JenPerron´s English Class

Dogs of Talca Written somewhere in the first 30 days in Talca, Chile, Aug-Sept. 2010 Happy, dirty, on the street They sniff their bottoms before they mount Follow pedestrians just enough To see what their lives might be about In their own private language They understand They share, communicate Form families, make a friend They know they are surviving Just like you and I That dine together, cry alone Cling to a post-orgasmic sigh Like the stone-faced waiter Accepting sexual harassment  For his meager wage and tip The alpha unbrushed lab Waiting at the store for a kibble or bit I too am a dog of Talca Understanding of my role Waiting at the mouth of life For some nutrient and home  Fill me up with spirit The kind that natives share Plant me in this kind of place Where the morose have love and care They are never lonely; they really don't live in fear they learn to live in hunger but know when their end is nea

My significant other and I took his 15-year-old son and his best friend to practice shooting balls into the tree-lined grass a few weeks ago. You know, I'm not a golfer; none of us really are, but Duane is very practiced and methodological. He shoots beautiful balls far and wide to literally disappear into the white background of the sky and clouds. He tries to instruct me so that I can shoot, too, although, you know I really couldn't care a flying fig. So of course, I'm trying to keep myself entertained. Having already bored myself from using the golf club as Mary Poppin's umbrella, I decide that I'm going to try to hit the ball like he does. I want my ball to do that, too; to look like a large fleck of snow falling from a cloud. He hands me a club that looks like it has an engorged tumor on its heel, saying the ball will fly best with that one.  I try this angle and that angle, only twisting myself around and completely missing the ball. He tells me how