No Animal Was Harmed in the Making of This Sonnet
You got a dog. You got another dog.
Each sonnet has a proposition. This
one's is that dogs are gods. Tonight the fog
shapeshifts to incense. Sniff. You'll never miss
the thoughts you've left: they let you strip the fun
from sex, they conned your science into con-
science. Rocco has the cutest peepee. Run
with him, then bag his turds. Or wake at dawn:
the Empress Snickers sits there, so demure,
she'll bite your ass until she gets a snack.
Bow down to her. It's almost mythic. Christ,
Osiris, Dionysus died so pure
that even demons weep to bring them back. . . .
Your offering's a knockoff: chicken, diced.