Whining Is the Prayer of the Dog

     Whining is the prayer of the dog.

     If I whine, sorry;

     it is me trying not to be a box.

     Mayakovsky saved me last night.

     That communist, chauvinist, pretentious, self-centered

     baby

     rages.

     Lord how he rages.

     I have to rage till dawn,

     each hour like an individual watch

     and all the time that watch contains.

     Let screaming and banging and drinking do for me

     what a good-night kiss from a beloved daughter

     does for others.

     This poem has no point,

     but is

     5:24 to 5:39 p.m.,

     July 31, 1992.