The hanging judge and the black dog

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 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