From the height of a highway on-ramp we saw:
2 dogs
Dead in a field
Glowing on the Oakland Coliseum
Green seats wasteland,
Dogs we thought were dead...
Rose up when whistled at,
Rib cage inflating
Like men on the beach
Being photographed.
Guard dogs.
For what...
Against
Overzealous
Penniless
Athletics
Fanatics
Getting
Into
Games
Through a
Hole in the
Fence?
For the owner of the blue tarp tent
Pitched by a creek beneath the on-ramp,
In the privacy
Of the last three trees
In dead east Oakland?
It's hard to stand the sight of two dog's dead
Under a sky so blue.
You have to stop the blood to your head
To fit the death in front of you.
We secretly long to be some part of a car crash.
Long to see our arm stripped to the tendons,
The nudity of swelling exposed vein
Webbing the back of your hand.
To be red tendoned dogs...
Blood breathing by the side of the highway.
Long to be dead
Of a curious crowd...
To be touched
Sticky like nearly dry paint...
Their soft science stare
Nursing your face...
Anticipating the slightest
Pinched
Eye
Flinch
Of pain.
Everyone blank
In accident awe
As the car
Crash
Fiber
Glass
Dust
Straight up settles
On your raw muscle tissue.
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