongue curled out of his mouth, like forced its way out, and he let out a low moan that sounded like Snoopy.  And then he shit a little and that was it, and he was so stiff.  It was liver cancer.  Later, I would run around my grandma’s yard with his little carbonized body in my fist, dropping some here and there, where he liked to roll and scratch his back in the crab grass…My eyes get teary, but as it happens when you’re on your side, all the crying comes out of the bottom eye, save the one tear on the top side, so she doesn’t know I’m doing it or gives me the dignity by not asking, which as we know makes it real and creates more crying.  I say something random about something my sister was doing at work to dam it up, and she says a joke about something else, and I laugh.  We get out to go to the store.

Everything second hand makes me nostalgic for people I used to know or never even knew, which makes me realize I’m just in it today and that it will just be a cloudy day parade.  We leave the store and go to a vintage poster store, and we look at Life magazines from the 1930’s.  I say, “Can you believe how irrelevant we will be in one hundred years,” and that makes me feel a bit bad but also relieved, and I already knew it, but it’s good to remember sometimes.  Scarlett O’Hara.  She doesn’t know about how people are riding around on single wheels with gyroscopes inside them right now, and we don’t know about the things that will come.  Like later that evening, after dinner, when we ramble into the sex store, I say, “they will laugh about strapping it on with a belt one day,” and we laugh about it, and I laugh because I turn around and she’s buzzed on cider and finger banging a pocket pussy with the clerk nearby watching, and it makes for a good scene.  I like a good scene, because mostly I just want everyone to laugh.

As we walk to the train, I think about his little ashes and it opens up the stomach a little, because it’s something that won’t leave me today, even though it was a good day.  And actually the better the day, the worse it is for the fact of the departure in store for all of it, but it’s so nice to hold hands, and we are going to watch the Rocky Horror Picture Show and drink red wine.

Escalator Music

They said a dog in a crate feels safe, and my cave is a scatterbrained dwelling with a quiet guitar.

If I was Alice in Wonderland, I would fill it up and cross from girl to dog to feet out the window, and then I might be grateful for a kitchen with no pots and pans, but maybe wondering what I’d meant to do with rolls of

beeswax, and Sparkle Horse is still there, in his medieval tankard hot tub, and can you get the smudges off my glass with the ink?  STABBED

IN THE STOMACH WITH A SHARP KNIFE LIKE A NINJA SWORD, that’s what the sign says, thou shalt not pass or rip it off the wall when my shoulder can’t

fit and he’s screaming SEA MONSTER SEA MONSTER so I laugh, “smoke me out, old man,”

and come back into my body and the only takeaway Is what do

a fishing hook, a marionette, and a queimada pot have in common or which one does not belong until I look in the mirror and laugh, ‘there’s your answer,’

and frogs defrost alive like the time I thought I lost my feet to the snow and all the beer going down warm wouldn’t kill the furor of the burning back to life like the starfish pulled their arms off;

maybe they heard my joke about amputees in Weight Watchers, the one I told to my quiet guitar like a Thunderbird car drenched in nostalgia but mostly gone, like anything, really, or my beat up records; they must’ve been a raging lover, scratched as they are–

is that it, all the love dashes your music, makes it repeat itself: makes sense, senility, now, all the ardor, now all the stories that come again and again, saying, once, I was a virgin with a lot of new material.  Once, I had a loud guitar, and I filled up my cage.

Delirium

What I’m saying is I saw my reflection in a window, and I was a dog.  I was me, but I looked into my eyes and then at my face and said, “That’s not me, and what are these boots for?  I have feet, and that is all–these are so silly.”  And then I walked in the dark and thought, “I must be god,” and maybe it’s because I stopped believing in myself or needed someone else to believe in me; I’m not sure.  But then what I thought is, “I’m doing OK with the system I created”…that which is the begging for time, which makes it pass.  When you want to climb over the days, they loom longer, and there’s simply no way; you need a minute so bad that your chest feels like demolition, so you don’t get it.  And then this: oh, guy on the bus, you make me puke with your shrimp snack scent.  And it won’t, then, dispel.  And here I’m praying for a morning breath kiss from my girl when we wake from a night of drinking and she says, “wait–let me brush my teeth,” but I just laugh and steal all the kisses anyway.  But have I learned nothing?  The way to get around it is to pray the shrimp man will stay or to stop praying.  It might be me, anyway, the prayee, you know?  Or the pray prey.  What it is is nonsense, this needing game.