My old man played the blues
and dragged me from Biloxi,
to Chicago and Paris, one day he
quit speaking and forgot his guitar.
He sat in a chair for five years
eating chicken and drinking whiskey,
then he turned into a butterfly before
my eyes and flew out the window.
I woke with a dog shit tongue, my
chest was covered with a dried
blood-soaked towel, it was saffron
colored and stank of tequila.
A tattoo of Jesus walking on water
adorned my freshly shaved torso.
Holy guacamole I thought, now I’ll
probably be touched by the finger of God.
I met a beautiful Mexican senorita,
she said, “You’re tired and I am too.
but we are two different animals,
you need rest, I am run over
Worn bald at the edges and can’t
get much traction. With time you
will rejuvenate. I am a black chunk
of rubber on the road of life.”
We traveled north to the valley of chilis
hanging crimson from adobe vigas, at
night we slept under a Frida Kahlo moon
dancing horses licked our faces awake.