By Bob Phillips
at the edge where the dogs hold
leashed against the bars, strain
by the membrane of sleeplessness
practice calesthentic curl-ups, void at last
shit first warm, then clammy
then cold as concrete floors
in my place the laughing devil
feints my privates, so called, I curl,
hold up a name of God, ward warden
led on a leash of lampcord, I testify
through the wires on my fingers
perform for master, tiny camera
my guide a burning bush, wick
of the righteous, stammers and stumbles
visited upon the depraved, plausible, denial
Startling, nightmare-accurate, and brilliant.
Reading that you currently reside in Portland, the dogs tied to the fence makes me think of the area somewhere near the waterfront on the eastside near the OMSI. Am I right? Or am I way off?
@joe – think I’m playing Iraq, here, back. the guy in the cone hat. the photo enthusiasts. big smiles. pedestal democracy. we look away.
in his place.
spoken version up on soundcloud: