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December 16, 2010

A Little Poem About My Dog and stuff

My black dog grips

A lamb shank-bone

Between white-tufted paws.

With his back fangs,

Tongue dangling down

Narcotically, he gnaws.


He watches me

Without seeing,

His condensed feeling

In those working jaws.

With frightful cracks

And crunching, splintered

Shards he swallows

To my slight alarm,

And yet I watch him

With satisfaction.


Childless as I am,

Exiled from animal

And god, alone;

Belonging to no party,

Tribe or guild,

I envy him his bone.




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If he’s looking at you while he eats the bone, it doesn’t take an animal behavioral psychologist to realize that he’s thinking about eating you. Maybe you better close the bedroom door when you sleep.


Stef, I think I’d prefer to hear about that from an actual animal behavioral psychologist. I planted myself in front of him to watch him while he ate. I should also add that I’m not actually “alone” as I imply in the last stanza; I have a most excellent wife. I was speaking metaphysically, using my immense powers of negative capability.


This is a pretty good poem, Anton. Are you joining us other six billion exiles anytime soon? Oh, I’m sorry, I’ll let you finish.


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