Hundstag

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Hundstag

The dog days are over

The dog days are done

The horses are coming

So you better run--Florence & the Machine.

Like so many other

myths & legends we have clung to,

dog days are still part of our vernacular.

                                   Yes, those painted & festooned Egyptians

                            celebrated them, as the rising

                 of the seething mango sun combined

          with the revered heliacal rising

of Orion’s dog star, Sirius

          in the constellation Canis Major;

                  the Romans & the Greeks continued to 

                              acknowledge them.

Sirius rises late in the dark, liquid sky

on steamy summer nights, star of stars--

Homer from the Iliad. 

   

                              The Farmer’s Almanac lists them as the

                               40 days from early July to mid-August.

                  When the oppressive heat seems to

                  stimulate poor judgement, even temporary

                  madness, whereby impetuosity can lead

                                                                         to dark places;

when the ocean seethes & boils,

                 when dogs suddenly kill chickens & cats,

                 when virtuous women take a lover,

                 when faithful men lose their faith, 

                 when wine & beer turn strangely rancid,

                 when  bread molds still fresh from the oven,

                 when any one can dip into the crazy stew

and become plagued with fever & mysterious hysterics.

Like yesterday as I watched a young man jaywalk mid-block along a

busy River Road;

“What the hell is this guy doing?” 

I asked my wife--agitated, confused, & sarcastic. 

           Traffic stopped for him in our center lane, so he bolted

           into a sprint--but a blood red sedan had just speeded

           up in the outside lane to arrogantly bypass the car jam.

                        They met suddenly, brakes screeching as the car

                         slammed into him. I thought I heard a thud as his

                         body was lifted up into the air, performing a balletic

                         cartwheel within the slow motion scream of that

                         murderous moment, landing

in a rag-doll broken heap                                 in our lane.

                         “Jesus Christ, no, no--damn his stupidity--

                          God, NO!

I burst into tears, as did my wife. 

It was like watching someone being beheaded

right in front of you; stunning us with tremulous 

trauma.

I could not get that terrible image out of my mind, the fucking impact,

steel versus flesh, the bone-crunching swan dive, & the pile of broken

limbs embracing the unforgiving concrete. The 6pm News mentioned

an incident with a vehicle & a pedestrian, but nothing was reported

regarding a fatality--so a glimmer of hope sprouted on our reddened

cheeks. 

When dog days arrive,

one’s reason seems disrupted,

& all bets are off.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Pub Poetics

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