Pitbull (hour 11)

Husky and bringled are you
your colors reminds me of the rainbow
sensitive to touch you are
your behavior is that of a human
trained you are
unchained you must remain
as you freely grace your home with your presence

A real body guard you are
no intruders will you let in
your fierceness shows how dangerous you are
You do not play with strangers
you are very aware of your master who he or she is.

When Footscray meets Chaser

Poem 11 for the Hour 11

you never retire
to be my smart comrade
i am a VIP submitting
with the object permanence
you possess
much more on the movies
meant to be a hero
performer and football player
occupying the eleventh kin
you are so adorable
i have a feast plan in 2018
a bucket of bones
for you my merger
and my caretaker

“Here Lies My Bestfriend”

Here lies my bestfriend.

She used to howl at the moon with me.

She sang the blues with me.

Her tail always wagged with undying loyalty.

A sloppy kiss.

A cold wet nuzzle.

Furry cuddles.

A love that never ends.

Here lies my bestfriend.

Autobiography of a Face

You are the cloak I chose.

Like any protective visage,

there has been assault and wear

even great care cannot hide now.

You have served as a symbol

for some suitor’s best day,

and other’s worst.

This mask you made

almost convinced me.

 

The Bite

The Bite

With a jaw as big as butcher’s cleaver,

with teeth as yellow as linoleum scum,

with a tongue as red as Satin’s cape,

this malignant mongrel removed and swallowed

a hungry-man’s portion of my right calf.

I named him Melanoma.

Poem #9: Burst

Burst

We are too low to smell the castaway smoke of the
July 4th fireworks shouldered by higher winds, like a loosened
cloud of mud underwater churned from passing propeller.
I never liked sitting in the chairs to watch, sat instead
on the ground, picking at dandelions, or a stray twig.
You could rate how extravgant each year’s show would be,
and I the roughest stickler. But I don’t even know what to
think of them anymore, a shallow promise to the air,
the 11 o’clock air wrapped and lacking shimmer around me.
Mom always had to turn the heat on in the car, even in summer.
Sometimes I would try climbing one of the willows in the park,
as if I could be closer to the elevation, the explosive distance
of fireworks. The spastic and irrelevant shatter of light,
its color dear and blind to the black, in sober audience.
My sister has gotten used to the gunshot blare, discharged from
a barrel in the sky, but after the color flutters outward,
like a forgotten alarm for caution.

In these moments, I think we become narrow-minded, in a tunnel
of dark, if not more than usual. Are fireworks the dreams of astronauts,
in hope for the fleeting glimpse of galaxies beyond their
inhabitable reach? Or are they the feeling you hope a
loved one receives when you hold them close?

A color for every emotion we paint ourselves with.
Sitting withdrawn behind the Woodmere Library, I can see
beyond Boardman Lake the pyrotechnics catapulted
over Silver Lake, and I am like the billowing, shredded
smoke, silent or in awe of my former self.
I wish I could see how the fireworks dye my face
in festivity. Every crack and boom inflicting the air
with its counterfeit sunsets, some lasting less than
five seconds, was worth coming down to crowded parking lots
to see, even if my ears felt diffused after the finale.

On Riding

The hills of our small town seemed tall and you could see the city from the top. We rode ourselves to death on the incline to feel the wind thrash our faces on the way back down. We learnt to wake up early and to make a plan.
Let the leash hang loose and test the boundaries. I took the next step forward and looked to see where my friends stood. Some moved and others seemed fixed.

I took a breath and began my decent, letting everyone and everything flash past.

Hour 10: The House

Adobe, pitched roof, Ranchos de Taos.
Sage and hollyhocks, hummingbirds galore.
At night you could hear pueblo drums,
sometimes, and imagine the dancing.
A sculptor had built the house, and her
daughter did pottery and textiles. The whole place
was a work of art, rented out as a studio through
Poets & Writers. Ordinary enough from the outside,
the magpies used it as their temple, as if they knew:
on the inside it soared, and became a sacrament. If you
couldn’t write there, you couldn’t write anywhere.

Apart of the Family

Craddled & trained

Ball catching but I prefer food

Sniffing through the garbage bag

Hopefully my master’s nowhere around

Chasing the squirrels and field bunnies

Sprawling out in the shade

Rolling over back and forth to take that itch away

Aware of my surroundings

Keen sense of anyone or thing approaching me or them

Gulps of water from a bowl, or even rain water sitting in one of the holes I dug up the other day

Restless a lot but caressing me a special way eases my nerves

I try to be nice and play but the strangers run away

Yet I do have my moments when I get defensive, ready to attack

It’s just how I’m wired and how my family told me I should act

Unless I choose to disobey

And do it my way

Face my punishment

No daily park trip

Nor walk around the neighborhood

Just pacing in and out the rooms of our house

I still love them though

I make my discontent heard through moans

They go away

I do my usual thing

A familiar scent

Instantaneous tail wagging

My friend is home