Dog Days 2014


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EJ Miley, Jr.


Matthew Murrey


The Very Dogs

I was at once emptying the Cistern of Nature, and making Water at the Wall.  At the same Time, there came a Dog, who did so too, before me.  Thought I; “What mean, and vile Things are the Children of Men, in this mortal State! How much do our natural Necessities abase us, and place us in some regard, on the same Level with the very Dogs!” —from the Diary of Cotton Mather

Don’t flatter yourself, man,
so far from dogness, you
don’t have a clue—can’t even feel
the please of an easy piss
at the wall.  I love the relief, lifting
my leg to bless what I wet,
but you—what a waste of a dick!
Had I the luck of a hand to hold it,
that would be a fine feeling too,
but not you, face full of frownshame
staring down on your flop
of flesh as you glare and sneer
at me in my godgiven fur. 
Count your blessings you didn’t
spy me fuck while you fucked,
old scowl and skincrawl.  You’d
surely go shit for nuts at that,
whinesnarling  mean  vile  abase
though you’ll never be so graced,
so lifted above your buttoned
snivelmiserable to a place
of pure dog pleasure, good god!

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Yvonne Zipter

Love Cycling through Twilight

Now, in the sullen months, when the days are selfish with their glow,
when we doggedly pedal the dark paths in the dark evening
to the dingy train that will take us home,
the light on your bike shimmers like a pole star in the mirror on mine—
the lucent thread of relationship that tethers us together.
We are a constellation of two, canis minor, the treads on our tires
inscribing a mythology across Chicago’s pavements
as we move in tandem through our sublunary sky,
your light eternally tied to mine in some antiquated idea of heaven.

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Sarah J. Sloat

As Smoke Enters My Mustache

There’s a lot of noise out in the universe. We miss most of it in our little spaces. 
For example, barking dogs. Right now, you can’t hear the one driving me nuts.

And really, what is the dog star?
That must be loud. 
I bet it keeps whole neighborhoods awake.

Take my temperature. 
I feel a little better already.

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Maureen E. Doallas

 Lying in Wait

They want us to look up
to them, always be available

to smooth the crooked creases
between their brows, tell them

every night — cool sheets pulled
down — who is lord, who king

of all surveyed. Their voices, raised
against our pursed lips, put us

in our places, single sonic booms
enough to collapse thinning walls

we build to shield our hearts’ too
-quick beatings from pricked up ears.

They count on strength in numbers,
spit-blackened boots and push-button

armored personnel. We bide time’s
hand sure on our own, content

to wait till the palace dogs at last
have stretched and yawned.

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Sherry O’Keefe

At One with Sam, My Irish Setter

I promised not to get caught up
with cockle burrs, dried milkweed, the beauty

of frosted prairie grass when the hunters let me
tag along. I tend to drift off. They hate this but I am sure

my Setter understands me and how I love
autumn in the fall. I like when my bird dog sets,

then breaks his point, leaps off cliffs to crash through
thickets of chokecherry. Even the sun stopped

to watch the shimmer in Sam’s red fur when he paused
to scold my boots—they were too loud upon the trail

of ring-necked pheasants tucked in cat-tail tuftettes.
I made up words and thought ahead

to dinner at Wong’s, where they’d cook our birds,
add wild rice, walnut dressing. But first I was to earn

my keep, carrying a dead pheasant back.
My hand around its throat, I felt life return.

Its blood thickened and began to pulse. Wings flapping,
its rusty cry swelled in my grip. Wring his neck, the hunters

coached, and so I swung it like a rope, feeling the moment 
when he died in my grip. My Setter didn’t watch. 

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Kelly Cockerham

At the Villa

1.
Poor dog.
I imagine you
window-roped.
Tongue exhausted,

gasping at your
own feet.  Dog,
words wilt
in your hands

and I imagine
no one else
has said what
you say you can’t.

2.
You wake in my bed,
wet with dreams
and night, thin

legs heavy with
bones.  You dreamed you
were swimming

away.  Woke here.
Where are you?
You were going away.

3.
Stubborn wagon,
my hands are horses

pulling you
through windows.

Wake up,
wake up.

My speaking hands
say your name

again and again.

 

Dog Days 2013, Part 1

Dog Days 2013, Part 2

More Dog Art by EJ Miley, Jr.




  • Maureen

    Great edition! And I’m mad for Miley’s marvelous work.

  • Wow.. Lovely this is Great Design.. I am impressing Thanks for sharing.

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