Noel Negele- Three Poems

An Unresting Gamble.

Jimmy was the straw dog of my childhood

A dog I loved dearly-

A menacing Rottweiler who didn’t care much for any human fondling

Used to walk around with a bored look on his face

And enjoyed licking his balls and scratching the back of his ears

Where lice made their nests

His bark resembled a wolf’s howl

Sort of

Since it always dragged more than the usual

Ending up to a muffled low tone that lasted

Just before yawning

Showing teeth and red tongue with eyes closed

We were really small in comparison

To this dog

( Being children and all )

But we were not afraid

Since he always pretended we weren’t there

Besides the times we threw stones at him

Selfishly annoyed by his indifference-

But we loved him nonetheless-

And I always used to follow this dog to gypsy camps

Where he brought other dogs down

And the gypsies would go after jimmy with sticks and stones

At which point I would defend him as much as possible

But the result would always be the same:

Both of us running away

One afternoon

As lovely and mundane as

All afternoons are when you are a child

Jimmy staggered into the neighborhood

With five holes and an eye carved out, hanging from the socket

Like an egg cracked open-

And he fell close to us

-      As we were playing football-

Exhaling heavily

Each time also making a rattling and weeping sound

His nose filled with blood that along with snot

Bulged into pink puffs around the nostrils and mouth

We stood there, all of us

Terrified, mouths open

Some of us already crying

( Including yours truly )

As he was lying there

All the tragedy in display for us-

Jimmy stretching his legs spasmodically

Unwilling to die-

And to think that dogs die alone

This dog wanted company

Or help

But none of us moved

He was helpless and so were we

Trying to endure the martyrdom

Of death devouring the little life

That was left in him.

Then

Out of nowhere

Lorry, a gypsy everyone hated

Came with his truck

Got out and approached the dog

Kneeled before him

Took him in his arms

The dog’s blood dripping from his elbows

And he went in the truck-

Jimmy on his lap

With his tongue hanging out-

And drove off like a madman.

After a few weeks Jimmy was back

All bones, limping and ugly as all hell

But alive

As alive as each step we take towards the bathroom in the morning

As alive as you reading this-

Maybe a little more

But Jimmy had changed

He was afraid

Of people he didn’t know

Of loud noises

And of other dogs he once used to bring down

With little effort- dogs lurking for revenge

And his bark now had a permanent weeping sound in it.

He didn’t run anymore

And for the most part

He would curl to a round thing

Close to us and watch us play

And when we would sit next to him while we talked

There was this magnificence that I felt

( as I would talk with my friends

With my hand over Jimmy

Feeling his fast heart beats against my palm)

That I can't describe,

As if the dog was teaching us something

With his silence and his unspoken affection

Something I couldn’t understand then

Jimmy was a good lesson in humanity-

He was the perfect outcome

Of a gamble between good and evil

And another thing he told us is

That even though evil didn’t win that time

It didn’t exactly lose either

But then again

Neither did goodness

What matters in the end

Is where you put your faith in.

Getting Closer.

Devoured by the night

( the sun always climbs over the sky uninvited)

with that heart beating against the chest like a stubborn animal

with those veins like rusty pipes of anguish

with that loneliness residing inside

sliding through the bars and the hookers and the depth

of the large gigantic titanic overweight worthlessness that is you

in essence beaming your nothingness

in a world already overfilled with it,

with the littlest of those scattering moments of contentment

like small delicate ripples

on a calm sea.

The Days

Every day is a second chance

a second chance wasted

sometimes its not only sadness

one learns how to live with it

and still have some good times

some times its desperation

along with anguish 

and they become one

and shift their weight against you

and sometimes you endure

and sometimes you collapse

crumble

and turn to the bottle

the pills, the powder

anything...

Every day is a second chance

a chance effortlessly wasted

and the pussy can save a lot

but not everything

and writing can cleanse most things

but not everything

and alcohol and all the rest can make you forget

but a few things never leave you

those few you so desperately want to forget...

Everyday is a second chance

it remains to be seen

if tomorrow

will add to the waste.