I have lost my imagination much as Rousseau lost his dog—bending to flowers,
insisting on beauty in a strange land. Gentians for the philosophe!
Where has my Sultan gone? My fancy! (Foolish to have thought
he was as shunned as me.)
This is a game I play, much as some recall the batting order of old time baseball teams.
I think of men, women and their dogs…imagining their lives; seeing how they refer to my own.
I’m as lonesome as Rousseau. How I love my dogs. I stay with them long days fighting aleatoric and remote minutes, admiring how dogs defy death simply by ripping apart a grubby hand towel.
Dogs. Temporal reductionism. Buddha Buddha. Woof. Scratch your ass on the rug.
I have lost my imagination. It was here, moments ago. I was thinking about unborn trees in the gloaming.
My imagination fell out of my pocket. Went down a storm drain.
But now the dogs are dreaming. They’re running under the earth, chasing St. John of the Cross who is gently on fire—that is, in the doggish underworld he’s not in pain.
You see how this works? Even when dogs are asleep and moving their legs, they’re better than friends or nation states.