Where has Otis/Arthor/Frank/yrDog been? Firmly wedged in
one of real life's kinder folds while all around me the angst of transition rains. I've written barely a word in months. I don't mind. I've my own panacea for this world gone woesome and it's the old tried and true, namely, a bosom buddy, a mate, another naked soul that fits mine like a wombs fits a babe. Things great and small rise and fall, but i got someone to tickle my balls.

Oh, here's a poem I found (in my sock drawer).

I have to go in deep
deeper then before
with no thoughts
of payola
the monkeys sleep
while we're busy
with the intimate tasks
of play. oh,
i might say
it's an unrigged moment
& one ought not ask
will it keep but
keep her? yes, sure even
a donkey gets easy
and i'm mated yet more
but oh i could just weep


And all the while the junk mail pours in. Lose Weight In Your Sleep (i think i have been). Punish Me Hard (I still don't get the sm thing). Stop Your Hair Loss Now! (in our lifetime?). The Ultimate Marketing Tool (i could just vomit). Order Best Gas Mask (will it screen out spam?). It's all so never ending, like a smoldering pile of cement dust.
I don't care. If i stop and breath it all stays simple.


simple

as light as a grand piano
balanced just so on point
a ballet of incredible weight
the fruition of years drenched
with angst and joys now simpled
out of chaos and frantic tumult
into a balance so sudden and elegant
it finds us dizzy with grace
out on limbs and wit's ends
we were ducking and weaving
in the winds of brutish fate
high at the bar hugging the rails
where the greenest grass grew fast
under the best red sneakers

 
I know exactly what I mean. The rest of you are on your own.

---

     My name is yrdog4now. Admittedly it is not what my father calls. Nor for that matter what my sons call me. Not only that, but what my sons call me is not what my father calls me. This may explain why I do not have a statue of dad on my lawn.

     Recently the plot got even thicker. I bugged my "dad" to send me my adoption papers. Now I know my name. It's Frank Drake. Not Art, Otis, Alex, dog, Cooper, or any of the other monikers I've gone by. Identity crisis? Nah. To whatever extent the idea of self isn't just a provisional illusion I remain "me". As for my identity as a poet, well, that too is entirely provisional. What's in a name anyway?

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