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he is not her great pyrenees.

by Eli Skipp


i have a penchant for screaming when i'm on my own in silence and solitude
(rarely do we find silence and solitude, these days) -- that once, when i
lay down in the breezy quiet of US1's three lanes at four a.m., and soaked
the cold from the gravel harsh on the small of my back and tangled in my
hair, and screamed Miami because it was tailored to fit my bulging hips, i
knew without a doubt the same pattern would fit yours.

for serious every boy i've loved has been a dog -- this one trembles beaten,
this one, my un-bobbed doberman, bites the same -- and i have
tried and backed away from fearful guard-dog rottweilers, from over-loyal
junkyard mutts who wear the same musty fur day after day after day and
grow callouses on their joints from sleeping on concrete, and what is he?
too dark to be my great pyrenees, too disjointed to be my saint bernard,
and what is he?

how long since he has known solitude in truth, far removed from third story
stares down chilly sidewalks and knowing that the grey sky means a thirty-
five degree october -- he is made for false social interactions; he seems
displaced without an entourage of likewise judgers and janglers.

yes, most certainly i believe in introversion: myself i have fallen victim
in the upcoming months, unsure of how to treat people ordering food from
me and forgiving me should i trip and spill. three months passed and i
never got used to it besides the occasional victory of a misplaced,
falsified, confident smile and a beer caught right before it tipped. i
carry this trembling tremorance with me oh i do oh i do.

and he sits and waits as if upon the nightstand by the window, rolling
cigarettes and rolling cigarettes and watching for her pit-patter, and for
three months he sits and waits with dreams for who she is and who she could
be and what she could potentially mean. like false confidence, his
excitement is displaced: idealized. that is to say, she is NOT.

it is funny to define someone as "not." by "not's" or "have not's" or
"knots." for instance: she is not thin. she is not compatible. she has not
got the capacity to entertain you constantly. she is not his idealization.

and he is not her great pyrenees.

he could not even be her bulldog or pit-dog or lap-dog. perhaps he is her
retired grey-hound whippet with a brindled coat, tiger-striped and
inquisitive and with an unintelligible, intelligent face, waiting by the
window and hoping she'll come home and being surprised when she still
does, waiting by the window and hoping she never shows up because this is
not the same third-story solitude he's hoping to suck the silence out of,
hoping she will sleep in his bed and eventually be engulfed and make him
feel full. he needs this weight in his belly. he needs this steadying keel
between his disproportionate haunches, his cavernous ribs.

nonetheless she struggles from his grip because his skin is hot against
hers and she cannot draw breath between that heat and the fierce sharpness
of chicago's cold -- even as she burrows her fingers between the folds of
his clothes and molds his skin with their chilliness, he shivers away and
shivers closer.

and who are they with, and who are they without?

11/09/2007

Author's Note: not too sure about this one. not at all. should i remove it?

Posted on 11/09/2007
Copyright © 2019 Eli Skipp

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Alison McKenzie on 11/09/07 at 05:21 PM

Oh! Don't remove it!!! It's a unique perspective that, once tasted, sort of creates a penchant for more. I don't have my great pyrenees either, but I have a loveable Cairn terrior-type and he'll do for now. Thank goodness he's not a junkyard dog!!! :-)

Posted by Coleman Demiurge on 11/10/07 at 04:49 AM

I've heard the expression "men are dogs" before, but now you've just convinced me of it. Wow, different breeds and everything too - impressive. In parts it reads like a poem and in other parts it reads like a prose, and it excels at both. Personally, I think it's brilliant - a two way mirror right into your head. There were a couple parts that particularly stood out to me, such as: "how long since he has known solitude in truth, far removed from third story stares down chilly sidewalks and knowing that the grey sky means a thirty- five degree october" and as well as "waiting by the window and hoping she never shows up because this is not the same third-story solitude he's hoping to suck the silence out of, hoping she will sleep in his bed and eventually be engulfed and make him feel full", but the whole of the poem is so well narrated and superbly conveyed that it all blends perfectly well together. Poem and prose, becoming one... Exceptional work!

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