A Day In The Life Of A Dog

A Day in the Life of a Dog

Does the dog reexamine his life,
wonder if humans think the way he does,
about the meaning of how we perceive
external stimuli, colors, shapes, the light
and dark, the texture of the bone,
why and how he decides where to bury it,
why he gets a bone and why it’s when,
or should he chew on it now instead;
maybe he’ll get another one sooner than later.
Does he understand rhythm or patterns,
do consequences fit in the spacing
between habits and instinct
Does he regret actions and decisions,
and cry at night about all the ‘what if’s’,
wishing he could have done better
or different. Does his morale decline
with every blow or does he wag on,
happy to wake to the next full day with food
and warm sunshine in his grassy backyard.
Does he reason why the mind destroys underwear
before it even gets to the mouth, the sacred
meaning for sharp needles in the annual visit
to the vet, or of the thermometer inserted
where he shits. Does he ponder
the evolution of his food, and how it
got to become dry little pellets that come from a bag
and why he chases squirrels and cats
or how destiny
determines the cemented cage, the anonymous
hollow barks from down the florescent hall
that leads to euthanasia and land fills
versus the grassy fields of deer and sheep,
does he believe that all the scents
before him were meant to be,
or that there is some ultimate answer
in the universe
to explain the chain attached to his neck
or the beatings he receives, or the lonesome howling
done all day in the bare dirt. Does he sit in the wind
and ask of gods, higher beings beyond the clouds
Does he feel the sun’s radiance and ask
of his bizarre attraction
to the scent of a bitch in heat two blocks down,
or of the cultural studies of patriarchy in a kennel;
does he ever examine his rabid desire
to hop the fence so he can stick his nose in her ass.
Does he ever think she’s the one,
does he think of love, being in love, the one true love
or love at first scent
and does he bemoan his existence when she leaves
after a happy day of puppy fucking.
Does he feel the need for a collective community of canine
self identity, to self-identify, to share his experience,
his worldly wisdom,
does he pass down his stories to the pups,
telling them not to waste away
their youth, to not take their short lives for granted
Does he know of death at all, or of aging, the aching joints
from arthritis and dysplasia, the longing for the past
or how quickly it all comes about, do his minutes
move slowly at first, and then faster as age progresses
Does he judge a mutt based on prestige,
the AKC badge, the merits of breeding, the ribbons,
are little dogs inferior and fat dogs stupid
Does he examine the connections of each, the philosophy
of relations between humanity and his own kind,
the history of domestication, and who is civilized
and who is owned, does he question biting the hand that feeds
and chains and beats
or does he know it’s just a matter of waiting patiently
for hundreds of years more
before they’re free and on top of things again
Does he know that his fate is up to no one,
but that he’s all on his own and that time and coincidence
dictates everything, and nothing, between the moments
of sleeping and waking
And does he know the only thing that is truly his own
are the dreams behind his eyelids and in his twitching toes?

You can only postpone the inevitable

I voted for you cuz I believed in you
or maybe I just wanted to...
Where's that change you were talkin about?
Or were those words just liquid letters
spilling from your eloquent elastic mouth?
It's time for that progressive thought and further radical action,
action that actually screams louder than the legislative hype
that has dulled down our slow demise
of generations over time.
Not the proverbial bipartisan tea party scones
cuz you don't wanna step on impressionable toes.
Wake up. Because this is it.

The status quo doesn't flow anymore
and the centuries of lies don't jive
I dream of swimming in oil
and guns that shoot us but we don't die
I squirm about dead things floating in the ocean
and of desecrated bodies that waste away
in the western Asian sand.
Our country is unengaged
and I'm tired of being enraged about things
everyone else ignores.
You're becoming another powder wig
hiding behind this championed realpolitik
and beautifully pitched quotes.
You still won't ask the begging questions
hidden in the age long riddles
knowing the revolt they might ignite.
Corporate, or otherwise.

I know you're not the hero
we were looking to try for in ourselves
to have the jones to make right on what's righteous
but instead you will be the embodiment
of everything we failed.
This shallow republic will look to blame you
for the rotting of its soft American core
So even though it began its decay
long before you were born
it will devour you as it devours itself
choosing martyrs regardless
of monumental decisions
or your simple insignificance.

This is where we begin again.
You will either let us believe in your promise of hope
or you can give us death
because we're getting to that final moment
where that's all that's left.