The Dog of Interrogation
by Mark Bilbrey
Don’t you think the Queen is nice?
I never thought of her.
She wasn’t your idea?
Not like that no.
How many times must I say?
Exactly the question.
You mean the point?
Not like a queen, calling up experts, breeding her wants alive.
Saying the same thing.
We? How many…
I mean the queen never sniffed ass.
Nota bene: I’m just hearing noise and translating unsystematically.
I heard that.
No one to say if I got it right but you.
And I don’t say boo.
But you’re the dog of saying. I mean
The dog is speaking
one way or another
…wait, loved whom more?
The dog of speech
Therapy for phonetic souls?
gnawed vibrant sex toy.
Ah, I ‘ear it bzzzing ‘ere your teeth.
Who are you?
I’m Speaking. As I said.
Just be glad
Like rain in your throat.
I’m not using my teeth
Fair to middlin’ at best.
for their intended purpose.
For God’s sake,
let go my raincoat.
Lookie me: weather dog!
You’re not making weather!
Hwar crah hawww! Gah SHOO!
Yup uh kay that’s…
Hyuck yuck yuck!
Sing a song, weather dog.
Cry at night, dance in the morning after my stretches. Fin.
What’re you, literate?
Put it thisaway: the “alpha and omega” metaphor means beans to me.
Beginning and end?
Not so far.
Could you explain just one thing?
Him bones connected to the—her bones.
I’m sorry, I hadn’t finished
Shy bones corrected all the—small phones.
asking the question.
Head dome suggesting all her—sky homes.
Your voice, sir?
Walkie-talkie movie crotchie—high tones.
Eventually, the song does different.
Oh, lovey-dovey havin’-cakey love!
How many songs can you learn?
Two: out and outing: “OUT!” like that, see, is one.
Is it a sing-a-long?
Please. You already know what concoction.
I’ve been waiting for you, sir, to set the record straight.
The technology’s static, thus static, thus: (farts). Just look how high the
horse grows! But me—you don’t mow the grass, it’ll tickle my dick.
They say my dad was a ragweed.
You, you, you’ve been waiting, turning circles, following me.
What do you call that number? You learned me the song.
A song of evolution.
My DNA’s a keyboard.
Okay, a washboard. So strum me. I didn’t volunteer for this shit.
Survival of the singest?
Singe, ingest, jest: I don’t even remember my mom. She walked like this,
like me, I imagine. I got her heart, but she was stubbier, not so quick to
cry like the birds. She called me her little crow.
That’s what everyone calls you, darling.
Yes, and I call them right back. They leave me leavings and I call back. I
call “take care!” and then I take care of everything and I keep watch all
And when all else fails you run.
Every day, for better or worse, I do.
You hear blood pulsing through your ears.
I am using my heart.
And I your stethoscope-throat.
I am using my heart again.