The night before last Wednesday,
my pup died of infection,
and was laid to rest out back
until the resurrection.
He won’t be poking his snout
into my palm anymore,
nor will his bushy tail slap my leg
enough to make it sore.
The old beast was finally freed
from the strife life will relay,
and I’ve been drinking vodka
ever since that one Wednesday.
That animal’s why I drink,
drinking animal-like myself,
and I fetch more all alone
from the village grocer’s shelf.
Can’t drag myself much further,
as my legs move ever so weakly.
Dull pain gnaws at my soul,
my pancreas and kidneys.
Even so, this nasty cycle
in a way is sort of fun.
Just like that one fall season
when we had to bury Mum.





With respect to my unconceived, unborn,
and unregistered children’s
right to unbeing

The freedom to be free,
the freedom to be a slave,
the freedom to plod along
in mud and on parquet.
The freedom to nail tablets
right up upon the walls,
the freedom to seek myself
by touch, though I might fall.
The freedom from or for hate,
the freedom from or for joy;
for words to become flesh and weight,
and flesh consumed, destroyed.
The freedom to be nice,
and for its absence to be
present in flesh and in word.
And lastly, freedom to notbe.