Dogs Can't Fly

Painted maroon birdhouse, poised on broomstick in someone else's back yard, completely abandoned. Watching, as the sun sets behind the purple profile, knowing that no bird, in its right mind, will occupy that space.

While on a beer run, stumbled on an “asian” woman at Wal-Mart buying exotic beer without a ring on her slender finger. Her lingering glance back now sits on the old newsreel. I shall have her soon. Very soon. Especially now that I am in the market for a new woman.

I sometimes need a woman. They usually appear, in some form. Usually in the form of a woman. Makes them easier to deal with, if you ask me.

Give me a fresh ride into town.

Flaws in scripts. Plots that aren't plots at all. Miserable excuses at storytelling. Pluck me off of this roof. There, at least, presents the prospect of a bit of truth.

A bit of truth might make me feel better. My feeling better is irrelevant, of course.

I have come to realize that I sometimes border on becoming a decent human being only through my thorough training by dogs. To this day, I cannot sit down without circling the chair a couple of times.

I hate that my lies, of late, are merely for profit. I used to have higher standards for my lies. Money has corrupted my lies. My lies used to be pure. I used to revel in my ability to lie. I hope that those days are not long gone.

I like dogs. I'd like to be a dog, if I could keep my driver's license and shit. And still be able to ride a bike. Oh hell, that ain't gonna work. I'm still trapped in this flesh, and I shall have to use this machine for the time being. Trapped as a human being.

I shall have to pretend to be a human being, again. And again. And again. In all likelihood, I shall never have children. That pretty much precludes me from possessing the golden fleece, don't you think?

Funny how the brain works when the body moves.

Now, after sitting in the boardroom of a money-making bank and banging out my opinion on capitalism and charity, or lack thereof in the good old U S of A, and driving 262 miles to reunite with my dog, I feel that I am not only on top of the world, but in its deepest ditch at the same time, and not exactly happy to be there, but content.

It is a "matter of fact" feeling. I am just there. I am just here. I am stuck here.

I used to know an artist, and she warned me about myself. I should know better.

Still, I am here. I’m a dog. I ain’t moving into no birdhouse. I can’t fly.

Later,

AJ