Circa 1997:

I was outside. The two pitbulls belonging to my crack-dealing neighbors, dogs that actually chopped a »tree down with their teeth, escaped into the front of the house, and came barrelling toward me with blood-soaked drool dripping from their chainsaw-faces. They were so eager to get to me that they were skidding along the sidewalk as they attempted to make the turn from the neighbor’s porch and close the distance between us. I was absolutely certain that either one could kill me — they had skulls like fucking anvils.

My friend and fellow poet Anselm Berrigan was sitting on the steps, and I was standing in front of him in a relaxed pose, weight on my right hip, one hand resting on my left hip. My right arm was bent at the elbow and in that hand I held a cigarette up near my lips. I was half-facing the dog onslaught. I kind of looked at Anselm and realized I might die right now.

He seemed mostly calm, but also awake.

We had been writing poetry together.

The dogs arrived, and I didn’t change position. I just stayed exactly where I was, relaxed, and sort of looked disinterestedly at the furiously unjustifiable frenzy they embodied, watching them close the distance…

… until the lead dog got within about 2 feet of me. And paused, still snarling like something from a horror movie.

I sort of looked at it like: “Uh, yeah. Really?” and remained in my standing-relaxed pose.

The dog hesitated for a moment, and started to look confused. It turned around to its ally behind it, as if for encouragement. That dog suddenly decided it was time to skygaze.

The lead dog stopped snarling. I am fairly sure the canine version of embarrassment ensued. It »pretended to have been on an inspection mission… and looked around as if … this situation had its approval. Yep. This was fine, it decided. They both flipped a U and went home.

And so, that day, I did not die.