None such place but maybe just about dog street I don't even have a dog but my friend does

What is a place?

a multitude of interconnected spaces

internal worlds

remnants of someplace

a haze of past encounters

a mix of feelings

caught and pulled downstream

Adrift in a dog lagoon.

 

THE POEM 

 

DOG STREET, a weird peom that goes off the rails

 

Dogs on the street

They seem fucking cool 

Made of cement and hair and eyes and fur

and all that don't need you

Woman with a dress on

Dogs on the dress

without much hair on.

Dogs and the woman without much hair on. 

The hair of the dog is enacted (the person is drunk but then wakes up)

and so

Pups are put in the trolley, the person walks on.

People are watching, all people

by-the-by, side by side

by the sidewalk just passing by

It's their space after all.

 

There is a blackbird who drops by every day and has done for six months.

 

He definitely has a family now. I suspect even two wives, but that's not important. He is heading towards being a great old bird and we must respect him for that. We should respect the way the blackbird does business: he is the feeder of the young birds, the signaler, and gives way to the female blackbirds to ensure they are fed. He is the best of males and we should celebrate him.

 

The final part of the poem is as so:

 

There are usually a high-key cabal of plastic posers being served beers in plastic cups as they sit and wonder why and what they watch because it's not cool because I was told this was cool before and now I don't know because rooftop sunsets are NOT SCREENS.

Maybe as I sit accidentally-casually observing other people that might be cool-not-cool. Maybe the fumes of lives left behind will invigorate my brain; maybe the permeation zone of brain-coolness has nothing to do with who you are but instead where you sit and when you are instead. 

The world is real, yes, and nothing is fixed. Stop being a slave and be a blackbird instead!