No One Here Likes A Wet Dog.

I Write With A Uni-ball Onyx Micropoint On Nine-by-seven Bound Notebooks Made By A Canadian Company Called Blueline. After I Do A Few Drafts, I Type Up The Poem On A Macintosh G3 And Then Send It Out The Door.

Life Is A Loaded Gun That Looks Right At You With A Yellow Eye.

The Name Of The Author Is The First To Go Followed Obediently By The Title, The Plot, The Heartbreaking Conclusion, The Entire Novel Which Suddenly Becomes One You Have Never Read, Never Even Heard Of, As If, One By One, The Memories You Used To Harbor Decided To Retire To The Southern Hemisphere Of The Brain, To A Little Fishing Village Where There Are No Phones.

And The Reason I Am Writing This On The Back Of A Manila Envelope Now That They Have Left The Train Together Is To Tell You That When She Turned To Lift The Large, Delicate Cello Onto The Overhead Rack, I Saw Him Looking Up At Her And What She Was Doing The Way The Eyes Of Saints Are Painted When They Are Looking Up At God When He Is Doing Something Remarkable, Something That Identifies Him As God.

No One Here Likes A Wet Dog.