Friday, March 19, 2010

Monte Carlo
for a Torcido

Outside a Southside cantina, and I, though
furious, am huffing, as I’ve run six bold blocks,
gold spackled in a patina across
jaw and tooth and septum, am five, again,
and curious, again, and it’s the torcido alone
at the far end of the bar with the
marvelous bigote and the Jesucristo tattoos 
and the black Monte Carlo of my boyhood, 
breathing heavily from a chrome pipe, 
all the while glints of 2x4s and giants
and the slickness of my scalp seen in those 
side panel doors, and I’ve peeked in that door
before (cousin Ernesto putting his dick shaft 
into the rim of a Gatorade bottle, father 
on top of a woman who wasn’t my mother, 
a silver chain belonging to a lover’s trick 
left at my sink) to see things I shouldn’t look at after
having bolted out my Fair Avenue canton
hurdling six city blocks, thinking only of that torcido
the veins of his forearms and his thorns, 
and huffing old tinta like a maniaco out of the bote.

No comments: