Thursday, April 26, 2012


The rich-sweet taste of sliced almond
in my mouth, satisfaction or
contentment throwing me a bone.

I could smile away an evening
if you were in my
mouth. Thinking of you now, your blonde

underskin, your brown
epidermis the color
of dirt, of cool earth, I think you are like slow

coffee and several cigarettes
following a meal of beefsteak, fried
potatoes, a perspiring glass of High Life

in hand, my ass in a rocking
chair, grease still in the plate, humidity
plenty hot.

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