WEBVTT

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This is a poem about my dog.

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This poem was read
on NET poetry series

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and they got lots of
letters about the program

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all about my dog, not
a word about poetry.

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This dog trots freely in
the street and sees reality

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and the things he sees
are bigger than himself.

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And the things he
sees are his reality.

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Drunks in doorways,
moons on trees.

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The dog trots freely through the
streets and the things he sees

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are smaller than himself.

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Fish on newsprint, ants in
holes, chickens in Chinatown

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windows their
heads a block away.

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The dog trots freely in
the street and the things

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he smell smells
something like himself.

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The dog trots freely in the
street past puddles and babies,

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cats and cigars, pool
rooms and policemen.

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He doesn't hate cops he
merely has no use for them

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and he goes past them
and pass the dead cows

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hung a pole in front of the
San Francisco meat market.

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He would rather eat a tender
cow than a tough policeman.

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Though either might do.

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And he goes past the Romeo
Ravioli Factory and past Coit

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Tower and past Congressman Doyle
of the Un-American Committee.

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He's afraid of Coit
tower but he's not

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afraid of Congressman Doyle.

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Although what he hears is very
discouraging, very depressing,

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very absurd to the sad
young dog like himself,

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to a serious dog like himself
but he has his own free world

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to live in.

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His own fleas to eat.

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He will not be muzzled.

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Congressman Doyle is just
another fire hydrant to him.

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[APPLAUSE]

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The dog trots
freely in the street

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and has his own dog's life
to live and to think about

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and to reflect upon, touching
and tasting and testing

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everything
investigating everything

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without benefit of perjury.

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A real realist with
a real tale to tell

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and a real tale to tell it with.

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A real live barking
Democratic dog

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engaged in real free
enterprise with something

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to say about ontology.

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Something to say about
reality and how to see it

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and how to hear it with
his head cocked sideways

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at street corners as
if he is always just

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about to have his picture
taken for Victor Records.

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Listening for his master's
voice and looking like a living

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question mark into
the grade gramophone

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a puzzling existence with
its wondrous hollow horn,

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which always seems just
about to spout forth

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some victorious
answer to everything.

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[APPLAUSE]

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