Diogenes The Dog Poem by James Murdock

I wish to speak to the world like
Diogenes spoke to Alexander.
You move here and there like a bee collecting nectar
so you may later sit. I
go straight for the sprawling.
I wish you would stand a little more out of my light.

When the world that tells me to move I say
you move and I will ride.
And by riding I will pluck buckhorn plantain and
snakeberries for my evening tea.

At my fireside came a friend to pleasure me
with her fiddle, and seeing life as a dance, I danced.
And round we spun like Irish embers,
burning hearts and clicking heels.
To the world that shoved us we sang,
You have forgotten that the god of dance
is your creator too—your office chairs were also
hummed into being, though
it was a sad song.

We must go from here to sweep the dirt
out our doors. Sweeping is a dance
and something birds do best.

I am the bird dog and this world is the hunter.
If it would pet me like a friend and not a tool,
I wouldn't thirst for blood.

Let me read prescient rose-collared Ginsberg
under the shading frown of my magnolia
and dream of lucy-laced policeman donuts
converting hard streets into lilting smiles.

I bet Homer was another dog.
I consider inertia a prerequisite for epic poems.

Dear world,
Strike me with your hammer or kneel at my feet.
Put me on a scent or drop me like a heavy dose.
You made me gemini to count the asters,
did you not?