Butterflies and Raw Liver

Dearest friends,

I'm still weak from my recent illness, ably described by my dear sweet wife, Dr. Whiski Rae Shamrock, and owe my survival to her love and quick thinking, as well as the love and dedication of my staff. The CBI (Coyote Bureau of Investigation) is hunting for the perpetrators of this foul (in all senses of the word) deed, and I am determined to bring these malefactors to justice, whether that be meted out by twoleg courts or dealt with directly in fourleg fashion. I have my preference as to the method, but vowed my dear coyote mother, Ki, to bridle my strong need for personal vengeance which, regrettably, I've not always contained (viz., my parents and Claude).

Anyway, I'm too indisposed to write much, so I'll share with you two of Ki's beautiful poems, translated by me from coyotespeak, and soon to be published along with ninety-nine other stunning works by Ki. The volume's title is, tentatively, "Butterflies and Raw Liver," after the names of two my favorite poems written by my mother.


Butterflies (After Rumi Olaf Petersen)

As dawn is to day, so butterflies are to sky,
As colors are to light, so butterflies are to bugs,
As birth is to gestation, so butterflies are to pupation,
As angels are to demons, so butterflies are to mosquitoes,
As right is to wrong, so butterflies are to moths,
As perfume is to stench, so butterflies are to vultures,
Now I must hunt and eat and sleep till noon,
As butterflies dance to soundless tunes.

Oh that you understood coyotespeak and could have heard Ki singing this beautiful poem! Now:

Raw Liver

For dinner,
Raw liver,
Slides down,
No sound,
So slick,
And quick,
To eat,
This treat,
Raw liver,
It quivers,
Swallow whole,
Then roll,
In guts,
In smuts,
It teems,
With heme,
The blood,
Will flood,
A Nile,
Of bile,
Spurts out,
In gouts,
So sweet,
This meat,
Like life,
Sans strife,
An orange,
Is....

Now excuse me as I go off to rest and to weep at the memory of my coyote mother, Ki.

Dusty