Saturday, June 23, 2007

Two Dogs in what a place . . .

Back in 1975, I took a long look around at the things I was doing and what I really wanted to be doing and decided a break was what I needed. To think therefore to understand, I moved my small community, a son and a girl friend, to Santa Barbara's East Beach. And it was during this time I composed this piece:

Two Dogs

Brisk paced Passed my place.

I had to squint. The sun was in my face.

The dogs' heads held high

Scarcely slowed barely bowowed

As their tales swept by.

Two dogs out in the sun a daily run.

I began to scribble this to catch the sight just right.

They ran on were gone.

Quickly now black & tan and tan

Were they male&female I couldn't tell?

Whose? Where? Uh oh, there they go ...

Around 1985, I was living in the small beach town of Encinitas and riding my 10 speed to work everyday. It was a nice 20 mile commute each way and it gave me time to think and let go of all the tensions that came from teaching high school students. Times were still changing but the thing was still way up ahead somewhere and I was living frugally sans car, wife, and or other material accompaniments. That's when I wrote this:

Two dogs . . .

In the back of two trucks

Out in front of the laundromat

Put there for safety

And to see that no one fucks

With their owner's stuff,

Bark like crazy, loud at ear height,

Reminding me of Bar bouncers

Out for fun and A good fight.

Bristling and jostling, they shiver the sky

Until closer inspection reveals that

They are just barking goodbye.

Now it's 2007, a new, but getting old fast, millennium and I really would like to say that things are getting better but then when I think about it here's what my imagination has to say:

Two dogs . . .

Some Low level of rage runs through my thoughts

Like black&tan rottweilers barking and snapping and thirsting for blood.

I know I can’t let them loose. It won’t do me no good.

Still, they run, They rage, Seek solace on a page.

Act out, . . .No doubt, . . . I’ll end up in a cage.

But just once wouldn’t it be worth it

To let them all the way out.

Get blood up the snout.

I have to find a punching bag, a tackling dummy, a blocking machine;

A way to vent my spleen.

Just picture it: A meal on wheels made of corporate heads, millionaires’ homesteads, stars and starlets fresh from their magazine spreads.

The growl snarls up and through me

My chest vibrating . . . My voice gone vibrato,

My jaws unclench, saliva flows. God, just to be raving pack of two dogs Finally let go.

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