A stray black dog,  cast out into the west Texas night,

approached me sidelong, feigning a sniff of the ground as I stood with a scotch and topo chico on an agate sidewalk, full of thanksgiving and wondering why we carry on when logic says we should lay down and let the world till us under.

I pet her or his (gender a blur of fur wrapped in shadow),  back, stroked briefly the head, feeling a mat of thorny grass entrenched in my ronin freind’s unwashed coat, in place of a collar and tag.

We exchanged this moment, passed something between us if not just this poem, then perhaps a brief moment of solidarity in a world trying to run us over. 

Poem #108

I found a cat in your parachute,
a bridge ruin Jehovah standing electric
Against a concrete wall,
Street journaling the American cancer.

Inch thick skin is the best.

Jedi master bedroom with a Sociopath landlord, better than me in your square foot garden,
dead in a Westside Story switchblade rumble,
travesty deed signed by a cruel notary public.

Crocheted by hand, a shroud of my own,
forged over a long day at the Artist mill,
a shill to will never made real, buried in the
Utility bills and the gunslinger cigarette,
Gunning for half formed thoughts.

I recall that there were few tickets left for
The train ride back to the American dream,
Most of us having awakened, midstream,
Gleaned the most recent version is a scheme
Falling apart at the seams, reeking of fear,
Barkeep two more motherfucking beers.

Inch thick skin should be just fine,
But Kevlar gets cheaper by the hour.
Jehovah Kenobi, you’re my only hope.