Flavor is a fluttering variable, no self-confidence
as a fifth sense, just an idea swimming in saliva,
nothing like tongues in mouths with nowhere to go.
The lack of calories in this or that unhappy heat
makes happenstance an uneasy, metallic taste.
If the day is long or the meat fields still standing,
hard tact becomes the secret ingredient
in the Colleseum-shaded pizzaria fantasy
where gladiators and lovers are not misers
and friends gone too far. How far have I gone?
Flavor is taste and taste depends on hunger.
She must have been hungry when she claimed
that on our deserted island of three items and a tree
she’d kiss me without the minty miracle of toothpaste.
LOCATION: Camaquã, Brazil – Written quickly in my pocketbook in the shade of a tree during a long, flat, hunger-inducing ride through the countryside.
