the taste of blood in my mouth
from too much red meat
an autoerotic monopoly on God
one hand slicing the other
a coat left at my house
is its own license to wear it
and anymore there's no rush
quite like talking into a tape recorder
at eighty miles an hour.
oozing sex from the ears
and ailment from the eyes
ears popping with the elevation
of twelve hundred feet
and it's autumn in New York
like when you offer someone
a stick of gum
and they ask you
"what flavor?"
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