The Rat's Own Dream Guns Him Down

Beneath the city two hearts beat
Soul engines running through a night so tender
In a bedroom locked
In whispers of soft refusal
And then surrender
In the tunnels uptown
The Rat's own dream guns him down
As shots echo down them hallways in the night
No one watches when the ambulence pulls away
Or as the girl shuts out the bedroom light

-Bruce Springsteen

Coliseum Thunder Creatures

Ocean Liner

Five Fifths on the Fifth

Clouds. Eyes. Oceans. I have often worried about this blog becoming a boring Bird blog, my first step toward becoming the crazy pit bull lady down the street. And each day I don't write a poem I probably take one more picture of Bird than I did the day before. I think this is because there is a certain amount of despair that accompanies inaction... that to want to do and not do creates a void inside of us that we must fill with ocean, we must floats boats on. The Diner Journal is one of those boats.. Bruce Springsteen is a super big sail boat. Whiskey a dingy of sorts. Bird is an Ocean Liner.


But five years ago today my friend Nicole called me and asked if I could foster a puppy. She had a dominant female dog in the house and couldn't take Roxy. I said no. My friends I lived with at the time had just lost a dog name Sketch in an unfortunate and mysterious turn of events and I didn't feel ok subjecting them to any emotional angst. When I got home that night I mentioned the story of Roxy to my best friend and roommate Sven. She told me to call Nicole immediately and take the dog. And thank god. An hour later a tiny girl pit bull was skidding around the apartment, sniffing our toes. That night we went to Ray's Happy Birthday bar and every patron, spending all their coins on 1.50 lagers asked me about her and gave me their numbers in case she needed a home. "Oh I'm just fostering her," I would say in between swigs of whiskey. Bird, or Roxy as I knew her then slept on my feet perched so slightly on the narrow little ledge running underneath the bar. The warmest night following Bird and I chased each other around the long grass of the yet unused baseball field around the corner and across the street from the people with the pet duck. I knew then that I was hers.


Bird's life has been long. Not long enough, of course, but her days have been longer than most. Diapers, hernias, ultrasounds, xrays, medicine every five days, no spleen, irrational anger towards those she ultimately wants to befriend... When I got her she was bilingual, had bright red ears, bit marks on her ankles, a pimpley snout and pee dripping down her little legs. When I would come home from work for a lunch dance (to Magnetic Fields) with her often she would be standing on the dining room table. A strange habit that had to end once I became aware of her bladder problems.


Recently Roxy Bird and I have become more peaceful creatures. We like the park and the sun. We don't like drugs. I read more now and she sleeps more. There is nothing she can't communicate to me with a pointed lift of an eyebrow. My life is blessed by her life. And I should say that Bird and I owe a great deal to the most lovely and kind people I am priviledged to call friends. Sven, Katy, Erin, Nicole, Peter, Adam, Rachel, Josh, Mom. Thank you and happy anniversary little Bird.

Red Robin