when dogs gamble

lying on the floor with its concrete and ammonia tongue reading Charles Bukowski, ‘Living On Luck' my split-level mind and its contradictory ghosts at once condemning his ribald desires of flesh and praising the simplified schematics of his Richard Nixon landscapes, I've placed a block of cheese on my doorstep and the ants are drawn to it, I have no couch to lie on and read thus, the ants attack my flesh and I reciprocate, squashing them between my fingers to produce a gasoline inspired perfume, the smell of victory some guy is at it, upstairs, screaming at an accomplice but between breaths he allows the other tenants movement and loads a fresh tirade into the breach under the smoggy glow of tube lighting frozen images of dogs playing poker accommodating the warm reception of a surprise attack from within the whites of their eyes tambourines tied to their feet