Little Jack

Two brothers taking care of the thirds dog. He is away, in jail, for third DWI, the dog gets out, hit by a car, I hear the scream, a dogs at first then a human child, then a dog again, god the pain, the suffering, I run around from the back, I see the brother coming towards the dog, I see the dog screaming limping away from the cold concrete, its back legs bloody, not moving, it crawls, 15 feet, why is it crawling?, it must hurt so bad, it continues to crawl, it back legs crushed and bleeding, it find the cool grass and lies down, it crawled 15 feet, 15 torturous feet across black street, our streets to get the grass, to lie, and to bleed, to die? Who knows its a damn small dog. The third brother, Dave, Christ such a nice man, not a smart man, but a nice man. His dog is going to die. The brothers, one begins to cry, they both have long grey hair. Working men. Beer and classic rock men. That damn dog crawled 15 feet without back legs to lie in the grass. That beautiful green grass. It could have stayed in the street but it would not. What could have been going through it tortured little mind? Fuck, Dave, Dave is going to be crushed. That dog looked pretty messed up. Even from a 100 yards away I could see the bloody lower half. Fuck, Dave is such a nice guy, and such cool little dog. He loved that dog. His only constant companion, unmarried. The dog still lives, I can hear its moan. Well I heard its moan about a minute ago. Fuck, Dave is gonna be crushed. He is the can, and he is gonna learn his dog has died. I hope the dog lives, I hope the dog wants to live. That little fucker crawled, his lower half crush, crawled 15 feet to lay in the grass and bleed. Crushed by a car, crushed between rubber and cold concrete. Jack. Little jack.

The youngest brother cradles him in poncho in the back of a pick up truck, the other brother flipping through a phone book. “find a place yet?” No crying, jack, no sounds out of jack, eyes seemed to be closed. Unconscious hopefully, not suffering. The truck leaves, I turn on Miles, I open up to Tate’s Promotion, the one about the dog who lives a charmed life, slowly quietly dies and then is reincarnated into a cubicle bound man. I think of rewriting this poem. Jack a charmed life, and violent death (he still lives as far as I know) reincarnated as what? Another miserable man, maybe a man who paves roads, who is hit by car that stops for a second, flips out a cigarette and moves on, on a beautiful spring day.

Seasonal Depression

Seasonal depression does not take place during winter. No, seasonal depression happens when you have to sit in a biege cubicle when the sun is shinning, and a cool spring breeze is blowing.

A poem...

The Promotion
By James Tate

I was a dog in my former life, a very good
dog, and, thus, I was promoted to a human being.
I liked being a dog. I worked for a poor farmer,
guarding and herding his sheep. Wolves and coyotes
tried to get past me almost every night, and not
once did I loose a sheep. The farmer rewarded me
with good food, food from his table. He may have
been poor, but he ate well. And his children
played with me, when they weren't in school or
working in the field. I had all the love any dog
could hope for. When I got old, they got a new
dog, and I trained him in the tricks of the trade.
He quickly learned, and the farmer bought me into
the house to live with the family. I brought the farmer
his slippers in the morning, as he was getting
old, too. I was dying slowly, a little bit at a
time. The farmer knew this and would bring the
new dog in to visit me from time to time. The
new dog would entertain me with his flips and
flops and nuzzles. And then one morning I just
didn't get up. They gave me a fine burial down
by the stream under a shade tree. That was the
end of my being a dog. Sometimes I miss it so
I sit by my window and cry. I live in a high-rise
that looks out at a bunch of other high-rises.
At my job I work in a cubicle and barely speak
to anyone all day. The human wolves don't even see me.
They fear me not.