I like my coffee lightly sweet.
I like the sounds of the carnivaleers
that move all night, downtown on
fleet week. And the streets, and the
Streets, and they sweat from the heat
and the sounds of their feet when they
meet, like the meat hitting pavement.
Replete with little pants, just barely
covering the seat; they keep everything
up front.
The japanese sounds, the sweet teas
and the pinks of it. And the choosing
treats for it. The sucking teets, the fits
of final conscience wielding nights
(the food/the liquid), the laid out flesh,
and unshaven skin on the necks; and
the liquid.
