Poetry

The Very Short Life of a Sausage

A sausage, plump and lazy
trembles.
Whiskers wisp its belly
dry buds lick its skin red raw
spike-teeth burst its mosaic hide
squirting a chunky-hunk,
trailing beads of a glass necklace.

--Jan. 30, 2009



The Rosewood Throne

Ribbons row the red silk river

blossoming pregnant,
tender curves

spilling
the contour of cloudless lovers

carved streams
of flooded light--

and diamonds
trickle in a rainstorm.

--Feb. 10, 2009



Werewolves cannot roar, my dear.

A silver coin
waxed,

piercing night's squinted eye

shedding
the first sin
that drips from the Garden of Eden.

--Feb. 17, 2009