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The Eye

Posted in Poetry

Big Black Dog

A big black dog, a Great Dane,

Loped through my dream the other night,

So close, I could have touched him;

Sleek, no collar,

Fit, and headed, with intention,

For the crows that spun and circled

At the crown of the rise.

Keep an eye out,

In your dreams.

This dog has to be missed–

An owner somewhere fraught and wringing hands.

Of course, saying

“Keep an eye out,” in the realm of Jung’s unconscious

Could be thought as true direction;

There you are–

Holding up your eye that is out,

High over walls and ridges made of sofas from your past,

And it’s with this eye you find your gloves,

All full of all your other hands

You didn’t know were missing,

Till you tried to clap the lights on…
Back to the dog.

Yes, keep an eye,

Whichever mode appeals.

That might be him behind you

In the back of that truck,

In the dream you keep having,

That hounds you–

You’re driving to a business lunch with

No one that you know,

And you're lost but you keep moving

On a road that’s made of envelopes,

And what




Perhaps he was the shady lump

Asleep at the feet,

Of the woman you could sense, but could not see,

Until she began piling all her teeth in her lap–

The prettiest print on her renaissance dress;

Like the wallpaper you had in your room as a boy,

Now in your waking life you pledge to floss twice a day–


The Great Dane’s great chest rising and falling,

Like the winking set of bellows

By the fire of waving towels.
And in this dream perhaps,

Was the dream dog dreaming?

His eyes and feet twitching–

Chasing archetypal rabbits,

Though he’s speeding, never catching;

Seems we’ve tipped into the matrix,

Of a rabbit hole of rabbit hole themes.
This roaming black dog,

This abyss of a beast,

Nighttime familiar of familiars for too many–

If he did stop appearing,

No more dark imposing symbol,

Would this hint toward an energetic shift?

Instead of running through our dreams

This dog's at home where he belongs,

But I am sure that there’d be something

That the psyche would uncover to remind us

That our path without a challenge is a yawner…

I’ve grown accustomed to the dog–

This psychopomp of myth and lore,

He only visits in my dreams,

To give me guidance,

Wake me up–

If he became a bowl of cherries...