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I'm sitting at my desk, writing a story about a dog. Several dogs, in FACT, Their histories and Their misadventures. My mother just

Brought me a slice of chocolate cake. One of the Sisters made it at her congregation. I Happen to Be Allergic to chocolate, the cocoa bean, That Is ... and Congregations, too, for that matter. I take two bites and leave it on the kitchen counter. I decide it's too raw, too cold and soggy, it bleeds an icing too sweet and slimy.

"Did you like it?" she ASKs.
"It's ok," I say, unthinkingly, or Should I say, thinking about dogs.
"What?" What did you say? "

I hate repeating myself.

"It's poison," I say, gravely.

Whether or not i actually speak Rarely has bearing and Stockfrom the act, right-through the mask of cologne I splash on for propriety - However, she can not pin the origin of Precisely Any one scent, Meaning she can not Distinguish Between the lingering odours of tobacco and weed and the residual stench left on a body, for it seems, Knowing the difference is like HAVING too gross an acquaintance with an all-together disgusting habit, so, the parental alert reads nothing more Than evil smoke.

"Hear what?" I ask, deleting a sentence .*

"I Think We Have termites!"




* EDIT (4 / 10) This morning, after much consideration, I added the sentence back.

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The crack house next door is playing its SOUL-BROTHER MUSIC really loudly again. Through my window, it seeps, something sweet and guttural, albeit a bit distorted, reaped from that ancient wax. I step out back to get a better listen. The old rhythm and blues permeates my neighbor's cluttered, run-down yard; it washes over the patio, the plants, the people snapping their fingers in their lawn chairs -- it splashes the corners and the walls and falls back onto itself -- it sounds off with the accompanying whir of a rickety record player from the 1960's and the scratchy temporal sound settles into a comfortable lull that tints the place with a jazzy gray.

Every Saturday afternoon, the Boss throws a Customer Appreciation BBQ in the backyard as a sort of 'thank you' to the peom doghouse. Its tail wags side to side in a fearsome wave, jutting out the entrance arch. The generic
Springfield
The Fastest sodas disappear, and Sometimes, the event Generate a long line of derelicts muttering, WHO hypnotically ratione smoke cigarettes or animated exchange, cackling pleasantries, licking Their dry, cracked lips, unable to keep still. The line extends Along the driveway, past the Boss's classic Jaguar, Which Sits like chiseled obsidian and Reflects the busted, gaping grills of guests As They inch and sashay forward, and the people in the rear spill out to the sidewalk, and wrap-around the gate, so to grimace That People Have Their necks and stretch out to see what's left, if anything. A motley line, Mostly consisting of bums, junkies, people too lazy to