Tuesday, July 23, 2013
My god-damn dog is turning sixty and I can barely crawl out of bed to give that poor pooch a proper jubilee. I’m so old and my feet and are so worn. It is a rotten shame that he will not ever leave my house, and I will have to live forever--despite my desperation to die peacefully and linger in ecstatic purgatorial proximity both to the mean, cumbersome material world in which my accomplishments will forever be erected and inscribed, and to the chimerical heavens in which the vacant solace of perpetual bliss lie gaping in vulgar porosity--because I must feed this dog for all eternity. And when the Earth lets out its last yawn and crumbles, the two of us will fall into nothing and be held there, in a grasp devoid both of force of affection...But halt! What if I don’t feed the dog? Will the dog perish and allow me my respite at last? To this end I have inquired, yes. But in his humming gaze and brusque, dictatorial coughs I see my own losses, gains, nightmares and anguishes, even sometimes the full picture of my visage, and I know that if I were to meet my end, and fall up into the placelessness of my eternal and atemporal untruth, he would be there too, needless and meaningless, as before, as always.