"Rough Rough" says the Dog

Lying parallel with the page,
horizontal gazes between wand strokes,
and for every poem I write,
this is the one,
and floating on the surface like
an orange seed in juice swallowed,
it winds toward expiration,
never excreted. Lingering
like an ectoplasmic scent, unedited,
through translucent numbers, unabridged.
It is the lazy man's poem.
It is my poem. The poem of the undedicated.
The anthem of ennui. The fruits of dry land.
The decay of salted muscle.
The poem that means something to no one.

The dogged parcels of my thoughts,
consolation trophy wise, trumping
constellations of certificates of participation,
agonize the burrows in my face, level
with the ground in ways that count.
I want to birth a monument for you,
ablaze, enduring, but want.
I cannot scoop this mudslide with
my spoon. I have small words and inertia.
May they gain momentum and drive forth
the chameloened words.