Unholy Imaginings

03-28-2019
Excalibur Nightmare (View from the Luxor)
a rifleman on the gaudy parapets
takes aim at a young buck
pops off a liver shot

the deer tries to run, but falls
viscous grape blood pours
onto the strip

04-02-2019
Vegas Haikus
the best part about
staying at the Excalibur
is not seeing it

lots of people here
look like vanilla ice, and
not in a good way

balding dudes wearing
red hot chili peppers tees
gaping at mountains

I.

it is tempting to become the husk
from which something better emerges

to simply blow away

existence demands too much
& rest is ever elusive

II.

it is difficult to heal deep wounds
choosing to nurture yourself

to take root and flourish

existence is pliant
& growth is often disruptive

stealing the fallout sign from an abandoned midwest grade school

having a plan is a form of hope, even when unrealistic
hiding under desks, hands protecting fragile skulls

we must find a way to thieve joy
from this false sense of security

Before he passed away, I painted a portrait of my dog as a saint.
With a gold leaf halo and a wreath of flowers.
After he passed, I placed an LED votive candle on a small shelf beneath it, always lit in his memory.

My daughter, just learning to speak, points to iconography and asks “Whassat?”
I told her, that’s Stanley. He was your brother, our protector, and my soul mate.

I did not know she’d been pointing to his wreath.
She calls all flowers by his name

—

Death is the memory of blooming.
The scent of fading petals.
Not the absence of flowers.

Always depicted as a dark figure
waiting to shepherd you home.
Never a void of aching desolation.

We speak of death as part of existence,
not as its antithesis. Contemplating
nothingness would be too fearful.

Humans likely started domesticating dogs around 30,000 years ago. The oldest known intentional domestic dog burial site is in Bonn-Oberkassel Germany, dated 14,200 years ago. A man, a woman, and two dogs rest together.

Ancient Greeks made mosaic memorials and touching poetic epitaphs for their dogs.

“Epitaph to a Dog” is inscribed on the memorial for Lord Byron’s Landseer Newfoundland, Boatswain. The eulogy preceding the poem was written by his friend John Hobhouse and is perfect in its simplicity.

When Lou restored some of my great-grandfather’s photos, two of his dogs are featured. A lab mix and an American bull terrier mix. I’ve included my favorite image below. The bull terrier posing near the Lorain Steel Plant rail-yard.

---

It has been half a year without sweet Stanley.

It is vital for me to tell you that he was my soulmate.

There is no other word for it. Domestication and symbiosis are too focused on the outcome of obedience and usefulness in a relationship.

We were simply meant to trust and love each other.

There is no timeline for my grief. I have the archeological and historical records to back me up on this.

The love of dogs, bred into my bones.

i rock you to sleep
in the too-bright heat

curtains barely keep
the evening light

from playing off the ribs
of the white-painted crib

//

the grass has died
tomatoes thrive

june cracks and peels
revealing faded july

image (ruined large format negative with black label maker applique)
text: (black label maker strips with white lettering)

STEP 1
STOP
FREAKING OUT

STEP 2
MAKE A
DECISION

STEP 3
MOVE FORWARD
NOTHING LASTS
FOREVER

my dog emerges from the tangle of weeds

white puffs crown his wrinkled head
clinging for miles, before floating off in the breeze

i recall the meticulous diagrams in biology textbooks,
never describe the spiritual points surrounding seed-dispersal

the seed journeys as far from home as possible
keeping itself small and light, floating upon prevailing whims

my dog plunges back into the thistle with a sneeze

This article has been immensely helpful to me in articulating my grief after Stanley’s death.
How to Grieve a Very Good Dog by Annette McGivney.

Since I was 25, Stanley has alleviated my pain. His absence feels like a massive burden that I simply can’t set down. Allowing myself to feel the intensity of my emotions (rather than attempting to “push through”) has been helpful. Writing has been helpful. So I write!

Much love to you, as always.

—

The last time I visited family in North Carolina, Stanley was with me. It felt nice to have a co-pilot on the nine hour drive. It was hot that summer. 86 degrees by 6AM with 90% humidity. We did our walking before sunrise. Stan dug a hole in the yard, under the trailer, to keep away from the sun.

At night, with the AC cranked, we slept on an air mattress in the home office. I let him sleep next to me, even though it was prohibited. His claws could easily puncture the bed, but nothing catastrophic happened. We rolled toward each other on the center of the mattress. Back to back, spine to spine.

When we left, I scrawled a note on the whiteboard: “Stan was here”, accompanied by a caricature of his giant head.

I visited North Carolina for the first time without him last month. I slept on the same saggy air mattress. I noticed his likeness, still scrawled on the whiteboard.

I plan to continue making this caricature of him when traveling. In the margins of all my notes.

An offering to his memory wherever I go.

Bringing life into the world is not very different than bearing witness to its end. Even with advanced notice, these events are abrupt, momentous, and terrifying.

I had never been a parent before Stanley. He helped make me a better caregiver, advocate, baker, storyteller, hiker, and friend. He got me out of bed on days when it seemed impossible. He helped me learn that while I was sensitive, I was also brave.

He gave me the gift of trusting my instincts. If the vibes are off, sometimes you have to bail. It doesn’t have to make sense. You don’t have to explain it to anybody. Just get back to a space of safety and love. I think of this often, because I subconsciously scan my environment for his phobias. Plastic bags blowing in the breeze, precariously perched laundry baskets, smoke alarms, and beeps of any kind.

Stanley was a vigilant and gentle older brother to my daughter. He passed just shy of her first birthday and his eleventh. I hope Stan is the dog archetype embedded into her subconscious. That she will carry a notion of his lumbering, loyal, loving energy forever.

The below poems were written at separate times in the past year and retitled to make them a pair. The titles are a way to help me grasp that the events of birth and death are not points on a line, but part of a cycle.

---

I. GENESIS (For I.)

fear hung about
like any operation

the nurse
the gurney
the sterile halls
the blinding metal table
the silence before your first breath

fear was never your deep lungs
never your cat-like howling

---

II. TERMINUS (For Stan)

my mind is constantly searching
for the shape of you. every
shadow, your form in
repose. every soft
noise, your
tread

you must be somewhere
outside of my peripheral
waiting to break free

---