New York Minute

New York 2

The empty pane
That misses humidification
On a cold winter day in New York
When you need that Starbucks coffee
And the burn sensation of curling mustard
Over a sausage and a heated bun.

Still you’d take that stranger
That you met on the corridor
That gazed at your eyes imploring
A little kindness, and a little burn ensued on lips
And tongue, lighting up an orb of fire
Promising you a flesh-boggling cataclysm
And you took her in,
Made her a hotdog with mustard,
That she gleefully tastes with no regret.
And I’m now warm down there
Satisfied like a lazy Jewel song.
And still my conscience is burning all over
Like an inferno at hell’s gate.

And she was blonde with hazel eyes
And a little mix of everything
That New York throws at you.
And she flared me like
A heretic Jew in the Spanish inquisition
Burning in a raging bonfire.
And my bones were brittle now
Like a little ceramic spoon that I
Keep on the kitchen counter.

Sex is a bigger commodity
Than any brew of coffee in New York
And I was sucked in by that NY minute,
Like those perpendicular streets and avenues
That intersect for no reason, just because
They are in their way. Crash has chemistry here
It is like twigs sliding out fire.
Collision is a lifestyle choice,
Regret heals faster than a bout of gastritis,
And an accident is just an STD
Or a mosaic baby

And love is like the red phosphorus
On top of a match stick. It flares, flickers and dies.

Like a supernova exploding,
Into a mix of dust and dirt,

New Yorkers call freedom.

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