Fuck You Dog.

i was there on the couch reading for
what must of been hours.
i read the line:
"i refuse to cohabit with stupidity"
and my laugh reverberated through the old house.
off the hardwood floors and spun through ceiling
fan.
suddenly i hear the dog barking and crying,
whimpering louder than the sirens
helicopters
and gun shots.
in the kitchen,
"what the hell is wrong with you!?"
as he tries desperately to jump over the barricade.
"what are you complaining about dog? i have your shit on my
shoes now, i should be scolding you!"
then i realize, that he is kept back here
all day
every day
and seldom sees people
or other dogs.
it hits me,
that he is lonely
and i pick him up
and make my way back to the room.
resting,
with my boots hanging off the end
of the small tight bamboo couch,
he is stretched out across my chest
listening to a different rhythm
than his own.
recognizing that his brain is almost
the size of my nut sack
but loneliness still grabs him.
we both lay there
in silence
content
with just having the other.
we're human
but still animals
and sometimes,
that simple act
of two people being near each other
without words
without drinks
without any kind of judgement
just pure
unmasked
warmth
can make all the difference
it's a simple thing
and we still can't do it.

there's no glory in writing. the writer cannot be comfortable in his own skin, so he lives other lives for them. he is the whore, the lover, the grocery clerk and the butcher. the liar and thief, gentlemen and romantic, the classy and modest, the jogger the drinker and the bartender. better he confess only to himself for fear of being found out. viewing the life plain and simple. observes all things, immerses himself in all things. through his eyes everything is constructed of the same matter. cannot say what he means so he uses literature as a cover up for his social anxieties. human contact is his enemy while solitude becomes his only way to keep the eyes open. drinks to escape the pain of being a man and loves in order to feel human. scared to let anyone inside, out of fear that they will confirm his worst thought. that he is normal and without any real purpose, that his fight is arbitrary and filled with nothingness. lack all ability to communicate effectively verbally, he talks to himself inside of his head as he wraps his arms around the pillow knowing.
that there is no glory in being a writer.