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outside i smoked a labrador retriever.
the dog hopped from stem to stem in the grace of joy, 
smelly sinewy dumbbell of fur
tickling the black keys into a waltz.

the girl, who owned my dog, threw coins 
at the inevitable.
i, the slavedriver of anthills and pigeonholes,
caught the money in mid-flight and paid for the bus ride.

"don't forget your leash," growled the retriever,
biting off the rest of its tail 
to look like an unloved orangutan.

i gnawed at the cage, but the window still broadcast 
the one without friends, without enemies, without 
a conscience, smoking cats.

my girly dramaturge, at the end of your long arm
frolics a reticent hero.

he's been elected President of Guatemala,
savior of the human trace, and he licks his wounded paw
without aversion to the excrement 
wedged in between his clipped claws.

on his collar you will find the extravagant signature of his bone, 
etched deep into the marrow.

naturally, he would rather eat you than stay bound by 
such potent sexual imagery.

if you haven't guessed, he is you before i showed up,
with my fumigating cigar and the lullaby 
for the brotherhood of dead kittens.

do you remember?  it meows:

	"the night brims blue.
	dead kittens purr.
	the milk spills moons
	on gloss-stained fur.
	your hands grow thin.
	your eyes grow true.
	the end is through.
	the end is through."


11.9/10.98