Why am I stuck here,

Why am I stuck here,
                      revolving ’round the thought of you–
                                      that serpent inward/hid?

Why am I convincing myself
                            to be in love with you
                                                when all I feel is a twinge
                                                                       a singe
                                                                       of nerve
                                                            — no butterflies,
                                                                 more of a mashing
                                                                            a constriction of the
                                                                                              ‘testines
                                                                           as though my heart
                                                                                         my apple
                                                                                         my core
                                                                                were gravity’d
                                                                                       to pit of me
                                                                                       in search
                                                                                       in pull, inward/guide
                                                                    &nbsp
;&
nbsp;                               of you..

“I want to.”

“I want to.”
“Why would I want to?”
“Should I want to?”
“Have I wanted to?”
“Why have I wanted to?”
“Who would want to?”
“What would I want?”
“How would I want to?”
“What would I want to?”
“Still wanting to?”
“Should I have wanted to?”
“Sure wanted to.”
“Sure want to.”
“Sure, I’d want to.”
“Who made me want to?”
“Why do I want to?”
“Want to.”
“Can’t.”
“Should.”
“Can’t want to.”
“Shouldn’t.”
“Shouldn’t want to.”
“Would this bowl want me to?”
“Why would this bowl want me to?”
“Why do I?”
“How do I?”
“Is this worth…?”

how quickly the clouds scurry ’bout in low-lie rush of sky,

how quickly the clouds scurry ’bout in low-lie rush of sky,
the froth of nothing bowing forth from sight of Tamer,
Teacher, Moon.. the winking Moon, but bright as bleach’d clouds ‘fore Her,
though giving more to eye than sight.. light, the
traveler’s guide through wood, through mason’s work,
the dry-as-new streets/signs of some outside wave
gone stagnant, stilled for cope of swell.

when thinking

when thinking
        of falling
              star
   and finding
            plane
     lit for descent
           instead

E

ewok’s pictures

this is Ewok. Ewok has been with us for fourteen and a half years. he was born in October, though i don’t recall the exact date. his parents are Honey and Bear (and he’s taken from both). i’m not very good at writing about others, as i’m inherently selfish (see current sentence). he’s been the only constant in my life since coming to statesville. when mom wasn’t around, or katie, he was there to fight with me and, oh, yeah, we’d bicker and wrestle and leave nothing inside. he’d throw fits, i’d throw fits, we’d try to come to some sort of compromise, one of us would always be left in pain. he loved to be scratched under the chin and on the very top of his hips. he would stay still to be scratched on his chest, though if you went to his ears, he’d bite the ever-living shit out of you and not think twice about doing it again if you persisted. he’s bit everything.. shoes, arms, noses, hair, paper (he would sit and tear at a piece of paper like it was a wounded animal and he was a big, courageous lion), ankles, shins, fingers, cutting sheers, water, tires, anything that offered itself to him in a way that was not respectful. he never gave a bad memory. he would love it when i’d lay down on the carpet– he would jaunt up in his own little swagger and start rubbing his chin and jaw against the back or top of my hair, sniffing first to make sure it wasn’t already done.. he hated doing the same thing twice in a short amount of time. he hated being on the couch.. something about not wanting to be a pet, but to be a friend and a respected member of the family.

before he was neutered, he would hump anyone and anything. if you came over and he didn’t know you, you’d better expect your leg to be wet by the time you left. he would be snippy (more so than he was about strangers). i wonder if he didn’t like being neutered.. besides the obvious. he was a very anti-social dog to those he didn’t know, constantly rearing his head and ears and staying motionless if a new creature walked by, sort of assessing the situation and preparing to run or fight. the journey’s cat would pretty much abuse him, chasing him around or making him run away. damn cat.

he hated strangers. he hated if you touched him. he hated everything about everyone, unless you were respectful of him and allowed him to know you, not you to know him. he hated leashes, he hated collars. he was the houdini of dogcollars. velcro, snapped, chain-linked, anything.. he would have it off by the next time you saw him. leave in the morning, it’d be off by the time school let out. he didn’t care, he wasn’t going to wear that shit. he loved being completely free, but he was always in a routine.. always combing the neighborhood for his spots and making sure everyone was okay, making sure everything was going fine, or he’d let you know by barking and hollaring for hours and hours and hours. hell, even if nothing was wrong, he’d sit right infront of the garage, or to the side, and just go off for the entire night. night? try weeks, months. hell, i don’t think i’ve seen him (prior to last year) when he wasn’t barking or yipping or something. that dog loved to talk. mom said he would always whine after i left for school, but i don’t know. i think he just wanted to be noticed when his friend wasn’t there. he’s not even gone yet. he’s at home right now, 3 hours away, biting the neighbor’s husband and trying to find himself in what he’s become.. blind, deaf, and shaking. i want to go, i want to see him. is that wrong? he never knew what life was like without a fence or houses. he never knew life outside of our neighborhood, but he still lived as though he was master of the world.

tried taking him for a walk a couple years ago. he hated the leash, hated me trying to make him walk, but i saw he was getting bigger and bigger and that wasn’t good for him. we would walk around the neighborhood, from brookmeade to the houses behind and just loop around, back to the creak and turn around. he hated it. he stopped, threw his weight in his ass and made me half-drag, half-carry his ass until he knew i wasn’t giving in. it was some shit out of south park, with the dog wheesperer. we’d stop every so often, because the days were hot and he’d enjoy taking a seat under a tree or off into the higher grasses. he’d just sit, head-high, panting away with his tongue out and his eyes on me, saying, “you bastard. see what you’ve made me do? i’m sitting in the fucking grass, far from where i’m from, tired as a bitch, trying to get cool, while you’re just standing there, acting like everything’s okay. i fucking hate you, bitch. okay, let’s get this over with.” and he’d start walking, wanting to show me it was he who was in charge. and, somehow, i felt the leash tighten around the wrist as if it were my neck.

he did this thing with his nose and his food-dish. he’d take one nibble of the dried balls, and then rub his nose against the outside of the dish. he’d do this constantly, usually not even eating, just rubbing his nose against the outside of the dish, pushing it to the wall or to somewhere it wouldn’t move, and then keep doing it. over and over. he was a little less obsessive about his water. he’d just gulp/lap that shit.

his favorite game, when he was younger and the teeth were a bit stronger, was to grab onto the end of a knotted rope and swing around on it. he’d let me drag him halfway across the living room, spinning and showing his strength. his bite was something, man. he’d rarely use it fully, though. only on the fingers. he hated fingers. don’t ask. i have no idea why. if you tried giving him his eyedrops or eardrops, and you weren’t prepared, he’d make sure you bled before you touched them to his person. i’d have to hold his head down just to put medicine in. he hated baths, too, but looked sooo funny when his longer-coated hair would mat down. he was so ferocious with his long hair, but so skinny and shaking under the water. it was a sight to behold. he’d start drinking the water, even with the shampoo in it. kept having to stop him.. didn’t know if he’d get sick from shampoo.

he was the only one in my pathetic existence that would take the time (not like he had a choice, but he could have walked away) to sit and listen to me bitch or rant or just goof off. i think it was the attention he liked. katie and i would show him so much love, he’d never have been upset.

i don’t know what katie did with him, besides play and such. they had their time, we had ours. he was kinda split between both of us, and, to tell you the truth, it didn’t bother us at all. the bed pictures are from her. she always could take the most amazing pictures of him. one of the best she took was somewhat blued out, but he was so happy to pose for her. some weird, sick modelling thing.. haha, katie, don’t hurt me.

yeah. and i was upset. he’s gone too far, travelled too much to be thought of with anything but a smile. peace be with you, E.