midnight at the beach back from the surf
with my black dog on the white beach in her red leash
i came across a woman slouching
in a circle of light by the multi carpark under a streetlight of sand
ok, i didn’t actually but my memory’s shot through
been clocked all to pieces out that shotgun of a motorcycle and anyways, she’s “The Hanging Judge”
the dog is good,
i am safe, and
one block away and
she, i figured
unsure of her cardinal directions this calligraph, came
she looked at me drunk-wise side-wise
we walked the block to my house there by the beach
my dog, still a puppy
she shook off the winter and the spring a-coming in and
her just sterilized and me still at a loss
“that tranny officer couldn’t kill a dog”
and, well, that dog did something bad
in the corner of the kitchen, between the sink and the stove and
i, i,
guess i yelled and yanked, and put the dog away
“that singer of yours doesn’t sing
you talk to your dog like she’s a block of wood
watch this”
she put her to the sit
and me to sing songs of my dog in that black lake near the ocean blue.
one saturday night, the hanging judge came to my house, said
“your singer only mumbles
just speaks well
just mumbles
just speaks a line of shit and never hits a note
not like elvis, now there’s a man could hit a note, and
bob dylan , well he’d write a song about me, all true story-like
and you’d be
you’d
you’d still be all on your knee
pencil in hand and,
not a word to say”
she come in my house
she turned off my music
sat my dog
left into the night
that drunk girl of no cardinal direction
