Ash Heap Hound (7)

   
   "Ash Heap Hound (7)"
   
   So yeah--I like squatted on every yummy-smelling piece of urinal attraction, but I won't get into my bowel evacuations--will save that for my private DIARY.
   So, my American Foxhound eyes looked through Conner's trailer window, watching as he patiently put down the PLAYBOY magazine and poured himself a cup of coffee; next, I got stealth-like, getting camouflaged by many-a-piece of torn apart automobiles, observing, like Socrates, as Conner exited his trailer, casually walking to the nucleus of the junkyard and glaring up at the glittering heavens above--my sense of keen, canine telepathy telling me that he was trying to somehow inhale the fiery stars.
   My dude Conner was an Ace--a high card, I mean.  No bluffing, no in-the-hole, just downright sexy and calmly cool with his sojourning circumstance of being besmirched by poverty, which had sweetly, and with Divine Intent, placed him next to me in an abyss of muscle cars and such.
   But I couldn't watch his caffeine fed stare at the big neon glitter all night, for the daystar was getting ready to rise, and my transformation back into Zoe (the human girl) was pretty weird.  Like a burst of corporeal stardust, that unearthly, yet so tangibly physical, like a morphing of mystical magic--if ya wanna use the term magic, though that upsets some people.  But know:  There are no dark incantations in my soul-like essence of energy, only a dog's sense of love and loyalty.