climbing into bed at 3 am, i wonder why people use the phrase dog tired, cycling ways to describe to the vapid space of this room and everything in it, the particular brand of worn-out that i've caught like a sneaked summer cold. does it involve barking? i hardly care enough to wonder if i should. dead dog dogged doggerel dog day afternoon my life as a dog take this dog and shove -- wait a dog gone minute. if you spin the word enough times off the tongue in a cold room it begins to twist itself into a thick round rubber tube filled with air. bastard verbial form. in the radicle space that exists between the FIVE flying paper birds and me, the cold winds of canada, and the entry and exit of unconsciousness, i hang myself with the faded superman sheets you had on your bed when you were a kid. the pillow case with the bold S draped over my shoulders like a cape.