Dog's Life


He's lying with his chin on his forepaws,
my dog, and looking at me, his eyes turned
upward because I'm on the bed and he's
on the floor. Where a dog belongs, even
if the ground's merely floor. He'd rather be
outside. Where a dog belongs. But I can't
leave the house today--I'm sick as a dog,
you could say, although I don't eat my own puke.
When I try to throw up, however, I
pretend to. That usually does the trick.
Then I stagger back to bed, where he waits
--lying where I've lain because it's warm, I guess
Because he likes my odor, I guess. Or
because he's trying to fool me. He can't
--I'm too smart for that. Get down, you fleabag,
I say. He does and I pet him. Then I
fall where I've been and where he's been and
I'm a different animal altogether,
smelling somewhat like him, and taking on
any hair he's shed there. What does he take
from me? He's back on the floor, in the same
old posture, looking bored and lonely. Can't
go out today, I remind him, as I
close my eyes and see green grass and trees and
blue sky and red and yellow flowers. And
I throw him a stick and he fetches it.
Well, almost. This time he brings it halfway
back. I open my eyes and say, Good dream.
That's when he lifts his head and begins to
move his tail. Settle down, boy, I say. Can't
go out now, I say again. He lowers
his head once more and sighs a deep sigh, out
of boredom and loneliness and a bit
of sympathy--he knows I'm sick. At least
I like to think so. I fall asleep--when
I wake up again he's on the bed, head
on my chest, dog-breath panting on my face.
I reach to put my hand around his neck
and he intercepts it with his teeth, but
gently. Leggo, boy, I say. He does. Then
I scratch him behind the ears and his eyes
shut and I just know he's dreaming of me,
he's dreaming of me and it's a good dream,
of being fed or caressed or freed from
the leash. Of digging a hole to bury
a bone or dig it up again. And of
bringing it to me as if to say, This
is what we are, what we came from, what holds
us together, what we're returning to.
That's pretty smart for a dog. Pretty smart
for a person, too. And way, way wiser
because he doesn't have to work or speak, just
bark or whine or growl, and he doesn't need
thumbs or money or school or girls or God.
And as long as I'm sick, neither do I.


--Gale Acuff

Intern

microwaving ravioli has never seemed so dismal

someone muses about the weather
the cute one asks about my weekend

gazing at the framed scenery
rainforests
mountain ranges
the sea

all reminding me
that teamwork is important
and to get those numbers up

Bobby tell's me I'm the man
my soul gasps for air

i even put on cologne...

WE'RE GLIDING SEAMLESSLY
ONE WITH THE NIGHT SKY
A LESS MENNACING BLACK THAN THE HIGHWAY
EVICERATED BY YELLOW LINES
FOREVER RUNNING THE GAUNTLET
OF ORANGE BARRELS
KEEPING US ALLIGNED
AND BLIND

METALIC MESSANGERS INFORM US
THAT SPEEDING FINES ARE DOUBLED
ADDICTION IS INESCAPABLE
AND THE TOLL BOOTH AHEAD
ONLY ACCEPTS CASH
AND NEW YEARS RESOLUTIONS

THE BOOTH MAN GRINS
A MORE LIVELY AND
GENUINE GRIN THAN USUAL
AND TELLS ME
THAT I REMIND HIM OF MY MOTHER
WHO PASSED THROUGH HERE YEARS AGO

_Jackson grind

________________________________________________

I wake up. I wish it was dawn, but it’s late in the afternoon. A nurse is wiping sweat from her brow from last night’s full-moon bombardment. I’m sitting up, my eyes still not ready for what sunlight still remains. Sometimes I wish there were cactus outside my window instead of pine or spruce. The intangible Midwest haunting my travelers mind. I earn my existence by blending in. I’m often reassured of this when I think about someone writing a book about my life; a mountain of menial tasks followed by an uncanny amount of walking. It’d be an easy read though, the kind you could float through like the dotted lines of a composer’s wand, gracefully swaggering like a cowboy whose spurs never got caught in bramble or tore a young home-makers mini-skirt. Lets not forget the sea though, whose waves go unnoticed in every setting sun. And when the tide finally recedes I hope I’m sipping a cold beer somewhere with my back turned.

_Virgil Cross

no smoking alarms

to some

self actualization comes
in two colors
silver and black

desperation comes
with two lovers
who never call back

the auspicious hem
of that auburn skirt
comes with ovulation
and the territory

_jackson grind

what's beef

i woke up with the sun

and the east filed for divorce

defiled by the courts
she returned to me

war torn

forlorn

and wondered what it took

to give angels bed head

_jackson grind