ken

how many dogs need to die

to feed the cat

with the fat pouring onto the dull street

that forgets to reach this silver headless plate

when the sun sours atop the family pet

then you must summon my name

like a leash turned whip

air beckoning the bow

demanding the few breathes barked out to come

come relax under the black blot

it is here i will i last

i ask can i see truly see

swallow with the mouth of my eyes

and the licks of my lashes

your form that has dented toilet bowls and dim soap

and yet has never been truly clean or emptied

there another beast is called spot

look at that wild wolf that would slaughter every small thing

devour all memories and sensation of pain

destroy any cycle of the weak living found on a saturday

in bed all day

named felix or max or me

if the owner is so strengthless

i must stop writing this

the dog has drooled on my lap

these are new pants

that must be washed now

waiting

the skin is cold against an open mattress

filled with hair that could either be mine

or bitch’s