We're Dogs

We're dogs.

"C'mon, Boxer, bite 'im in the balls!"

"C'mon, Snoop, get his throat!"

Rounding in a circle in an alley 'round Boxer and Snoop as they snarled and gnashed we were, 'rounded ourselves by broken bricks and bottles and beerpuke, sounds of hot jazz from somewheres, no signs of civilization anywheres, just Boxer and Snoop as they fought for the other's submission.

"Boxer, you gonna be his bitch?"

"Snoop, you some pussy?, fuck him!"

Snoop was my guy; I would've laid down my throat for him. He had what they call it. No way he could lose to this Boxer cunt. Snoop backed suddenly into me as Boxer made a lefty paw-slash at him my man. I barked, "Bite 'im!" and Snoop jumped like a yard and threw over Boxer and got 'im by the throat, snarling an' snarling 'an snarling. And then Boxer kicked Snoop in the head, I don't know how he did it, and Snoop fell back, totally fuckin' stunned.

Boxer got up and covered Snoop, looking him in the eye.

"You give?"

Snoop gasped, "Yeah. I give."

We all calmed down. I once-overed Boxer. Some dog! I was Boxer's guy; Snoop was just another mutt.

 

***

 

Look at it. Off on a holiday, down in the sunny south, he and me, looking for action. There's plenty of cheap trick down here.

But he. My boyfriend, my husband. Calls me fat, calls me disgusting. All the while he's doing rent-boys.

(All the while I'm doing rent-boys too: Caribbean style.)

He hates me anyway. Home again we are; he's I think in the kitchen; we haven't spoken since our plane landed. He hates me.

Four floors to the ground. I'd break my neck, sure. I have nothing, my heart hurts so bad. I can't stop it; I can't talk to him. He thinks he's so right.

I think he's gone into the bedroom. Leaving me all alone, he wants that, so cruel. How can I be close to him, such a bastard. He's probably jerking off thinking about some orgy we had. He had, not me, not really.

Look at the sunlight moving up that building there. The sun will be down in just a couple minutes. It'll get cooler too.

The alley pavement's probably still warm. Something is warm around here. Not as warm as the sunny south but still.

He'll come out eventually; I'll be gone.

 

***

 

-According to our records, you have a newspaper delivery route as an adolescent.

-I did?

-Yes. You were eleven, twelve, thirteen.

-Yeah, I think you're right. I think I did.

-What's with the hesitation? Are you hiding something?

-No, nothing's hidden. It's that I can't see myself doing something like that. But yeah it's coming back to me. It was an afternoon thing, wasn't it?

-You delivered newspapers after school.

-Yes--and on Saturday mornings and Sunday mornings too.

-It's all coming back to you. Is it?

-Not much of it, no. The papers would be ... dropped off on my driveway. And I remember collecting money for them, having to keep account. I can hardly believe it. How did I do it?

-Keep going.

-Money. Christmas tip money. I had a lot of money. I remember washing it once.

-Washing money?

-Yes. I'd seen my brother doing that, so I did it too. Only once. Strange!

-That's pretty weird.

-Yes, I know. I also remember taking string and filling my room with it, tack to tack, like a spider's web.

-So you had a paper route.

-Yes.

-You did weird things, huh?

-I was there. My heart's the same.

 

-Hey, don't sweat it. I wasn't perfect either. Do you think you want to go on?

-Let's see. I used to suck on my lower lip. I did it all the time, so much so that I developed a semi-circular rash on my lower lip.

-Really.

-The skin would rot at the edges and I could peel it off.

-That's pretty disgusting.

-Yeah. So I had to use this bitter ointment to make me stop doing it.

-Did it work?

-After a while. I still over-use Chap Stick though.

-Small price to pay, isn't it?

-It's readily available.

-What about sex?

-What about sex?

-How did it affect you? What did you know about it?

-That's a bit harder to talk about.

-Whatever comes to mind. This is a very informal test, you see.

-The family dog. I shouldn't name her. Her fur was so soft. In any case, I didn't come close to anything except some rubbing. I doubt she even realized what was happening. Her fur was soft.

-I think we have enough information now.

-Okay, so, tell me. About that tortoise you said was a turtle. If they're the same creatures, how come they have different names?

 

***

 

Let's laze in the grass for a long twelve minutes

And look up where will be the summer sky stars

At midnight tonight with things all alright

As a child examined does expect surcease soon

After the clock ticks to the twelve of noon

Let's linger in the leaves for sundry seconds more

Not caring for creatures other than ourselves

But yet loving the antic crickets and crawling ants

We hear unseen under the green and gold sheaves

For they are lingering too like in love like doves

Let's waste some minutes more where the world

Can't catch us cooing and clutching so much

The sun's ashamed and glad God's grass is long

Enough to hide our hungered hands from him

And happy he can't hear our carnal whispering

Let's take our time for the curved earth is a cup

Inverted as a hand holding us up to heaven

Like long-dead sacerdotal sacrificers did

In days long gone before the earth emasculated

Was with agriculture cutting through our grass.

Our time is terser so don't think of things

Beyond your eyes and ears and toes and tongue

That wander where they will with all

We're offering on this midsummer morning.

 

***

 

Sometimes, in this crazy business I'm in, a pattern jumps out from my analytic tables and punches me right in the face, like one did yesterday. Buzzing through a huge mass of location information, there is was.

First point: a murder at [integer redacted, hereafter "x"] Park Road, Cedar Rapids, Iowa.

Second: a murder at "x" Park Road, Amarillo, Texas.

Third: a murder at "x" Park Road, Franklin, Tennessee.

Fourth: a murder at "x" Park Road, Brandon, Manitoba.

&c. it went, on and on and on.

I sprang into action. Was there a Park Road in my city? Yes! Right near Yonge and Bloor. I found the phone number for "x" Park Road, Toronto and hurriedly dialed.

Man answering says, "Yes?"

I identify myself: Inspector with the Logicometrical Division. I say, "You're in danger!"

"Why exactly." (How could he be bored at a time like this?)

"Murder! Murder! At your address in other cities! There's a pattern! Someone hates your number and street!"

"That's ridiculous."

"It's true! You can look it up!"

"Can't be."

"Maybe a childhood memory is involved.... Some numerological and toponymical vengeance!"

"I'm hanging up now."

Line went dead.

I then knew who was my prime suspect.

 

***

 

Why is everyone here?

Why are all these doctors here? What about the dentists? And the doctors who are surgeons, there's a lot of those here. They're all over the place, and why are they here? There's lawyers and teachers and researchers and truck drivers and children and why are they all here? Why is that group of people over there here, no matter what they're doing or how? Why are there plumbers here? How come there's whole buildings a thousand feet tall that were built by folks long ago who were here? Why are the computer designers here, software, hardware? Why are the scuba divers here, the pearl fishermen here, the sea captains here? Why are the glaziers glazing here, why are the pen-makers pen-making here, why are the pilots piloting here? Why are the cardboard manufacturers here? Why are the farmers and the crop dusters, grocery store clerks and the checkout ladies and the soup-bowl sellers here? Why are the fact-checkers here? Why are the artisanal salad designers here? Why are the politicians and the clerks and the judges here? Why are the telephone operators here? Why are the dogs and the cats here? Why is everyone here?

 

***

 

The movie producer smoked a big cigar. All day hearing pitches in a field office in Colorado can make you do things like that.

Mr. Next came in. He was carrying a lumpy envelope.

"So, Mr. Next, what have you got for me?"

Mr. Next took a deep breath and began. "It's something completely different. It's about how the whole world is only the fantasy of a man on another planet."

"Why does the man on another planet have this fantasy? Motivation, man, motivation!"

"There's no motivation!"

The movie producer puffed. "Is this an original idea?"

"No," said Mr. Next. "This's where it gets interesting. You see, it's a true story."

"Where did it come from then?"

Mr. Next held out the envelope. "Right here."

The producer opened the envelope. It was a typed and crumpled page. "Where did you get this?"

"I pulled it out of Robert Redford's ass."

"No kidding!"

"It's true. I pulled it out of Robert Redford's ass."

"Ah. Then I suppose it must be true."

"Absolutely."

The producer puffed. "A docudrama then." Puff puff. "We should call it Deep Throat." Puff puff. "Robert Redford's ass has never lied to me before." Puff Puff. "No motivation!"

 

***

 

Visuals For a Silent Music Video Entitled "Moving Day"

 

Here is the messy underside of a bed--board-games, orphan slippers, and dust.

Here are bare male feet entering from above.

Here's a hand scratching through underwear ass, then the whole male body entering a bathroom, door closes.

In the living room, here's broken spruce lumber on a yellow carpet--hand reaches in to shove lumber into a garbage bag.

Here's a coffee cup sliding on a counter spilling black coffee.

Here's a hallway with a front door that opens to reveal a little girl on a tire swing slo-mo with a giant moving van "Ted's Moves" behind her.

Here's a broom sweeping glass down a very long dust-moted hallway.

Here's the male pulling down a bookshelf.

Here're women in white singing the chorus.

Here's a bulldozer pushing everything out of the living room.

Here're ten thousand calendar pages blowing down the very long dust-moted hallway.

Here's an animated sequence depicting William Morris Strawberry Thief wallpaper.

In the living room, the bulldozer is exiting.

Here's a chandelier swinging violently.

In the bathroom, a toothbrush is taken from a metal cup.

The living room is empty now, like a first day dawn.

 

***

 

You must've missed the item on the news today

About everything you got that you could lose today

When you got you little gig beside an eighteen-wheeler rig

And on your little mobile phone you're checkin' away

 

You're reading 'bout some decade olden argument

Your former better half demanding what you meant

While the trucker's horn is blowing 'cause you'd better down be slowing

Before you find you're all mixed up with fresh cement

 

You've called her a drag, like an angler on a snag,

You said you fought to free yourself of that old bag,

But now that you're with me oh baby can't you see

You got to break your talk and trouble with that hag?

 

Always on the text and always hitting next

But lordy let us keep this alive

I'll give you better, if you'd stop talking to your ex

So, lover, hang up and drive.

 

I swear I'll smash that thing into a billion bits

Look here and see a real friend with benefits

Don't 'xpect no wedding bells if you keep looking to your cell

You call her once again and I will call it quits

 

Always on the text and always hitting next....

 

***

 

The TSO's "Psycho"

 

On the 31st, the Toronto Symphony Orchestra will play Bernard Herrmann's score to Psycho live to the film. Admirable this may be; unfortunately they will fail because there is an intentional "bad" cut in the middle of the film.

The bad cut I'm talking about is a simulation of a reel change taking place after the death of Marion. As I recall, the camera glides over to the newspaper then through the window and up to the house where we hear Norman say something like "Mother, blood, blood." The next shot is Norman coming down to the motel. Between these two shots is the bad cut and the bad cut is made by the music. There's no music in the former and there's music in the latter. (It's also a jump cut.)

The split being so precise it looks like an inept reel change. It signifies the cut between Marion and Norman--a literal cut between the continuity of one reel and the continuity of the next. A live orchestra cannot play a cue that must take place in the infinitesimal moment between one film frame and the next.

It's a focal shift disguised as a mistake.

 

***

 

I went to a farmer's market today. I couldn't believe the stink of the place. Was it rotting food? It smelled like rotting food!

I went to work today. My desk, my chair, my computer, my co-workers, my partitions, everything stank out loud. What the hell is wrong with the air circulation in this place?

I went to see my ex-wife today. Man, she smells bad. Enough said. More judgemental than ever.

I went to my local parfumerie today. Hoo-boy, what a stench! I don't know what they're putting into their stuff these days. Glandular secretions?

I went into my bedroom today. Wow, the pillows, the bed, even under the bed--everything was like death on a summer day. Putrefaction to the nth degree.

I watched a comedian on television today. Looking at him, I knew he smelled bad. I just did. He was off. Past his sell date. Yesterday's news. Stinking like a broken gas-bar toilet bowl.

I drove to a bower in the countryside today. It was full of small animals and daisies, and it smelled so bad. Even the water of the waterfall stank. Why is this always the way?

Why does every place I go stink?

 

***

 

Siegfried. Siegfried. Man how I hate Siegfried.

Talk o' the town. Cock o' the walk. Big Chief Chirps To Birds.

Everything about him--his big beefy arms, his perfect feet, his "Hero Tenor"--bugs me. I have an argument daily: "Shit, give me a ring that makes me invisible and you'll see what intelligence is!" Siegfried's a bonehead. I doubt he can walk and chew gum at the same time.

I go to every performance I can. (That's not hard to do since his rôles are so seldom staged.) Every time, the doorkeeps confiscate an airhorn I want to use to blast our his hedilee-hodilee-ho-hos.

Every time except for this evening.

I slipped into a performance. I BLASTED Siegfried again and again. He looked so small up on stage! So twee! in his loincloth and helmet. He tried to continue singing, but he couldn't!

What happened next? Either I was manhandled and spat upon and thrown out of the theatre or the rest of the audience agreed with me, took me on their shoulders, sang "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow" and carried me into the streets to universal acclaim, with the headlines tomorrow reading, "We are free once again."

 

***

 

"Computers are my Forte"

 

Something somewhere there was or there is a study or a theory something about how incompetent peoplr overestimate their competence and about haw competent people underestimate their competence. Now I think everyone competent or cincompetent would believe themselves to be in the lastter group, right? But that doesn't mean they belong there now do it? So if I think I can do something well there's well no way I can know which group I belong to.

But maybe there's a tell in ot that you arrive at from another place--the folks in the last group are often befuddled by how other people kinda can't do something otr other well.

Where am I going with this?

So the only thing is that competent people expect other people to be comptetent and are shicked that they're not competent that's to say he doesn't understand why nothing works right because everything seems so msimple. I see other people's spellings and stuff and maybe they use commas as stops and so on and I'm surprised by it. "I thought you were capable." So I think that puts me firmly in the latter group./ IWhy can't everybody be like me?>

 

***

 

And as dawn broke over the world, great swells were seen rising from the sea, near the Mariana Trench.

And high overhead in the heavens, large thunderheads formed mercilessly, packed with ≈500 tons of TNT.

And there was much gnashing of teeth, and wailing of babes, and cries from the livestock of the farm.

And the coastal cities were deluged, by fire from the skies, and by waves from the ocean's watery vasts.

And the people fled the cities and spread themselves across the plains like butter on Melba toast.

And all the energy generated by the waters and the fires disturbed the earthquake god and he rumbled.

And half of Washington and half of Oregon and half of California slid noisily into the Pacific ocean.

And the Yellowstone Caldera had finally had enough and blew up in spectacular Michael Bay style.

And dragons emerged from the great lakes where they had been slumbering five hundred years or so.

And all communications were severed due a spontaneous EMP that blasted in from Asia or perhaps from Australia.

And I wasn't really there at the time, for I had slept in, and was told about it second-hand in a faraway place.

 

***

 

I, Word

 

What am I, word, relying upon here?

Not wood: some years ago perhaps: but this is not I, Pencil, now is it?

In the country China, or elsewhere, in filth and poison, men mine minerals, to better their lives, and to give their children wealth.

As we are--at the apex of human development--it's impossible to encapsulate all of it in merely two hundred words.

The whole history of America leads to the mass-produced transistor, smaller and smaller, cheaper and cheaper. And everyone profited in the creation. All were free to do or not to do.

The minerals from China, via Germany, via South America, via diodes and resistors and robots and manufacturers of robots, came to be, for you and for me. We didn't have to ask for it.

Joe Blow Anywheresville came up with a slight bit of code: just a sort. His sort made organization possible. He was paid for his work.

The sort plus the minerals plus the transistors, plus the cables of metal and the metal boxes of the machines I am using to get through to you: all came about through choice.

Here I am: word. Three billion people made me.

 

***

 

This is a very big book. It runs two feet from cover to cover, and it's got 14,240 pages inside.

It was published in Amsterdam in 1911. That's all it says on the inside: Amsterdam, 1911. Amsterdam is famous for dodgy copyrights.

But what's it called, yes yes, what's it called? It's called Selected Missae, by Various Hands. The table of contents for this book of scores, vocal and orchestral, runs from Gregorian settings through Guillaume de Machaut through Josquin des Prez through to the infrequent art settings of the Classical era and up to Verdi. Don't expect anything after Verdi.

And it came in its own cabinet which is made of polished cedar, with a cabinet beneath the shelf, a good place to put your blank charts and ink and inkhorn.

This is by all means a rare book for there's only one in existence. I don't know why the Amsterdammers only made one, but they only made one.

This sole copy is located in a motel room in a motel somewhere around Gravenhurst. Right there beside the little refrigerator.

I dreamed it twice. It exists. If it didn't, I could not have dreamed it.

It is beyond value.

 

***

 

We awoke in the morning's cold, the sun warming our faces. The snow melted slowly, over the next two hours. Meanwhile we found dry twigs and started a fire to cook our oatmeal and potatoes. We looked at the sky: it was clearing up: spring was on its way.

Spring arrived at noon. We picked flowers and arranged them. We sang happy songs and everyone looked sexy in spring clothes so much so that couples disappeared in the greenery to show etchings to one another with giggles and blushes. We found out swimsuits and towels and marvelled at the coconuts.

At about five o'clock we had a heat wave. Lucky we had our swimsuits and towels! The harvest was about to come in so we could only swim for an hour. The water was lovely. We were all thinking about thanksgiving at seven and our stomachs grouched in anticipation.

After the harvest dinner we sat on our lawn chairs as the air grew cold. The leaves were changing: we made paintings of them: they were so beautiful. The Farmers' Almanac predicted an early winter, nine-thirty or so. We pulled at our blankets. An early winter. The snows started at nine-forty-five.

 

***

 

Why Taste Matters

 

"They're coming!" cried Steve. "They're at the road!"

There wasn't much time! Andie and Steve had barely stepped into the abandoned house before they had to leave, post-post-haste. The zombies were coming up the driveway!

Steve cried, "Grab what you can! I'm getting the food, you get us some books!"

Andie had noticed some, on a shelf in the dusty busted living room. She ran in and looked at the shelf.

"Quickly!" yelled Steve.

Andie scanned the shelf. Let's see, Middlemarch, Life of Pi, Hamlet, Le Morte d'Arthur, The Handmaid's Tale, Fifty Shades of Grey, The Iliad, Hollywood Wives. How many days had they spent on the road? Too many to count. It was all so confusing!

"Andie, please!"

She grabbed Life of Pi, The Handmaid's Tale, Fifty Shades of Grey, and Hollywood Wives and stuffed them into her sack. She ran into the kitchen and with Steve they were quickly out the back door and running.

After running ten minutes they stopped to breathe.

Steve said, "That was close!"

"Almost too close!"

"Well, okay. I got food, you got books. Did you get good stuff?"

Andie peeked into her sack. "I think I got the best."

 

***

 

Nervous we crossed the farmer's field, stepping over through the rough sticks of stubble overtopping the snow. We'd heard tell of farmers with salt-guns that are worser than shot-guns because they shot salt and salt stings when you get it into a cut. Our snowsuits went shwoosh-shwoosh at our thighs and armpits with every step and we didn't want to be in step because it sounded weird and scary.

We were dragging toboggans behind us and hers was better than mine because mind had a cracked slat that made me have to lean left to go straight down. Way back behind us was the hill we had been going down, and we were looking to see if there was some hidden big hill no-one knew about that could be ours and ours alone or at least we'd be popular because we'd be its great discoverers.

We got some distance across the field and we stopped.

It was so quiet. We could see the cars way off but we couldn't hear them.

She shrugged and I smiled. There was nothing out here like a hill. We'd known that a half hour ago; but a whole lot can change in a half-hour.

 

***

 

Epilogue

 

1. The world does not contain the world.

2. The sum of all bees is greater than the sum of all bees.

3. Though I don't remember all of my childhood, it was bigger than my childhood.

4. There are more things to say about things than there are things (and things to say about things).

5. There are things outside of every thing and everything.

6. My words say more than I say they mean and you say they mean.

7. "How many children has Lady Macbeth?" is a perfectly sensible question.

8. There is no end to inquiry.

9. The world necessarily exceeds the world.

10. This is somewhat related to hackney 'turtles all the way down.'

11. That which is outside the world is easily bigger than the world; the world is infinitesimal.

12. The world is both round and flat but that's not the end of it.

13. The study of the origins of language can never come to a conclusion.

14. Though I've been here since the beginning of time and will be here until the end of time, I am still, relatively, nothing.

15. I am bigger than me. But that's not unique.