Some days
depression is a determined dog
and
I am a rag doll.

Can’t blame the dog/Can’t blame the doll.

They: Poet, speak of truth.
Poet: No poet fails to color the words.

They: Poet, speak of death.
Poet: No poet who writes is dead.

They: Poet, speak of love.
Poet: Do not love like a poet.

They: Poet, speak of grief.
The poet is dumbstruck.

Not since high school
has cologne been of value to me.
And since I lost my sense of smell,
Heaven smells the same as the tomb.

War has a different nature.
Even if a war is so small
it could be fought inside a walnut,
it would still percolate the chemistry of rotting horseflesh.

Throwing cologne at a war
does not change its stinking complexion,
nor change the way it bends itself,
ever downward, to the lowest terrain.

Would that the friction of conflict
could be soothed with cologne,
hurled by French girls from the parfumerie,
but perfume is a poor lubricant for real enmity.

Better it is confined to the halls of schools,
Great and small. Public, private. Saved for Saturday.
Splashed liberally among those with young noses
some of whom will believe and enlist.

A fight broke out between
the hemispheres of my brain.
Like two bickering brothers,
they baited each other over weak spots
known to each since the spark of creation.
“Too old,” goaded the Right.
“Too slow,” said the Left
releasing the inhibiting agent.

“…too…mean,”
said Righty
a bit after
the battle
was lost.

The housewife rises to her full five-four and
helicopters her rally towel.
“Make my life have meaning,” she screams at the home team.
“Bring joy to the void.”

Her husband secures his BigBeer in its cup holder and                            He brings himself to his feet as well
but with less urgency.
He puts both hands to his face,
cupped into a megaphone.
“Nepenthe,” he bellows
like the name of the relief pitcher.
And again.
“Nepenthe!”
long and hollow.

Sometimes the window opens for a second,
or a split-second.
We catch one glimpse of a past
when we were ignorant,
or spoiled,
or depraved.

For an instant,
as through a camera shutter,
the long march of our life
glints in silvery backlight
and we fall into awareness
(but not consciousness)
of who we are
what we are
what we were.

The shutter clicks,
the window closes
and we know only that we have seen something
true and real
but have no “this-world” reference
to a vision of light so pure
it might be x-rays.

There is no video record,
no text,
no bas relief,
no Daguerreotype.
It remains in ephemeral memory
if we nurture it.

Of course, we can opt for sleep
and let it pass.

Rudimentary robots on Mars
grind through sorrel dust
on a quest for the next higher ground
or large boulder field.
One drags a frozen wheel
As it limps toward the sunlight.
Far overhead,
another robot
discovers erosion patterns
and evidence of great floods
in delta fans of effluvium
and not a wisp of water in thin air.

But here
two bananas have gone just beyond ripe
and when I peel them
they release plumes in the kitchen.
I slice them into a bowl
and drench them with thick cream.
I spoon them.

Older and retired-er,
I feel my status erode.
If I admit it,
I’ve never been the top dog
in my own pack before.

So now, my three sister-dogs
and I
maintain the dog network
that probably runs for miles,
at least on this side of the rivers
and lakes.

We know in advance of
joggers, packs of bicyclers,
I don’t know why we care about them at all.
But we dutifully chuff and huff
responses and signal boosters
and pass the intel along down the line.

We know about too loud ATVs
and stealth animals in the woods,
but the full sound and fury go forth
if there is a dog doing dog
inside of my area of responsibility.

I remember before I was older
and retired, ….

but, no, there’s too much thinking about nothing there.

I’ll stay here on a one-acre plot.
My eyes are shortened by the trees,
but my ears go out about 300 yards
(or meters. I piss on the distinction.)
with good distinction,
and my nose can do a thousand more than you.
A thousand anythings.

All day we receive messages
along these channels
and send the intel on down the line.

I trust what I see, only some,
I trust what I hear a bit more,
But what I smell is the truth.
The truth often stinks.

I live this life in captivity in exchange for
my taste.
Here i will be fed, and in exchange
i will offer the benefit of my eyes, ears and
the Dog-given power of my nose.
It’s what I do. It’s a good gig.