a new year’s poem, wishing you, like, the best in meat

New Meat 2010

on the eve of next year
my bowl glistens
with the promise
of all that’s new and good

some days, Woman dresses
in pink pajamas
like rabbit meat
in my bowl

Tonight I wait at the door
waiting for woman or boy to walk through
while my roommate licks her backside

Upstairs
the boy sleeps

Downstairs
woman reads

Outside
my bowl fills with rain

Ah, the joys of feeding dogs raw meat.

I WROTE THIS POEM FOR MAMA WHEN I WATCHED HER RIDE AWAY: 

more
often
excited
surely

meat
eaten
albeit
tomorrow

If there was only one choice I had
as a dog
as a companion
as a ruler

It would be to eat tripe out of a ceramic bowl
on the deck
while woman watched, naked, from the hammock

HI!!! THIS IS MAJI AND I WANT TO SHARE A POEM I HAVE WRITTEN ABOUT MY HERITAGE.

I AM A RUSSELTARIAN BEAGLEBACK
I AM A RUSSELTARIAN BEAGLEBACK
I AM A RUSSELTARIAN BEAGLEBACK

I SAW THIS WITH PRIDE
I SAW THIS WITH PRIDE
I SAW THIS WITH PRIDE

All my love to my old friend,
the oldest I’ve ever had, 
a part of me that split off
long ago and comes back
again and again.

the smell of blood at my door
it must be the 14th
for it is then
that i see
what it is

moe’s meats
a business i began
forever ago
so i may never be without

who knew

there comes a time in a ridge’s life
when he says
yes
i
am
happy

hungry i sit
waiting for my meat
to simmer in the bowl

hungry i sit
watching woman
watching woman
watching woman

hungry i sit
like a good boy
waiting for my meat

Memories fade
the way
bones bleach
in the sun

I stack them
one by one
in the corners
of what I used to wear

There,
my meat blanket
stained with the joy

of marrow
by the fire

the puppies were nestled
all eight in a bed
with visions of raw meat
up in their head

down through the chimney
white paws and a tale
was the ridgeback Satcha Claus
dragging a pail

all full of jiblets and giblets and cream
the puppies were hungry
they started to scream

on beef heart, on chicken
on emu, on tripe
raw meat to all
and to all a goodnight

The sound
of Woman’s fork
down on the plate.

I wait, patient
on my haunch.

What’s left to finish
in time
is mine.