I love eating with my hands,

cave-man style.

Food tastes better that way.

After roasting a rack of lamb

and a slew of russet spuds,

I regress to the DNA

of my Siberian ancestry.


In the effervescent waters

of primitive exuberance,

I lick my greasy fingers,

gnaw and chew on every bone

like my famished junk-yard dog.


I huddle around the fire,

reach for the stars,

and begin to hear music

of a concertina squeeze box,

bells, and fipple flutes.


I suck the red-blood seeds

out of a ripe pomegranate,

take a swig of Slivovitz

and Kasatska around the fire

chanting songs of Volga boatmen

that lulls me to sleep

on a bed of star moss

as I lean against

my sleeping German Shepherd.