Ash Heap Hound (10)

   
   "Ash Heap Hound (10)"
   
   Conner found me naked, scattering back to my trailer in search of garments.  Once concealed by my modest habitat, I heard him knocking on the door; next, I yelled:  "Getting dressed dude!"
   It was all too much.  Too extraordinary and bizarre, yet benign, if we put our heads together.  My Dad was still alive; plus, he lived in the utopia-like suburbs out West.  I could move back in, take Conner, and we could make a go of it.  I should've never left home on a hobo's crusade anyway, but maybe this was kismet's kiss--I was hungry for independence, and it led me to Conner.
   So, yup.  I would call Daddy; then, take Conner and his suave but sickly cool home with my American Foxhound self.  People take care of each other, especially if love is involved.  Get the joke, like Yemana told Barney Miller in them 1970's, saying:  "Being married is like having a horse with a broken leg.  You can shoot it, but that won't solve the problem."
   I had to take sublime action.  Daddy would understand.  

Ash Heap Hound (9)

   
   "Ash Heap Hound (9)"
   
Supernaturally gifted with my macrosmatic doggy dodgeball,
I couldn't help but chase an erinaceous smell to the junkyard's wall--
A fence, rusted and smeared in the impoverished plague of Tetanus;
Thus, goes Conner in a sickly ash heap; specifically, him morbidly restless.
But Dudes!!!  The cool guy is a non-vile valetudinarian,
And I'm Catholic, honoring things Marian;
Regardless, I found myself naked, and human, next to the contagious fence;
Plus, Conner was approaching, all ninja-like, but had health only worth a pence.
Possibly, could he be into the art of deception?
Nah, and I wouldn't foxhound him with direption--
Only:  love, love, love--
For even an asymmetrical angel can gel with the Infallible Dove.   

Ash Heap Hound (8)

   
   "Ash Heap Hound (8)"
   
   Before the Sun ignited its awesome power and life-giving sustenance, I heard something weird by way of my American Foxhound ears; indeed, I first watched as Conner pulled out his phone, his eyes still glued heavenwards; next, he dialed a number, put the call on speaker, and a dude called Doctor Sampson answered.  Then, I listened to the phone call, disturbed and saddened by it all, and for my friend, the lovely Conner, but there was some good news for me in the conversation.  
  
DOC
Up early again, huh Conner?

CONNER
You know me Doc--I never sleep, not really.  Why is all this happening?

DOC
Well, insomnia and sleep paralysis are majorly misunderstood; plus, your severe social phobia conditions are almost agoraphobic-like.  You can't urinate in public, and God forbid you should have to make a bowel movement in public.  And I know, nobody without medical credentials understands this type of personal suffering, and even true physicians don't get it, sometimes.  

CONNER
I'm still reading, compulsively.  It's the only thing that makes me feel normal.  When Kerouac brought ON THE ROAD to his publisher, the publisher told him there were run-on sentences, uncanny rambling, and so forth; next, Kerouac grabbed the manuscript from his publisher's hands, telling the guy that those words were dictated to him by the Holy Spirit Itself.  And I'm writing short stories now too--to calm myself.  Ray Bradbury said people write short stories to have control over a type of environment.

DOC
Just hang in there Conner.  Who cares what people think.  And talk to that girl Zoe you have a crush on.  She may be a real good friend one day.  Okay, come see me tomorrow.  Gotta go.

CONNER
By Doc.  Glares back towards the changing heavens.  

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.   

Ash Heap Hound (6)

   
   "Ash Heap Hound (6)"
   
   The Full Sturgeon Moon had become ignited aglow, like a spherical piece of sparkly cheese; moreover, I became a freaking American Foxhound--and yes, I'll keep throwing in the Beagle jokes, but like I've mentioned in the past of this haunted past, I liked Snoopy, and no birds hued with the shimmer of yellow floated by during the midnight hours.
   My nose was swift to scent.  I knew when and where to pee; plus, evacuate my doggy bowels.  I urinated on the tire of a 1987 Mustang GT, armed with the famous Five Liter--they refer to it on the streets as simply:  "The 5.0."
   Too, 1987 was the first year that Mustangs got across the board fuel injection on those behemoth small blocks, full of towering power.
   Anyway, on four paws I sauntered over to Conner's trailer.  He was reading a modern PLAYBOY magazine--they have clothes on the girls now--so it was cool  

JackBurtonPorkchopExpress

Ash Heap Hound (5)

   
   "Ash Heap Hound (5)"
   
   I was fascinated during the wane of Luna, when all was normal, with no hound-like elasticity.  Yup, even read old copies of JUSTICE LEAGUE, thinking about Elongated Man, and how he drank that Gingo juice to give him his elongating powers.  And Plastic Man--I prefer in the flesh, not in the plastic; still, I understood why some dirty chicks dug him way back in the 1980's, when his variety show, of sorts, was on.
   So, I didn't stress, though my nose was sensitive to all the vandalizing vermin scurrying around my favorite junkyard.  But Conner came into my trailer with some cheap wine and a block of cheese.  I smartly asked:  "What, no crackers?"
   Then, felt like a fool for my competitive comedy; nevertheless, Conner was laid back, suave, and cool; plus, could use a wrench, and it was nice to have a nice friend.  Maybe one day--even more, like love would blossom.  A girl can only hope; moreover, Conner didn't grunt at the butcher in the meat section at the grocery market, like most guys do when scoping New York Strip--we shopped together at PIGGLY WIGGLY, and he was nothing but couth.