A Boxer Named Poet

A Boxer Named Poet
by Ezekiel Tyrus

Last night I had a dream where I met a Boxer dog named Poet in Washington Square Park. I commented that his eyes were deep, thoughtful, and sensitive like a poet's, is that why was given such a name, and his owner said, "No, he looks like a Poet because he IS a poet. I'm serious. Poet is such a great poet that if you stare at him long enough, he'll make-up a poem about whatever it is you're currently going through."

For several seconds, I stared at the dog's face, my eyes touching his when suddenly he said:

All Art is Divisive!

Find your aesthetic and surround yourself with it.

Your interests are yours.
Your obsessions are yours.
Your passions are yours.

Your thoughts, desires, and stories;
-are yours.

All art is divisive!

You,
as a man,
have always been divisive.

Why would your art not be?

Whenever you see art
generally loved by most,
it's usually no damn good.

Whenever you meet a man
adored by all,
he's usually not that interesting.

No art is loved by everybody,
neither is any one man.

The word tradition means nothing to you,
-never has.

If
"It's tradition,"
be the single
explanation for anything,
an event, a ritual, or style,
your immediate thought is to say,
"Fuck it. I'll do whatever I want to do."

You've been that way your entire life,
because all art is divisive
and so are you.

-A Boxer named Poet.

------------------------------
The boxer looked around, a trace of a smile on his face.

The people at the park applauded, each seemingly aware of Poet and his abilities.

His owner, a young athletic-looking Asian-American man, gave Poet a bone-shaped doggy treat which he lapped up affectionately, not a dog hungry but one enjoying a tiny beloved dessert, like me sucking a root beer barrel.

"See? Poet's a real poet. He nailed you, man."

I walked away with my head down and sat on a park bench to be alone with my thoughts all the while muttering to myself, "Fucking Beat poet dog thinks he knows everything."