Sausage Stars

I like sausage stars.
Microcosms of sausage betwixt
An aurora of cheese
The pimentos and olives
Streak across the night sky
Bake for an hour in the heart of the sun.

I could fly
between the rings of ranch
past the peppers
around the wonton crystal
of the star's radiance
But if we're being frank
They're orbiting me
This time of year
I am awash in their glow

Shame, since everyone else
is always so full so early
But I am a black hole
I have not grown old of the radiance of stars

So I fill myself with a constellation
And sit happily as they supernova.

The Shape of Lunch to Come

Consider the wrapped package:

A compact little treat

Inside there's more than meets the eye

Now, eyes, eye the meat

Consider now this tower

Apartments in a stack

Each floor's tenants all stare back at you

From the unsuspecting snack

Consider next the roof

The crispy golden bun

The gleaming dome your teeth will breach

Before the rest is done

Consider a tomato slice

Caressed by spicy mustard

The outside is an embryo

Around the deep red custard

Consider leaves of lettuce

Caught firmly in the middle

The crispness and the color prelude

Meaty child of griddle

I take the pickles off

because I don't really like them

Consider next the meat itself

A juicy, flame-broiled disc

While it's the crux of this meal

It leaves swiftly (tisk-tisk).

Consider cheddar cheese

The ying to patty's yang

It leaves you with a feeling

That makes you call out, “Dang.”

Now that you've finished off your meal

And gathered quite the scoop

Consider next the bathroom

So you can wash your hands.

(dedicated to 500 Degrees)