Dingo Dogs

It could have been a coyote, but I think just a feral dog chasing a likely meal. This time of morning the details matter less than the fact. The sound was piercing. The death throes of something. Welcome back to the ridge. You don't have heat nor hot running water, and you get to listen to animals dying. I'm in my down mummy bag atop the bedclothes fully awake, because the sound woke me from a dream. I was on a carousel, a woman was on the horse in front of me, dark hair streaming out behind her, I was trying to tell her something, but the carousel kept speeding up and my voice was swept behind me. I could see the words, bending into the slipstream. I don't know what to make of any of it. Everything, all of it. You hammer away at meaning and you end up with a pile of rock-dust. Do you get up, or not? I have to pee, so I unzip, and grab the fleece bathrobe that Carma and D gave me, a few years ago, when they first started worrying about my relative comfort; go out back, off the porch, and take one of those horse-on-a-flat-stone pisses that sounds like an October storm on the coast of Maine. Nothing to be done. Decide to have a cup of hot chocolate, and break out an encyclopedia to reference what I'm drinking. My 11th Britannica is that cheap small set on newsprint, and when it's cold, or I've been drinking, it's sometimes difficult to find what I'm looking for. I have to build a fire and start a pot of coffee when all I really want is a cigaret. Flipping through Volume 6, CHA to CON, I have to stop several times. This is the way it happens, I'm a sucker for irrelevant research. Chopin. Cholera. Chocolate. Turn on the radio, because I haven't listened to anything in forever. All I've done in all that time is hang a show. Fuck me for believing, it keeps me alive.The word came into English through the French chocolat or the Spanish chocolate from the Mexican chocolatl. A beverage made from the paste of a bean. I knew that, I must have looked it up before. Probably the last time I had a cup. Don't get me started on chicken broth. Otherwise, things are fine. Nothing untoward. Is that really a word? Spell check allows it. Does that make it a word? If you're having problems in the post-modern world you should sign up for our class. We offer advanced degrees in a great many fields. I was looking at some pigweed, earlier today, it had pretty much taken over. The corner of the bottle, Murphy, just enough to wet your whistle. I build my case (castle) on ambiguity, it's my foundation. Things being relative. Fucking dog-bark and the dying scream of something down the food chain, and I'm researching chocolate. Is that Ry Cooder? I swear there is a god. The God Of Coincidence. That slide guitar, the hair on the back of your neck. "Paris, Texas" right? All those shoes set out on the railing. That soundscape, the radio and a dying fridge, with a sound track in the back ground, the coal trains in Kentucky, a few birds tweeting. What really happens is anyone's guess. We can monitor some things, there are instruments that allow us to see and hear. Devices. I used a hammer-drill all week. I can't hear anything. A harmonic equilibrium where everything sounds the same. I vibrate, therefor. Like that. I didn't mean to go on, but some times I can't help it. You can read me in two of three minutes. It took me hours to write that. Lost sleep, and hours at the keyboard. Add it up and generate an equation that makes little sense. Why would anyone? Camus, paraphrased. I can't not. Tried once and got depressed. I'd rather stay busy. It's so dry, I have to work up spit to stick a cigaret paper. Where were we? Whatever my argument was. It's nice out in the yard, brisk and hopeful, I pee, and go back to bed.