A DOG IS BETTER THAN A HUSBAND

1.
“A dog is better than a husband,” the rescue lady says to me. “Did you know that?” 

2.
What? Wait a minute. Wait. A. Minute. Where did that come from? Where? This isn’t some kind of weird therapy session. This is PetSmart, for God’s sake! And it’s Saturday. Adoption Day. I’ve driven from Fort Worth to Dallas to look at a little homeless Chihuahua. The one featured on Facebook last week. The one this woman tells me is no longer available. Bummer! I really wanted to see it. But that’s okay. I’m just a looker today. Just here to look. That’s all. Not to adopt. No. Just looking. Today. A looker. That’s me. Nothing more. 

3.
And yet, and yet. That didn’t stop this dog rescue lady from lifting another Chihuahua from his crate and handing him to me. Before I could protest. Before I could stop her. How could she do that to me? She knows I’m just a looker. She does. She knows. It’s true. I’m just looking. I am. A looker. That’s me. Today. Nothing more. And yet, and yet. Now there’s a dog in my arms. A dog! And not just any dog. This dog. The dog she tells me nobody wants because he’s not a puppy. Because he’s eight-years-old. Walter. That’s his name. Yes, it’s sad. So sad. To be unwanted. Abandoned. Yes. I know. How it feels. I do. So sad. But he’s the wrong dog for me. He is. All wrong. He’s brown and black (not the color I want). And six pounds (not the weight I want). And a boy (not the sex I want). No, he’s not my dog. Not this one. No. Not at all.    

4.
“Excuse me?” I say. Maybe I misunderstood what she said. About dogs and husbands. Surely. Surely I did. The rescue lady looks down at Walter and laughs. He’s snoring. In my arms. Fast asleep. What? When did that happen? “It’s true,” she says. “Dogs are more consistent with their affection. They’re not moody. Or manipulative. Or perfectionists. Or worriers. Or egomaniacs. Or judgmental. Dogs will never abandon you. They just love you. All the time. That’s what they do. And they’re excellent listeners.” She winks at me. “How many men can you say that about?” 

5.
Oh, geez. Sounds like the story of my life. How did she know? Moody, self-absorbed men. Too many of them. In my past. Nothing but trouble. Like my ex-husband, Earl. The hypochondriac. I divorced him six months ago. Best decision I’ve made in years. Good riddance, I say. Never had anxiety until I married Earl. Or panic attacks. Didn’t even know what they were. But I do now. Thanks to seven years of marriage. Should have divorced Earl years ago. Why didn’t I? Why, why, why? My girlfriends say it’s my heart. It’s too big. Too soft. They think it’s a curse. In Earl’s case, it was. But no more. I’m done with men like that. All of them. Selfish, manipulative, worriers. Done. With. Them. 

6.
“Did you see this?” the rescue lady says, pointing to the information sheet attached to Walter’s crate. “All our older dogs like Walter are half price today. And he’s such a good dog. No trouble at all.”

7.
An hour later the Dallas skyline fades from my rearview mirror on the drive back to Fort Worth. I did it. Finally. I escaped. From PetSmart. And the rescue lady. Hallelujah! But my checking account is three hundred dollars lighter. And there’s a big shopping bag from PetSmart in my backseat. And a new pet carrier in the trunk. And there’s Walter. In the passenger seat. Wrapped in a blanket. Cozy in his new dog bed. Chewing on a bully stick. Happily. Peacefully. As if we’ve been together for years. 

8.
“Tell me this,” I say to Walter. “Is a dog really better than a husband?” I turn off the highway onto the exit ramp leading to Fort Worth. Walter drops his bully stick and climbs into my lap. Gently. Calmly. Like he’s been doing it for years. He rests his head on my arm and looks up at me. “Should I take that as a Yes?” I say. “Okay then. Good to know.”  

tomorrow landry

who’s knocking?

	scientific
        lac amora

the dream of the sky
the dream of the swan

       clanky toast is “t”
       ample terrapin outline

I’m in the gum tree




pac-man germs

the cape fear method
demanding a desert

        I am in the rain

green sleep
a new green

the space station is blinking
I am in the control tower

        with radishes

the toads protect me here
the templeton of the rabbit

        confused



the wonderful tree

each eagle is too low
raindrops slice

the coral within
whittling, too

my solar gum
my plen-t-pak

I bite a cotton ball
I shake a sugar roll




bio/graf

J. D. Nelson (b. 1971) experiments with words in his subterranean laboratory. His poetry has appeared in many small press publications, worldwide, since 2002. He is the author of several collections of poetry, including Cinderella City (The Red Ceilings Press, 2012). His poem, “to mask a little bird” was nominated for Best of the Net in 2021. Visit http://MadVerse.com for more information and links to his published work. Nelson lives in Colorado.

a little jack daniels with the coffee
 
tracing the outline
of a tattoo on soft
black skin with
your tongue
 
a snowy morning
in the middle
of somewhere
 
a little jack daniels
with the coffee
 
the love of your life
sleeping in just her
panties in your
centuries old bed
 
you can't help but
feel this was never
supposed to be for
someone like you
 
the infinite joy
to have defeated
time
 
there is no substitute
for it
---------------------------------------------------------------------
let the fun begin
 
the joy of a dirty mind
is absolutely anything
could be a reminder
or the spark for the
imagination to rev
the engines and let
the fun begin
 
a rainy day
 
a car dealership
bathroom
 
a certain way the
floor sounds with
the right shoes
 
an echo from
across the street
 
the subtle way the
chap stick tastes
 
a certain song on
the radio
 
absolutely anything
 
and i won't be able
to walk for a few
minutes
----------------------------------------------------------------------
too fast for me
 
i'm at the age
now that life
either moves
too fast for me
or too fucking
slow
 
finding the right
groove is not
possible anymore
for me
 
maybe i'm the
cranky old man
or just another
child that has
grown old
 
not that it
matters
 
we are born
to die
 
few get to
experience
something
other than
that
 
or so i have
been told
--------------------------------------------------------------
a few moments to forever
 
i have never learned
how to cope with
good news
 
happiness is some
rare thought that i
haven't embraced
in years
 
and here comes a
lost soul that wants
me to give myself
to her for any
amount of time
 
a few moments
to forever
 
my soul is old
enough now to
stop fighting this
silly notion that
i'm strong enough
to go it alone
 
i am broken
enough though
 
that i still have
doubts that anyone
truly wants to devote
the time to fixing me
the way it needs to
be done
--------------------------------------------------------------------
something is always in the way
 
and you want
to love her
 
but neither of
you can find
the fucking
time
 
and the days
become years
 
and eventually
something is
always in the
way
 
before you
know it
 
what could have
been is all that
is left
 
a fleeting moment
of sweet kisses
 
and enough desire
to keep you warm
on a winter's night

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is currently trapped in suburbia, wondering where the lonely housewives are hiding. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Mad Swirl, Horror Sleaze Trash, Misfit Magazine, Terror House Magazine and The Beatnik Cowboy. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Consciousness is Self Evident.
To Ask for Proof grants the Disproof
 by the Axiom of Requiring it. 

It's a journey that every Question 
Aborts the Answer
so a walk home resumes.

The industry, The Art 
is how to define Boundaries 
to hold Pleasure as 
an enduring form. 

So If You Like it,
  the process can come
    from non-form
      through form 
        to non-form
Or mid-stand 
where comfort
holds the sensitivity 
to ongoing Beauty. 

Vibrant Joy Sure by feeling 
upon natural ongrowing 

Boundaries that fall to 
      unrestrained pleasure.

Set Heart's desires
   as bounding focus
       drawn a party to

Gifts rising upon the moment,   
                 Evidently. 

How To Start


I cannot start

without the dagger pain of a wooden splinter

cored deep and burrowing in the dark.

Bearded dog, limping Cuckoo wasp, the painted 

canvases are tumbling dominoes 

but I cannot start. 


Once I wandered onto property that was not mine

and an old man came screaming up 

on a swastika-stamped ATV and the damp moss

spat his beliefs in my eyes, and I was startled

by a mind that was not mine.

I could start then.



Her Body


She lifts her body with her body, 

moves her body with her body, sits down

on a hard mahogany chair that holds her body

while she tends to her body, as it is a creature

that needs be tended. Cutting lentils

and cooking rice to sustain her body,

boiling water, infusing safflower

that will quench her body, her body

moving her fingers (a part of her body)

with fine finesse and ease. She thinks

nothing of this marvelousness

that is her body; her body 

is a sack which carries her brain around

which is also a part of her body, 

wishes she could be without it, contemplates

the necessity of fingernails and earlobes.

She navigates the stairs with her body

that was built by bodies

with the help of machines and tools

that were imagined and designed by bodies, 

who sweated, labored, debated

and shaped them alive like art. She enters

with her body, exits with her body,

works with her body, talks

with her body, embraces with her body,

treats it like a garden bush,

keeping it satisfied in its self-containing self.

Her body is the ultimate instrument,

that could even make other bodies

if she so chose; in her womb,

with her body, and the brief assistance

of another body, she can form a being.

(She does not consider much

how this is an attribute of gods.) 

She lifts her body to reach the books 

on the top shelf, lies her body with her body 

onto her bed that cradles her body, 

an idea her body came up with  

to reconfigure itself. And so

she dreams in her body, 

sees orbs and faces and feels pine needles

and loses time and place and law. 

Her body is a distant echo; for seven hours

she is more than her body and she likes this, 

she thinks this is a miraculous feat.

When she wakes she is a body again. 

She rouses her body, walks her body

to the kitchen with her body,

to the kettle with her body, her body

a marvel, to be sure, her body

a majesty of cells and electrical impulses

and movements of bone and lore.

She counts her dollars, heads

to the grocery store, buys a vegetable body, 

smells it, feels its leathery hide, wonders

if a potato is aware it has a body,

she walks alone the five city blocks 

back home, considering only 

the consciousness of the sky. 





Dead Finches



They say the bird is a messenger. 

Two finches die in a heatwave but who’s around?

The folding and unfolding skies twiddle 

with my heart-ends, my valves summer yellow, 

chambers blanketed in snow. Again 

a lover sends down the rains, but all I get 

are rasping gulls with shrieks that puncture sleeps 

as musky as cow pastures, as heavy as gold.

My messengers are in procession down the nave 

of a church with no one but straw dolls in the pews.

Birds die everyday. I’ve broken bottles 

with more than liquid in them. In mourning

there’s a need for a story (even if cruel). 

Words unwritten are words unused.





The Play




The curtain rises, and there are faux-animals 

human beings dressed in gowns  

of lions, elk, cicadas, foxes, toucans 

whales on their stomachs moaning upon the floor

so they sway, declare they are grass blades 

heaped together, a meadow, a symphony 

and yes, they are singing 

singing with not just their mouths dressed

as maws and bills and proboscises but with their eyes 

their arms, their bellies, their hands 

they are trying to tell the story 

the story of what it means 

to be on an oblate ball of clay alone 

orbiting its way through unrelenting space 

and what it means, they tell, of how they all lean

together upon one another's shoulders 

how they have sex with each other

eat each other 

die and will head

into the same soily, cool bed 

how they fear and love each other 

and are pulled 

arrested

driven by yearnings and cravings 

to rub against, break things open

watch it, see it, touch it, all of it, grow, change 

it all so painful, heavenly, astronomical

so they sing, of when they first realized 

that they could not leave, that they, all as one

existed on an island, and if it goes 

they all go, gulped by an exhalation of energy

dark matter and quantum particles 

and together they begin to act out the end

by suddenly spinning like tops 

they fall into and over each other, calling out

hollering roars and coos and clicks and baas 

and gasps and cries that are human

and taking off their pelts, as humans 

they collapse, impact, all as one, to the stage



except the whales, they merely roll onto their backs 

and reach their flippers up toward 

the lights shining above, and this theater 

all the way to the back rows and utmost rafters 

is silent as a tomb.      





Shake



All things rattle to your touch.

You are an earthquake, with feelers for the moon. 

Monsignori pray for you. Playwrights scratch out 

the tremor that takes place inside your pen;

little things make you quiver,

like lost daughters, dead pets, gone friends. 

As the mother hen you bear the egg.

As the second youngest of the Babe and the Pop

your shoulders shake from all the wave of 

Seven Sibling Wonders who came. 

You stick to shampoo, like glue, 

and all the windows leak whispers to you.

You pluck a cigarette, and shiver in the drag.

As the grass whipping, you smile.

The dandelions sprout in droves 

and you reach to uproot—but you don’t.

Mama, you get me to commit 

the genocide.





Lime Kiln



Around his steeple, a neckerchief

embroidered with the lie his father gave. 

So, around the point, the strong gulls live,

songs like raking nails to the ear. 

Dry myrtle, in the hand, spittle

aside the mouth, we forge course 

through the arching buttresses of stars. 

He knows the hammer. He knows the bouts.

What swings lays waste to things unmoving.

I reject his common beliefs, his white napkin

that dabs away the gore of his stinging words. 

Daytime the chronometer, daytime the stick

measuring the waves at Lime Kiln.

My hands cross the hours. My hands 

silt smeared and boney old. He harbors

his clean justice, his pure head

in the flailing wings of birds thriving.

I see the dead ones, on the stones.

Full of ivory threads and matted plumes. 

Renwick Berchild is half literary critic, half poet. She is lead editor of Green Lion Journal and writes at Nothing in Particular Book Review. Her poems have appeared in Porridge Mag,Headline Press, Whimperbang, Free Verse Revolution, Vita Brevis, Streetcake, and other e-zines, anthologies, and journals. She was born and raised on the angry shores of Lake Superior, and now lives in a micro-apartment in Seattle, WA. Find more of her work at www.renwickberchild.com

My paintings and digital paintings have graced two galleries, served as covers for more than half of a dozen publications, and been incorporated, alongside my poetry, in in One-Handed Pianist (Hekate Publishing, 2021). These days, I party with the imaginary hedgehogs I met in midlife, write about the foibles of parenting, teach online courses to emerging writers the world over, and deign to use color and shape to express feelings. There may not be anything new under the sun, but Granny can share with youngins various ways to secure their bonnets. After all, exposure to feral ideas remains important.