Somewhere between the first shot
and the last desperate sip
the night breaks into spanglish
and dirty Mexican jokes.
Agave blood travels to the sweet spot,
loosens that knot between your ears,
and blasts out all the shit there
pressure-washer style.
Provided you hold mud,
that’ll be all that goes.
Otherwise clothing takes vacation,
nothing is too foul to say or eat,
no man, woman, or dog too owned to steal.
Your brain holds no axe
over your conscience,
because it’s searching
for its glasses and bowtie,
retracing its steps from
the donkey show critique
to the 4 AM gas station burrito.
Threats of danger and cirrhosis
can’t compare to reaching
the bottom of well liquor.
Brazen courage lands you on
a leaky boat away from Mexico
which all seemed a good idea somehow,
just like the acid rot gut
prepping your innards for round 2.
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