From the height of a highway on-ramp we saw:
2 dogs
Dead in a field

Glowing on the Oakland Coliseum
Green seats wasteland,
Dogs we thought were dead...

Rose up when whistled at,
Rib cage inflating
Like men on the beach

Being photographed.
Guard dogs.
For what...

Against
Overzealous
Penniless

Athletics
Fanatics
Getting

Into
Games
Through a

Hole in the
Fence?
For the owner of the blue tarp tent

Pitched by a creek beneath the on-ramp,
In the privacy
Of the last three trees

In dead east Oakland?

It's hard to stand the sight of two dog's dead

Under a sky so blue.
You have to stop the blood to your head
To fit the death in front of you.


We secretly long to be some part of a car crash.
Long to see our arm stripped to the tendons,

The nudity of swelling exposed vein
Webbing the back of your hand.
To be red tendoned dogs...

Blood breathing by the side of the highway.

Long to be dead

Of a curious crowd...
To be touched
Sticky like nearly dry paint...

Their soft science stare
Nursing your face...
Anticipating the slightest

Pinched
Eye
Flinch

Of pain.
Everyone blank
In accident awe

As the car
Crash
Fiber

Glass
Dust
Straight up settles

On your raw muscle tissue.