CRISPY SAYS: LET US COMPARE DOG BARKS
Mine is worse.
No, mine is worse.
Mine is more Basso. More Basso Profundo. Like Toscanini if he were submerged in the ocean and was shivering and trying to breathe through one of those curly straws.
Mine is hopeless. It’s a desert wind where the desert used to be. A desert that doesn’t have a name because no one cares and no one knows that anyone should care.
Or in the Arctic. Mine is on a raft in the Arctic. On a little raft without a paddle saying “I can’t believe this would happen to Toscanini” and the sound just echoes over and over until it sounds backwards and makes you seasick and then there’s the vomit, et al.
Mine wanted to be a desert, but was too alone. And so it settled for nothing. Mine said: “I can’t believe that I am so lucky that I have nothing and I have it all to myself–God must love me best of all.” But God doesn’t.
Mine is Toscanini wishing he were Liberace. Liberace at a lynching party or better yet a firing squad in Siberia, naked, with a powerful, piercing wind that is embarassing to Liberace when his hair blows in an unnatural way.
Mine is Liberace, also naked, in the third grade, trying to spell ‘Toscanini’ and failing and so all the other kids jump on him and pound him and break his big nose and he cries.
Mine is Liberace when he used to advertised his long-playing albums that featured things like Claire de Lune when he would look at the camera and twinkle and say “These are some of my favorites” Well, my dog bark looks just like Liberace does now, in his coffin with little bits of satina and ruffles and twinkly diamonds and lamé around the skeleton holding onto the record album and not saying “These are some of my favorites.”
Mine says that he has no favorites and doesn’t believe that your bark sounds like anything that would say “These are some of my favorites” even a little bit.
Mine is sitting along in a bathroom at a filling station in the desert that has no name and doesn’t even exist just like yours and just like anyone who will never know if Liberace or a dog bark ever had any favorites because things are forgotten so quickly not only by Liberace fans but others as well, for even if you were to ask a million Liberace fans, you would no doubt get a million different answers, some yes, some no, all forgotten and no one cares.
Mine wishes he could be a Liberace fan but knows he will die first.
Mine wishes he could be one of your favorites.
Mine would settle for not knowing what a favorite was.
Mine just wrote yours a love letter. It’s his favorite.
Mine just found it and smiled and threw it far away into the sky and then it floated and floated and when the wind hit it just right and landed in its eye and blinded it forever.
Mine is holding out his paw to yours. Mine will help you across the street. Mine will hold on and never let go.
Mine says thank you, but you would never know that to look at him.
Isn’t that mine?
I don’t know. I thought it was mine.
Wait. Come back.
There they go.
By Gum, You’re right. They’re off.
They look pretty good together.
They do.
Mine is worse.
No, mine is worse.
Mine is more Basso. More Basso Profundo. Like Toscanini if he were submerged in the ocean and was shivering and trying to breathe through one of those curly straws.
Mine is hopeless. It’s a desert wind where the desert used to be. A desert that doesn’t have a name because no one cares and no one knows that anyone should care.
Or in the Arctic. Mine is on a raft in the Arctic. On a little raft without a paddle saying “I can’t believe this would happen to Toscanini” and the sound just echoes over and over until it sounds backwards and makes you seasick and then there’s the vomit, et al.
Mine wanted to be a desert, but was too alone. And so it settled for nothing. Mine said: “I can’t believe that I am so lucky that I have nothing and I have it all to myself–God must love me best of all.” But God doesn’t.
Mine is Toscanini wishing he were Liberace. Liberace at a lynching party or better yet a firing squad in Siberia, naked, with a powerful, piercing wind that is embarassing to Liberace when his hair blows in an unnatural way.
Mine is Liberace, also naked, in the third grade, trying to spell ‘Toscanini’ and failing and so all the other kids jump on him and pound him and break his big nose and he cries.
Mine is Liberace when he used to advertised his long-playing albums that featured things like Claire de Lune when he would look at the camera and twinkle and say “These are some of my favorites” Well, my dog bark looks just like Liberace does now, in his coffin with little bits of satina and ruffles and twinkly diamonds and lamé around the skeleton holding onto the record album and not saying “These are some of my favorites.”
Mine says that he has no favorites and doesn’t believe that your bark sounds like anything that would say “These are some of my favorites” even a little bit.
Mine is sitting along in a bathroom at a filling station in the desert that has no name and doesn’t even exist just like yours and just like anyone who will never know if Liberace or a dog bark ever had any favorites because things are forgotten so quickly not only by Liberace fans but others as well, for even if you were to ask a million Liberace fans, you would no doubt get a million different answers, some yes, some no, all forgotten and no one cares.
Mine wishes he could be a Liberace fan but knows he will die first.
Mine wishes he could be one of your favorites.
Mine would settle for not knowing what a favorite was.
Mine just wrote yours a love letter. It’s his favorite.
Mine just found it and smiled and threw it far away into the sky and then it floated and floated and when the wind hit it just right and landed in its eye and blinded it forever.
Mine is holding out his paw to yours. Mine will help you across the street. Mine will hold on and never let go.
Mine says thank you, but you would never know that to look at him.
Isn’t that mine?
I don’t know. I thought it was mine.
Wait. Come back.
There they go.
By Gum, You’re right. They’re off.
They look pretty good together.
They do.
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