The new doggy is either emulating society or mocking it.

He wakes me, expectedly so. He devours his breakfast kibble, though I’ll assume his newness cannot fathom lest assume another meal. He devours everything. I walk him, wary of his approach the other doggies. Too much ass-smelling and randomness, a protracted devouring in itself, in its early phases. Today, he shits as a little old lady smells flowers. She says “So cute” as I bend to scoop it up. Of course, he wags his tail. The look on his face condemns us all.

His actually devouring everything is simply just a matter of time. As we walk through the door (he’s all but pissed on his very own doggy door), I suspect he’ll commandeer my beer and claim it as his own. He’ll bring himself the paper and suggest our new socialism’s going just fine before he desecrates my shoes, the new pillows on the sofa, my friends, my girl, and my job. At the puppy mill they used the word Labradoodle, but if there’s a new breed called Golden Mockingdoggy, he’s it.

Meanwhile, per the Zen-like equilibrium guarding the household, the old blue-eyed Siamese has new reasons to please. To the backs of chairs and the top of the sofa, she’s taken to new heights. She’s scaled the lofty bookcases, grand peaks of the kitchen cupboards. As her nails grow I’ll pretend to not hear the rhythmic clicking of her claws; let slide her waiting and watching, her silently scouting every aspect of his brilliant devouring. For this old dog can mock reality, too.

Trust Bed and Breakfast


In 1970 we stayed at the Trust Bed and Breakfast. Charming, family-run, the richest food, the freshest fruits and vegetables. The children played with the proprietor’s kids. I remember thinking how charming. A warm July Saturday on the lake at twilight. The first time I saw a glow-in-the-dark Frisbee. We mused about rods and cones and wondered if it glowed for the cats. It hit your father in the nose and he was so charming. Time has a wicked sense of humor, you know. Nowadays you couldn’t pay me to go to the bathroom in such a place, let alone sleep in it. Imagine the child labor laws; forcing your children to play with strangers, even if we weren’t that strange; just how filthy it really was; how today’s standards have so charmingly destroyed our reliance on such quaint and ancient dangers.

Humans-Paint-Canvas, String-Nail-Brick


A giant fireplace. He stretched before gray bricks, 
trying to hang the painting evenly. Mostly
brown and blue and tan, a mountain scene awaiting
the perfect placement of the durable string
behind it and the patience of the man before it, 
a little purple with glints of orange and yellow
reflecting from the walls of a gorge. A little
moon on the rise. Perhaps an off-canvas presence,
an implied sunset or a dawn. In the painting-as-
extension-of-the-room sense, a sun could gleam
poignantly—depending, of course, upon where
it was hanged. Near a window might be nice,
but we were in the basement. I held his hammer
and rusty nail and pondered how bright are moons.

An Ice Cream Disaster

afterThe Emperor of Ice-Cream" by Wallace Stevens


When his time comes and the lamp’s
affixed its beam on the muscular one, who’s 
to whip up ice cream for those scamps
about to have their fun?  Might it be lewd
to send the wench, to bid her swirl un-
feminist curds as brawny feet protrude?

Or send in the flower boys to churn
with a noise so touching it’s unheard—a silence
more poignant than any emperor’s.

The faint whiff of cigar haunts
the ice cream-less scene, its delightful
dream unearned. (So much for want.
For such soft finales served so not quite quite.)

When I speak of poetry I am not thinking of it as a genre. Poetry is an awareness of the world, a particular way of relating to reality. So poetry becomes a philosophy to guide a man throughout his life…. [With poetry, one] is capable of going beyond the limitations of coherent logic, and conveying the deep complexity and truth of the impalpable connections and hidden phenomena of life.

Andrei Tarkovsky, Sculpting in Time, translated by Kitty Hunter-Blair (1987)


after ”On the Beach at Night Alone" by Walt Whitman


Alone at night on the beach, a drone might 
not be out of reach. It’s something like something.

It’s similitude, something like something.

A South African website with Ask Anythings from South Korea.

A whole is the sum of its roots, of its somethings.

The roots of a plant stretch into the clay.
Not a power plant, but something like something.

The water in the dam surges into power.
The roots dig. The buds flower.
That damn water, something like something
like might be the life of us all.

Like a doctor and a body shop, it’s something like something.

How much more does the airmail cost? I’m in Seoul.

A vast similitude interlocks all.