The dog sleeps with an uncluttered mind,
ten pounds of hairy tranquility.
Lucky Angus MacPup is a devoted, idiot child
and I am his devoted, idiot father.
We walk around the block,
under stars indifferent to both of us.
We know our way without their guidance.
We are immune to astrologers.
The dust of fallen stars sprinkles down
on good bad people,
on the bad good people
and everybody else as well.
The rain falls on them all.
The wind blows up the dust
and the sun bakes them into a crust
of filth and sweat and blood.
They are clothed in white raiment
They luminesce and rot.
Their mummys crumble beneath golden masks.
The mold in their mouths stifles the voice of god.
The Pharoahs became divine,
they piled up stones inscribed with their immortal names.
Their monuments crumble into the manure of pigs, dogs and the stardust.
Their holy light shines forth in the eyes of bricklayers.
Their opposable thumbs craft new temples,
make fire and cause sticks to fly through the air.
In the eyes of dogs, we are like gods.
In the eyes of gods, we are each other.
If I cannot find Christ in your tears or in your laughter
then I will never find Christ.
We could build a city from the wood of the true cross
or at least a tool shed.
Gather up trowels and shovels and picks
Sharpen the axes hone the chisels
Set the saw teeth to bite hard and fast.
Hammer out a future for my granddaughter.
Ilsa nurses and frets. She gurgles and sighs.
She wails for milk, purple in hungry rage, helpless in her need,
She learns to hold her head erect,
She looks out at the world.
She casts the goddess gaze on ceiling fans
and papa's beard
and the mother goddess/librarian
who knits and ponders and sleeps when she can.
No moon is my mistress.
My brother is the multitude.
My sister is the child of every woman,
asleep in the bosom of the dirt.
Your light will guide my feet and his paws.
Who reads these words becomes divine.
Who loves the filth encrusted gods of the Ring Street overpass?
Raise your hand and shine out.