killing puppies

it's so black tonight. walking is something like slicing though rancid ink. tinney smell picking my nose
non too delicate, giggling frantic photographs front and center. i don't like the way a scent can cut my
chute and upend me into a tub of 1979 blackcurrent bushes waiting on transplant.
yeah, i hear him breathing beneath the rustle.
its like a niggling whimper, a puppy breath cry, nuzzling my jaw, streaking little boogers over my chin.
the sweet warm puffs of pablum and mama milk stuck to their pretty prickly whiskers.
except rot comes to mind.
brain soup, grey matter patte, if you will. and my old man's got no fancy peppercorn crackers left
but there's a plastic rainbow disguised as a 2lb bag of smarties on the table beside the blackened
antique spoon; circa 1919, gramma sarah's finest. have you ever tried to pry vomit from your
gramma's velour chair, while part of said gift was still attached to the arm hair, hence the arm, from
where it came?
course you haven't.
it's almost as disturbing as assuming the man petrifying in his own filth is dead in your childhood
haven, while your baby bellows for a bubba behind you. almost. taking steely steps forward, finger
on his furry chin, thumb on his caked nose, crouching eye level to wear the puff of a rotten exhale,
then chewing on it in gagging relief and annoyance and guilt like a forkful of scalding hell,
when it wafts right down your closing throat, is worse.in the dark belly of this, my beloved season,
i close my eyes and murder a pups innocence as he morphs into a person, who is a child, who is a
dead man walking,who doesn't remember my name. what i wouldn't do for the moons light to curl
me ribbons of rescue right about now...