I.
The dogs of Uncertainty, Inhibition, and Arbitrariness
Instinctively sniff around in places they’re not welcome.
Arbitrariness is ripping chaotic holes in the lawn,
Inhibition is holding unearthed moles by the tail,
And Uncertainty is giving them an eye so evil that
They resort to playing dead, never to wake up.
These dogs have so many wrong ideas
That you’d think that they were made of them.
They make very unfortunate friends
With my innocent puppies, false bonds
That turn hairy, into piles of dusty remains.
These dogs only stick by my anxious side
Because nobody else would or could sustain
Their indulgent, cannibalistic tendencies.
They like me just as much as I like them,
And I’ve always liked Arbitrariness the least.
Once in a black-and-white moon I can
Carve the other two into shape, but how
Can I reason with someone who can’t
Even make a compelling case
For himself? Reasoning with Arbitrariness,
The dog made of negative space, is as
Possible as hugging a warm, greying dog
Made out of woodchips.
II.
Creating is like trying to convince
The dog of Uncertainty that he can exist,
Trying to convince
The dog of Inhibition that he does exist,
And trying to convince
The dog of Arbitrariness
That anyone, and anything, should exist.
But they’re so defiant that they break
Their rules as well as my own—
Uncertainty concluded that
I can’t have the right ideas,
Inhibition made me
Stop having the right ideas,
And Arbitrariness judged
Not just that the
Right ideas aren’t right, but
That right ideas don’t exist.
Sometimes my articulate, growing
Puppies fling themselves on me
Excitedly—I am kissed by
Certainty, Initiation, and Meaning!
I go to stroke their white
Dog ears, which instantly crumble
Into small piles of sawdust at my feet.
Uncertainty, Inhibition, and
Arbitrariness have grown cunning.
Just because they aren’t sure
And they can’t act
And they don’t care
Doesn’t mean they can’t
Pretend. “Anything can be
Anything,” they said.
“A puppy can end up a dog!”
III.
The pencil makes me forget
Whether a dog has two legs
Or six, whether it can speak
Or just wish to.
The pen reminds me that
Even if a dog had 10 legs
It still couldn’t rhyme
Anything with uncertainty,
Especially not perfectly,
And it certainly couldn’t paint
In colors that aren’t colors.
The voice of God echoed
Behind me— “Just start
Putting pieces together
Where they might fit.”
I turned to see three of him
Looking at me backwards.
“That is, if you want to be
Unpleasantly surprised
By a dog with limbs standing
At the foot of your bed,
Painting a black-and-white
Picture of how to create,”
One voice said.
“You’re wondering if it means
Life or death, the fact
That what you made is
Only made of what you made
It with? We’d tell you,
But we don’t know,
Nor can we find out,
Nor do we care to”
Another voice chimed in.
“Though we can be certain
That its one of the two,
If not the color grey.”
Another voice added.
IV.
I’m left with sharp fur
Slivers in my skin,
Though not nearly enough
To coat a dog,
Which poke me as I move
My pencil down the page,
And watery eyes
Which wet and blur
The meaning
Of the letters.
Is it the hair of the dogs
That I’m allergic to,
Or the dust I blew
From my paper,
Or the shedding pelt
Of creation?
Uncertainties claws
Shakily carve the word
Doubt at my front door.
‘What if he’s trying
To tell me something
Important,’ I worry,
Staying still to listen.
Inhibition whines
At the door to be let in.
Hoping he’ll forget
I’m here, I quiet my
Pencil. Arbitrariness
Barges in, never letting
A locked door stop him,
And tracks sawdust
Onto my paper.
Uncertainty
And Inhibition
Creep in
Behind him
While I’m
Distracted.
What color
Are the ideas
Underneath?
How could I
Give them
Limbs now?
Would they
Be able to
Stretch them
Anyway?
The dogs,
Chipping
My pencil,
Shredding
My paper,
Mutilating,
Devouring
My ideas,
My puppy
Who didn’t
Even get leg
Number five,
Weren’t
Satisfied
Even
After
All
They
Saw
Was
Dust.