THIS IS A POEM ABOUT SAUSAGE MAKING 6.18.17

6.18.17

There are few acts as erotic

as sausage making. As I watch

this gloved hand stroke a

nozzle from which minced meat

regurgitates into a translucent skin,

I am reminded

and

I am afraid

I am ashamed

and

I am saddened

because this gloved hand

is experiencing more intimacy

than

I

have

experienced

possibly

ever.

And

unlike

me

I

assume

it

is

sober.


Written at 12:46 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA. 

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